Marlon's Ghost Pt. 01

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission. Thanks to all those who took the time to critique both portions of the story.)

(Sylvia Maria’s viewpoint)

Marlon was dead, to begin with.

My apologies for riffing on Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, but Marlon WAS dead, after all, and he WAS the manager of my current unfortunate situation, so the temptation is overwhelming. I desperately need some levity in my life.

Marlon James was named, rather obviously, after the actor Marlon Brando, and to make this namesake even more grating Mr. James was literally my “Godfather.” He, my mom, and my dad had been Military Police junior officers together during two tours in Iraq, and the stories they told about ambushed convoys and improvised explosive devices made me wonder how any of them had survived, let alone kept all their limbs and hearing. It was natural, therefore, that when I was born my dad asked his best buddy in the world to be my godfather, which was a largely-honorary position . . . until, when I was 12, my mom and dad visited the Mexican-Texas border at the wrong time, and died in a shootout involving the Hernandez Cartel. All those months surviving in Iraq only to get killed by some punk pusher 200 miles from home.

Marlon James, in accordance with my parents’ will, became my guardian and de facto foster father. Despite his busy career as a supervisory agent-in-charge in the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), “Uncle Marlon” devoted incredible amounts of time and care to my upbringing. With the help of several baby-sitters he managed to raise me and keep me safe; he was there for most of the big events of my life, including my high school and college graduations (I went to Dickinson in PA to get away from Texas for a while). My godfather never complained about the effort I cost him, but I suspected that to raise me he had sacrificed any chance of higher promotion in the agency. So I loved the guy.

Me? I was born Sylvia Maria Connaught, named for my two (since deceased) grandmothers. And yes, my mother was a Latina who married my dad and produced only one child. Genetically, that meant that I inherited a bountiful chest, wide hips, cute nose and a very lightly-brown skin with black hair—my Mom reportedly had a heck of a time dealing with both Iraqi and American chauvinists who wanted to bed her rather than work with her as an equal. I apologize if I sound racist, but at first glance I could easily “pass” for Hispanic. (Like the vast majority of Americans of Hispanic descent, I love America and loath all the coyotes and drug dealers who give us a bad name.)

I learned Spanish—or at least Tex-Mex—from my mother and some babysitters as I grew up in Texas, but by education and cultural background I was more Anglo than anything else. I don’t want to sound vain, but growing up with my hourglass figure—which I had often overheard being described as “a brick s___ house” and suchlike—plus inheriting my mom’s beautiful face meant that I had to “beat boys off with a stick” throughout my teen and college years. While at college, I was by no means promiscuous, but managed to lose (voluntarily) all three of my virginities while dating. Sex could be fun, but only when I liked the guy and he respected me.

So: got the picture? I looked and could talk like an attractive Latina, but in my head and heart I was mostly “Anglo.” I have great respect for people of any ethnic background who work hard and succeed in life, but in my heart I was carrying a hatred for drug dealers in general and the Hernandez Cartel in particular.

You can see where this is going. Although Uncle Marlon never divulged sensitive information, I had heard enough from him and from my peers to understand that the DEA was barely keeping its head above water against the incoming tide of illegal substances, often carried by innocent “mules” recruited from among undocumented immigrants. I nagged my godfather long enough that he finally allowed me to apply to work for DEA after college.
What happened next was NOT his idea; I’m sure he intended me to be in some nice, safe office job. However, the day I reported for the screening exam for all new DEA employees, I was quickly diverted to the office of Walt Steinberg. Mr. Steinberg told me that he needed an untraceable undercover agent who could pass for Mexican-American, and especially he wanted a girl who resembled a woman whose photograph he showed me. I eventually learned that this other woman was dead, but she had been an escaped convict slave who became the common-law wife—or at least significant other—of Manuel Hernandez, the younger brother of the overall cartel boss, Hector. Apparently, a rival gang planted a car bomb, intended for Manuel, that she inadvertently set off when she borrowed his car to go shopping. (There had been a third brother, Hugo, but he had engaged in a series of murders before parties unknown whacked him and buried his body in Texas after a major smuggling operation went bad.)

