I work for Sarah Powers. Founder. Owner. Billionaire. She didn’t inherit her money—she outplayed people for it. She’s fierce, brilliant, relentless. And she’s taken a special interest in me. Why, I’m still not sure. I do know I’m the only intern she calls into her office on a Saturday to help her reorganize her wine fridge by vintage. Or to pick up her dry cleaning in Lincoln Park. Or to sit in on strategy meetings, only to be sent out halfway through to fetch her a soy latte—"extra hot, 118 degrees, not 117."
The other analysts, especially the women, tease me.
“Her secretary,” one of them whispered in the elevator. “Boy Friday in a fitted shirt.”
I don’t care. Sarah’s a genius, and if she wants to use me to walk her dog, I’ll do it. Because I know what I’m learning from her can’t be taught in a lecture hall.
And then, one Thursday morning about a week before my internship was to end, she said:
“School time. I’m taking you on a field trip, little boy.” She liked calling me little boy, particularly when the secretaries were around to giggle.
The next morning we were standing in front of her penthouse condo overlooking Lake Michigan. She tossed me the keys to her orange Lamborghini without even looking. “Don’t crash my car, 24. It’s worth more than everything you’ve ever touched, put together. Sarah was wearing a double-breasted jacket that barely qualified as a dress—legs for miles, neckline that breaks OSHA regulations. She always dressed sexy, but her look today left me breathless.
“Where are we going?”
“Morris, Illinois” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. “It’s a river terminal. Time to see what real delivery looks like.”
As I eased onto Lake Shore Drive, hands tight on the wheel, she adjusted her sunglasses and said, with a grin:
“You’re nervous.”
“It’s a $3 million car.”
“No, you’re nervous because you’re sitting next to me.”
I glanced at her legs, long and bare and crossed just enough to tempt. She caught me. Of course, she did. She smiled at my embarrassment.
“Eyes on the road, 24. If you crash us, who's going to pick up my laundry?”
She kept talking as we headed south, about futures contracts, and how she built her hedge fund. This was the good stuff, and although she was a world class ego I ate it up, as this is what I was there to learn.
Most people don’t understand futures contract, but it’s all about hedging your risk. If you were contracted to deliver a box of corn flakes six months from now, but didn’t know what the price of corn would be then, you could buy an option to purchase a futures contract that will allow you to buy corn at $5 a bushel. If corn is $6 a bushel, you don’t care, because you can exercise the option and only pay $5, and make your corn flakes as planned. If the price drops, you don’t exercise the option. You are paying someone else to take the risk for you, because you just want to make cornflakes.
Sarah became a billionaire hedge fund manager, but her fund was a bit different than most commodity hedge fund in that it specializes in one product: slave girls. Sarah became a billionaire recognizing that disasters and financial crises can lead to a glut of slave girls on the market, and boom economies can lead to shortages, as billionaires build harems. It’s a cruel and calculating business, but her personal motto, “We profit on the pussy” summarizes her cut throat approach to a commodity many “respectable” traders refuse to sell.
Note that most people simply use futures to manage costs. If the price goes up or down, you can pay the price difference without actually having to deliver the corn, or the slave pussy. But sometimes the contracts are written so the buyer has the option of settling the contract with actual delivery, typically to a commodity trader somewhere along a river. The closest delivery points to Chicago Board of Trade are typically along the Illinois river.
Sara explained that while most contracts settled without delivery, delivery was sometimes an option, and a part of the business I needed to learn. “Some trades are about real things. Real risk. Real corn, real livestock. Slave girls, in this case. Ten contracts. We take delivery, we sell them at the terminal auction same day. All clean