So, without ever being in DEA files except as an applicant (which application Steinberg promptly deleted), I was now going to be an undercover agent. The idea was to create a fake identity for me that would come to Manuel’s attention, after which (Mr. Steinberg hoped) I would become the guy’s new mistress because I seemed to resemble his lost love in both appearance and background. Scary and personally disgusting, but as I said, I really wanted to get at the cartel that had killed my parents, so I agreed. At this stage, however, nobody told me exactly WHAT my fake identity would be or HOW they would attract Manuel to me. Had I known the full plan in advance, I might have backed out despite all my motivation. Correction—I WOULD have backed out!
I don’t have to tell you how angry Uncle Marlon was when I appeared as his new undercover agent. Quite apart from our emotional ties, he knew that I was completely innocent about the drug trade—and like most parental figures he probably believed (or tried to convince himself!) that I was still innocent about sex as well. He took a lot of arguing to let me go under cover, but I really was a “dead ringer for that dead slut,” as I overheard Mr. Steinberg describe me to my godfather. With a heavy sigh, my father figure apologized to me for what I was about to undergo, but very reluctantly agreed to take me on.

*****
I did get a minimal amount of training by DEA, at an obscure facility in Pennsylvania. I’d already studied some self-defense in college, and got a little more from the agency, but most of the classes were about the structure of the cartels, common means of smuggling and distribution, how to contact authorities when I was undercover, etc., etc. The main thing that was drummed into me was to never break cover, to always insist on my legend or cover story even if someone accused me of not being what I seemed to be.

THEN I found out how the agency planned to insert its newest agent into the cartel! Sylvia Maria Connaught would become Maria Elena Aguilar, an orphaned high school drop-out with a rap sheet for minor crimes such as shoplifting who would be publicly framed for drug possession with intent to sell, having been caught with eight kilos of uncut stuff in her ratty old Honda. The DEA would stage the arrest and publicize my case, including some photos designed to convey the image of a very attractive Latina gone bad.

The kicker, of course, was that in modern-day TexASS, anyone found guilty of a felony like that would be enslaved! I was under no illusions as to how a well-built young woman like me would be used as a slave. The agency expected that the cartel would either buy me at auction or possibly slave-nap me after I was purchased, with my resemblance to his departed puta tempting Manuel to get hold of me. The agency buried a tracking device (concealed under a large filling in my teeth—OUCH!) Beyond that, however, I would be another collared, bound, naked sex slut with no control over my situation, waiting for the quarry to “rescue” me.

In preparation for this assignment, I practiced slave yoga and read a number of accounts by enslaved women, including the classic Slave Slut Like Me by Professor Lindsey Williams. I also had long talks with the slave shrink that the agency had on retainer, Dr. Niccola (Nikki) Sheldon. Trouble was, I’m not as submissive as all the women who reportedly enjoying their bondage. Being tied up and plowed by a handsome, nice guy can be fun, I grant you, and I had even come to love the sensory overload of a nice big dick pounding my anal passageway. However, for me most of the enjoyment in sex cums (pun intended) because I like the guy and he stimulates my body in the usual ways. Naked and crawling on my knees to please some bozo and swallow his jism? Not so much. The idea of becoming a real world, no kidding, bound sex slave just so I MIGHT attract some scumbag drug lord was revolting and terrifying—one strike for slavery and another for having to play nice with someone I loathed. But I gritted my teeth and hoped that this humiliation would yield some significant drug busts.

Strike three only came after I was fully committed to this crazy plan—while awaiting trial in a county jail, I heard on the TV that someone had put a bomb in my godfather’s car, scattering both him AND STEINBERG all over the neighborhood where I had grown up. That increased my determination to get those SOBs . . . but it also meant that nobody would know my real identity to restore my life even if I survived! Expletive deleted. Now I was both figuratively and soon to be literally fucked over.

The combination of losing Uncle Marlon and turning my masquerade into real penal slavery brought a few tears to my eyes. In retrospect, I should have aborted right then, begged my attorney to contact Doctor Nikki or even compare my DNA to the Army records for my parents to establish my identity, but I was in shock about the death while somehow hoping I could make all these sacrifices worthwhile. Besides, I had been trained not to break my cover. Just as I got control over myself, determined to continue, my court-appointed defense lawyer appeared, and the two of us were left (supposedly) alone in a tiny meeting room within the jail.

I assumed that, like most such attorneys, Caroline Wolfe had started her career with idealistic goals of defending the innocent, but after five years on the job this slim blonde had become visibly hardened, dealing with an impossible case load that involved a significant proportion of the genuinely guilty for a very small public defender salary. I’m sure she saw my tears but chose not to comment on them, instead sitting down and handing me a paragraph that she had typed out in advance so she wouldn’t be overheard:

Maria:
You’re a smart woman, so you already know that the state has overwhelming evidence against you. If you want to plead innocent, I’ll do the very best I can to defend you, but I don’t have much hope. If we go to trial you’ll probably be convicted and sentenced to 15 years as a slave. That means being stripped in public, collared, and humiliated. Do you understand that risk?

I struggled to overcome the lump in my throat before saying, in a low voice, “Yeah, I kinda thought it would go like that. Is there any alternative?”

Caroline grimaced: “The prosecutor, Bill Harlowe, has offered you a SLIGHTLY-better alternative, a deal if you just plead guilty and save them the time and expense of a trial. Only five people would be in Judge Corbett’s office—you, me, the judge, Bill, and a bailiff. You orally plead guilty, sign an acknowledgement, strip off, and are taken away. In return for your cooperation, the judge will agree to sentence you to 10 years rather than 15, and they’ll use an anesthetic as well as liquid metal to give you a circle star felony brand—I’m told it still hurts, but less than a real brand. Are you interested?”
“Sounds like I don’t have much choice.” I murmured glumly.

“BUT,” she said rather firmly, “There’s one other thing that will probably happen in that office. I’m sure you’ve heard about the tradition that when a government official enslaves someone, that official gets a free blow job.”

“Yeah,” I replied regretfully. “Still, I figure I’ll have to give hundreds of chupadas—I mean, blow jobs—during 10 or 15 years in a collar. NOT my idea of fun, but it’s unavoidable anyway. So what?”

There was real regret in her eyes. “I hate to tell you this, but Judge Corbett is a big believer in punishing drug dealers. So, in all likelihood Bill and he will want a lot more out of you than just sucking them off. . .”

“Don’t tell me, they want to be real pains in el culo?” She nodded, sadly.

“Well, it was bound to happen anyway, might as well get used to it.” I agreed to the humiliating deal just to get it over with, and asked Caroline to bring me some lube on the day I had to surrender. You know you’re REALLY in a jam (or at least about to be jammed) when lubing your butt is the best outcome you can hope for!

*****
That’s how, dim and early three days later, I ended up on my knees while collared, naked, and with my wrists zip-tied behind me. Referring to me with a racial epithet that made my attorney wince, Judge Corbett ordered me to crawl—really knee-walk—around his desk, where I found him with his zipper open and a half-erect penis hanging out. As if his intent wasn’t clear, he ordered me to “Suck dick, you sp__ slut.” I did my best to awaken his aged member, covering the head with little licks before slobbering all over it, trying to swallow as much of the disgusting thing as I could just to get him off quickly.
I was getting into a regular rhythm and sensing greater rigidity in his cock when he abruptly pulled out and ordered me to stand up, jerking me by one restrained elbow. He also stood up, turning me to face his desk (and therefore expose myself completely to the other people in the room) while he stood behind me. My bound hands came into contact with his damp dick, at which point he commented,

“That’s it, you little sp__ whore—give me a hand job.” I tried awkwardly to fondle him as he rubbed himself against my buttocks while reaching around to heft and squeeze what he described as “Nice tits, bitch.” That mutual masturbation only lasted a few seconds before he ordered me to bend over across his desk as he casually kicked my ankles wide apart. The bailiff calmly inserted a spider gag into my mouth, encasing my teeth and holding my mouth open so I couldn’t bite down if I suddenly got brave. I was still adjusting mentally to this when, with a single massive thrust, the judge rammed himself between my labia while forcing my chest down onto the plexiglass atop his desk. And THEN the prosecutor stepped forward, ignoring the shocked eyes of my female defense lawyer, and rammed his own shaft into my imprisoned mouth. I was naked, bound, bent over, and spit-roasted, doing my best to breathe around the none-too-clean cock of the prosecutor.

I had just adjusted to his rapid ramming so that I could breathe, when my mouth was suddenly flooded with jism. I was stunned, once again struggling for air, when I felt the judge’s boner suddenly withdraw from my birth canal, only to be pushed into—you guessed it—my ass! I mentally thanked Caroline for slipping me some lube, the only thing that turned potential injury and torment into mild discomfort.

The judge quickly built up to a very fast rate, pistoning in and out while he intermittently slapped each of my buttocks, mumbling almost incoherently about how he was determined to “fuck the shit” out of every (ethnic epithet deleted) druggie in Texas. I decided that I needed to trick my mind into being a happy submissive slave who enjoyed being used that way. I had ALMOST succeeded when the bailiff, who at the judge’s invitation had decided to get HIS jollies from my mouth, suddenly jerked his pathetic dick out. Sensing what was about to come, I squeezed my eyes shut before I felt my face covered by repeated blasts of smelly, sticky sperm. It slowly dripped down my face as I struggled to breathe; the judge continued to slam into me in a way that felt as if it would leave bruises on my buttocks and labia, not to mention shift the entire desk across the room. I had about reached my limit, and was tempted to beg for mercy even though I doubted he would grant me any.

Fortunately, before I disgraced myself completely, I felt a final flurry of forceful thrusts up my large colon, followed by a warm sensation that was undoubtedly judicial jism coating my lower passage. I’m ashamed to admit it, but all this man-handling and shafting, combined with my own mental efforts to accept my casual rape, somehow triggered a minor orgasm of my own, which out of pride I attempted to conceal from my abusers. The last thing I wanted was for one of them to crow about my climax as proof that I enjoyed being used.

I felt the judge slump over me, gasping for air before he pulled his aging dick out of me as if he were trying to start a lawnmower. I was barely able to squeeze my squeaky starfish shut, at least avoiding further punishment for dripping his ejaculate on his carpet.

I had expected this encounter to be difficult, but now I felt as if I had experienced the first act of a gang-bang, all within ten or twelve minutes of being enslaved. I’ll admit that I have day-dreamed about using a strap-on to stretch the self-important anal orifices of the drug cartel leaders, but even I wouldn’t wish what had just happened to me to be visited on the drug dealers. If you’ll pardon the crudity, three guys on government salaries had ganged up on my helpless body, shafting, face-fucking (twice), and butt-fucking me, all while insisting that I, not they, was unworthy of society! The only thing they had missed was jacking off between my breasts, although the judge had certainly mashed my boobs enough that I wouldn’t have been surprised if I developed bruises on my chest as well as my tush. After he hauled me to my feet, he took one more turn at twiddling them.

*****
The bailiff assumed custody and led me, still half-blinded (and walking with my buns squeezed together as if I were about to empty my bowels, trying to hold in that burning cum), out of the office, with only Caroline softly saying goodbye as if I were still human. I thanked the bailiff sincerely when he used a paper towel to wipe off my face. I was slightly more surprised when he ordered me to bend over, then almost gently pushed a tampon into my anus, explaining that the judge’s jism was leaking onto the floors. And THEN he grabbed hold of my buttock, his fingers pushing up my cleft until they touched my stretched sphincter as he led me off to a room ominously labelled “Branding” . . .

It still pains me to recall the scene that followed. With my hands still bound behind me, my naked body was bent over and strapped down tightly onto a rack that held my rear end immobilized with my legs spread wide apart. I mentally braced for another fucking, but was surprised to feel the cold of an alcohol rub on my left buttock, followed by the sharp pain or a syringe jabbed in the same spot.

A buff guy wearing the leather apron of a smith told me, laconically, that he would wait ten minutes for the local anesthetic to take effect. That did not mean ten minutes of peace, of course—more like ten minutes of piece (of ass) for him. The smith said something about “there’s another way to reduce your pain” as he walked around behind me where I couldn’t see him, but I did hear a zipper open and then a tearing sound that I eventually realized was him opening a condom wrapper. I had already lubricated significantly from the sensation of the judge screwing me, but this guy must have been VERY well endowed considering how stretched I felt now. Once again my tender butt was battered by a guy energetically shafting me at a very rapid pace—and this time I felt his large metal belt-buckle press into me, as if it were a cold branding iron, every time he pushed all the way inside me. It was humiliating, of course, yet he gave me more pleasure than I had gotten from my judicial gang-bang so I was almost grateful. “Almost” being the operative word.

I don’t know whether it was my orgasm or the painkiller, but the ensuing burn of liquid metal on my butt was significantly less horrific than I had feared. Not anything I ever want to experience again, you understand, just bearable. A few seconds later, a cooling spray of antiseptic and additional painkillers, followed by a gauze pad, covered my new wound.

Then the bailiff took me back from the courthouse to the jail. I was still naked, bound, and uncomfortable, but at least this time he didn’t squeeze my injured rump. He turned me over to a female bailiff, Officer Jemison, wearing a plastic rain suit; she cut the zip-tie on my wrists, then took me into an empty shower room where, being careful not to touch my new brand, she washed and fondled me all over. That included having me kneel on all fours while she gingerly inserted a nozzle that gave me a soapy enema; at least that finally relieved the sting from the judge’s baby batter that had been sloshing around my butt for 15 minutes. I felt so much better that, after I released the enema, I very hesitantly thanked the officer for taking care of me.

“If you really want to thank me, girl, give me a ride on your tongue.” I was startled but no longer shocked, having realized that everyone in the justice complex was likely to use the slaves they were processing. This woman, however, had it down to a science. Because many of the inmates, like me, had recently been branded, she knew that it would be excruciatingly painful for them to kneel down, butt against heels, to service someone orally. So, she was actually kind—she had a rubber mat for me to stand on next to a high bar stool—then she shucked off her rainsuit pants and her panties, climbed on the stool, and told me to get to work! Sigh—one of the things we sometimes forget about slavery is that, not only must the slave service repulsive people, but she/he has no choice about the gender of those people. I’d only once tried girl-on-girl sex in college, but I knew what I liked for a tongue and lips to do to my genitals, so I set to work to do the same thing to Officer Jemison. Based on her happy moans and her hands trying to mash my head into her crotch, she seemed satisfied with my efforts. In a weird way, it was the best portion of a terrible day—she was still using me as a sex slave, but she was very kind and gentle, stroking my hair and sometimes reaching down to fondle my boobs. It was still sex between strangers, and effectively non-consensual sex because nobody asks slaves whether they want to screw, but Officer Jemison and I were having sex TOGETHER rather than someone just demanding his pleasure from my bound body.

The whole time, I was conscious of a dull pain emanating from my bruised and now branded buttock as the shot/orgasm wore off. The female bailiff must have been very satisfied with my “oral exam,” though, as without my asking she gave me two ibuprofen and a drink of water for the pain.

Then it was time to “ship my branded druggie ass” to market for auction and sale. There were two conflicting considerations at work here: as a convicted drug offender, the court didn’t want to advertise my movements for fear that somebody might try to bust me out (I could only wish!) On the other hand, it pays to advertise: the greater the publicity, the more chance that a high roller would buy me. Besides, how else was the fictitious Maria Elena Agular to hook up with her future drug lord boyfriend? The result was a Solomon-like decision (you know, nobody’s happy and the baby dies anyway.) As part of my plea deal, my attorney had gotten the judge to agree that I would be moved semi-secretly to the slave market, but after that, to maximize publicity, the market’s owners would be encouraged to flash my (nude) photos on their screens and announce my supposed-drug background around. Have to make some money for the state, selling criminal slaves to help pay for all the judges and bailiffs, right? I shuddered with the idea that I would appear in public in such an exposed and negative light, but that’s what I had signed up for at DEA. I remember thinking how dumb I was to allow myself to be in this position, which now bid fair to be the opening act of a full ten years of sexual servitude.

In practice, what happened was that two bailiffs had me lie face-down on the back seat of one of their cars, after which my wrists and ankles were zip-tied into a loose hogtie. That kept most of the pressure off my sore buttocks, but still left the bailiffs free to feel me up and (when they pulled over at a rest area) even demand yet another blowjob, each one in turn standing at the open right-rear door while I fellated him. Bleech. Oh, well, somehow we made it to the Longhorn Slave Market, where I had the extreme honor (I hope you can recognize sarcasm) of being led, shackled and naked, into the crowded reception area. OK, I wasn’t ENTIRELY naked since I had on a slave collar, a pair of flip-flops, and a 3-inch square of gauze taped to my butt. Such a fashionable ensemble, part of the new “slave slut in paradise” collection. Available at a slave market near you.

*****
That bastard judge and prosecutor had intimidated me as they loomed over my helpless, enslaved form, but Mistress Willow was the most powerful woman I had ever met—even before I lost my freedom. Dressed in tight jeans, a logoed T-shirt, and an equipment belt studded with weapons and restraints, the slave wrangler was over six feet tall and well-muscled, weighed close to 200 pounds, and built like the proverbial masonry restroom. Not an ounce of fat, but muscular legs supporting a curvy body with what a guy might describe as tits to feed the entire 82nd Airborne and a shelf-like butt. Even her curly dark-red hair, usually gathered in a sloppy ponytail, matched the brick metaphor. I took this all in out of the corner of my eye as I knelt beside a podium, quailing in my defenseless state while I waited to be checked into the market.

Then I noticed that she had a twinkle in her eye and was smiling kindly down at me. “You look like you’ve been rode hard, 4211.”

“Yes Mistress,” I managed to whisper. “I think I’ve had at least five hard ones inside me today.”

She tossed back her head in a surprised laugh. “I’m glad you’ve still got some spunk, girl,” she remarked, “Otherwise, I don’t think you’ll make it through ten years.”

I tried not to groan, but warmed to her apparent concern. “Please don’t remind me, Mistress; besides, they already shot too much spunk into me,” which provoked another chuckle.

“Well, come on, sweetie,” she replied. “The only thing to do when you’re a slave is cooperate and try to enjoy what you can.” Well enough for her to say, from her position of power, I thought—but I’m not a submissive.

Mistress Willow must have read my mind, though, because she answered my thought in a low voice, “I’ve worn a collar long enough to know what a pain in the ass it can be—only I never got branded there,” as she nodded towards my gauze patch. “Might as well get some fun out of it, since now you’re REQUIRED to be promiscuous.”

She was actually gentle as she changed my collar for one with shock prongs inside it, then helped me to my feet and replaced my zip-tie with more comfortable leather cuffs. Next, she walked me out of the reception area and up to a lab-coated woman under the large sign “Veterinarian.” [For those of you from up north, slaves in Texas are classified as livestock, therefore caring for them is a veterinary matter even though slave “Vets” go to the same medical schools as physicians for free people. Much lower malpractice insurance premiums, though.] The doctor had me bend over the edge of a table so that she could examine my wound, removing the gauze, re-spraying the area, and then giving me a newer, thicker bandage as well as two more ibuprofen. I was relieved to learn that my test for STDs was negative, although I might have picked up something at the courthouse that hadn’t had time to spread into my bloodstream. After asking about my method of birth control, she gave me a six-month time-release implant and made certain that I memorized that day’s date (as if I could forget my enslavement date!) to remind whoever owned me of when a replacement was due.

Mistress Willow walked me over to join a group of other unfortunates performing “block moves,” the formal term for what is usually called “Slave Yoga,” but (bless her heart) Willow pointed out my bandaged brand to the woman in charge, who told me not to do any moves that involved contact on my butt. Despite my discomfort, the opportunity to move and prance, even in front of an audience of clothed wranglers, allowed me to relax mentally. I was glad that Doctor Nikki had urged me to practice for this so that I could keep up. Still, repeating all those obscene mantras, begging the assembled free people to fuck me in every opening, wasn’t fun; it just reminded me of what had already happened to me a few hours earlier. How many more entitled scum would get their jollies from me over the next ten years?

That part of my processing was familiar from when, like most Southern women, I had been slave graded a few years earlier. So I knew what was coming—all that obscene gesturing on the wooden platform was intended to arouse me so that I would look suitably slutty for my national slave registry photos—full frontal holding my labia open, kneeling with my boobs dangling down and my cunt glistening with arousal, and so on. I didn’t really want to humiliate myself like that, but in preparation for this mission Doctor Nikki had pointed out that the cartel undoubtedly had one or more people with access to the registry, and this was another way to advertise myself to my future “lover.” What a great way to meet: snap chat crossed with the slave channel.

At least, that data entry confirmed that my slave identification number inside my lower lip, the one ending in 4211, had been attached to my falsified records. When the red-haired wrangler read what was written in my file, she whistled and looked hard at me. I knew what she was thinking so, even though it made no difference at all, I had to protest, looking hard into her eyes.

“I didn’t transport drugs, Mistress; this is all a mistake.”

“That’s what most convicts say, 4211, but somehow I think you’re telling me the truth, or at least part of it.” And she left the question at that, moving on to what would come next: “You ought to know what you need to do now—your slave grade of Choice Plus is less than five years old, so we won’t waste time on having you graded again. BUT, you need to lose your inhibitions and get turned on before you go up for auction. I got the impression that you’re too proud or too cool or too somethin’ to want to act horny, but, Darlin’, you HAVE to do it if you want to sell high. Yeah, I won’t lie to you, that also increases my boss’s profit, but the more somebody pays for you, the better you’re likely to be treated. For your own sake, lose your pride and act like the skankiest whore you can imagine, the one who tried to steal your boyfriend in high school! Otherwise, you might end up swallowing a whole lot more in some glory hole.”

I hated to admit it, but she was right, so I nodded and murmured “Yes, Mistress.”
“In fact,” she continued, “I think you need some extra preparation, we call it marinating, before your auction. You’re gonna hate me for this, girl, but in the long run it should make your life better.”

So saying, she steered me over to a rubber pad positioned on the floor between two vertical columns, about four feet apart. First, she made me bend over while she inserted (and then tied down) vibrators into both of my lower openings. As soon as those damn things started up, she made me kneel down on the pad, thighs wide apart and wrists secured to the girders. An empty chair was positioned, ominously, just in front of where my head ended up once I was restrained. When she installed another spider gag to hold my mouth open, my worst fears were confirmed.

There was no clock within my field of vision, but it felt as if I spent hours kneeling there, completely helpless. A string of wranglers and even one or two clerical types wandered over, one at a time, to unzip their jeans, sit down, and feed me their dicks. Fat ones, thin ones, long ones, you name it—I’d already given at least four blow jobs before I got to the slave market, but that afternoon I must have at least tripled that score. At least most of these pricks were clean, which is more than I could say of my previous “examiners.” A few of the kinder guys even gave me advice as to how to arouse them more rapidly, and they leaned forward to squeeze my breasts and flick my nipples. Most of them were surprisingly gentle about it, and they kept urging me to get aroused. I tried to blank out the horrible experiences of the day and imagine I was spending the weekend sucking and then getting pounded by my favorite college boyfriend. I hoped that Matt was having fun in law school.

Mistress Willow was correct that this maximized my horniness, but I suddenly realized it also carried a danger with it. In preparation for my mission, Doctor Nikki had warned me about the dangers of “slave mind,” where the collared person loses all initiative and moves into a kind of mental limbo where the highest goal is pleasing a master. I’d been skeptical of that ahead of time, but I soon realized that I was teetering on the edge of slave mind while sucking all that strange cock. Once I realized what was happening, I decided to make a game of it, exhibiting all the external symptoms of a happy bimbo while inwardly preparing a mental report on what had happened. In between swallowing sperm, I actually managed several orgasms but tried to suppress the outward indications of them. By the time Mistress Willow returned, I was indeed “marinated,” accustomed to constant fondling and generally aroused. She let me straddle a piss gate and then gargle with a sample bottle of mouthwash. Thank heavens.

As we waited in line for the auction the wrangler intermittently caressed my breasts and butt. She didn’t appear to get any pleasure out of this, but was helping me to work myself up mentally. So I continued my dual act, publicly a slut and privately a cynic, until it was my turn to be sold. Then I concentrated on remembering every detail—how the auctioneer had me pose, how he highlighted my drug conviction (the DEA at least would be happy about that assuming I survived), and how the audience appeared. The bright lights made it difficult to see, but I noticed a lot of young guys who weren’t really bidding, just enjoying the free show of a young, apparently horny young woman with big tits and ass being sold to become a sex slave. I heard one guy stage-whispering that he wouldn’t want to have some druggie in his bed, but his neighbor guffawed and asked, “Who cares? I’d just keep her chained up and gagged, then fuck her brains out twice a day.” Inwardly I shuddered, thanking the heavens that those good ol’ boys didn’t appear to be bidding, although a number of what looked like career slave merchants certainly WERE raising their paddles to the auctioneer’s brisk patter.

Before I knew it, the sale was over and my ten years of servitude were sold off for a whopping $105,000. More money for the state. When she resumed control over me, Mistress Willow looked unhappy, telling me that I had been purchased by SlutsRUs, a company that rented out pretty female slaves for all forms of sexual exploitation. I really didn’t like the sound of that, but there was one small consolation: the company was apparently too cheap to spend the money (not to mention the healing time) necessary to give me the Longhorn brand for Choice. Fine by me—my one small brand was more than enough to mark me, mentally as well as physically, for life. Assuming I lived through this ordeal.

*****
Mistress Willow hugged me as she delivered me to the shipping department, where I got to experience yet another common humiliation for slaves—poodle transport. The shock collar was replaced by a cheap leather one that (I noticed) proclaimed proudly that I was the property of SlutsRUs. Big whoop. Then, with my hands once again zip-tied behind me and a canvas gag pulling my lips back into the travesty of a smile, I was ordered to knee-walk backwards into a wire mesh cage suitable for moving large dogs (or in this case, I guess one could say slave bitches.) At least somebody put a foam pad under my knees and another pad between my heels and my still-throbbing buttocks. Otherwise, zip-ties secured my ankles to the back corners of the cage and also connected the band around my wrists to the center of the back wall of this cage. Then the mesh door swung shut in front of me and somebody secured it with a tiny padlock, leaving me completely helpless, gagged, and naked, kneeling in a cage that allowed anyone to see and (if they felt like it) fondle me. All perfectly normal for a modern slave, but terrifying to experience.

Having no choice about the matter, I tried to be as comfortable as possible (or more correctly tried to minimize my DIScomfort) while I was transported to some unknown destination where, to judge by the day’s experiences, I would be “screwed, blued, and tattooed” for the next decade of my life. So much, I thought to myself, for my starry-eyed plan to infiltrate and expose the Hernandez drug cartel—the only exposure would be of my body, and the only infiltration would be by arrogant clowns shoving their poorly-cleaned pricks into all of my openings. Just great—even drug lords would be better than that.

I mentally stewed for what seemed like hours, during which time the panel van I was in continued to speed down some unidentified highway. The sun lowering in front of us said we were headed west, but for what purpose? I had somehow thought that I would be pimped out immediately at some local office of SlutsRUs so they could start to collect on their investment, but that was obviously wrong. I had heard that new slaves were sometimes sent to schools intended to break any resistance and teach them how to fuck—wouldn’t THAT be fun!

Just as dusk was eliminating what little vision I had, there was a loud BANG! and the van swerved off the road, tilting into a ditch. The icing on the cake: “Here lies Sylvia Connaught, Dickinson class of ‘34. She volunteered to catch drug smugglers but died as a caged slave in a traffic accident.”

And then, as the van shuddered to a halt, I heard not one but two other vehicles pull up beside us. There was a shout from the direction of the van’s driver seat and then two more loud noises, this time almost certainly gun shots. Correction to my obituary: “died in a shootout by someone trying to hijack her as a sex slave.”

Silence for a minute, and then the sound of someone—two someones?—crunching the gravel on the shoulder of the road. A crowbar pried open the rear door of the van; I was completely defenseless, petrified.
Two young men with Hispanic features appeared at the back door. When I saw one of them, I thought I must be hallucinating, because I recognized him from his photograph.

No time to think about that now. These guys pulled my cage to the rear of the vehicle, then used a strong metal cutter to chop first the little padlock on the cage and then (based on feel, because I couldn’t see behind me) the zip-ties holding me to the cage.

The one I was hallucinating about said, in a pleasant, almost courtly voice, “Please step out of the carriage, seniorita. Nobody as beautiful as you should be riding in a dog cage.” Having no choice, I shuffled forward to the back door where the two guys lifted me out by the elbows. The same young man told the other one to avert his eyes, all the while they were cutting my gag and the zip-tie holding my wrists. I was offered a bathrobe to cover my nakedness, and I gratefully dove into it, standing there in my bare feet (hell, bare everything until that moment) on the gravel. A second later that hateful slave collar was off me as well.

“You’ll forgive me if we don’t introduce ourselves right now--we’re in kind of a hurry to get out of here, if you’ll just climb into that car, we can explain everything later.”

I had no choice about the matter, but I would have cooperated anyway. Thank heavens, they had even provided an inflatable “doughnut” for me to sit on, reducing the pain on my new brand. The cars roared back onto the empty highway and in seconds we were taking an exit and headed south, towards the Mexican border.

I had to pretend to be surprised and impressed when Mr. Hallucination introduced himself—it was Manuel Hernandez! Walt Steinberg’s crazy plan had actually worked, and I was now the captive of the guy I was supposed to seduce and betray. Did Judas have a theme song? How about Mary Magdalen?

(To be continued)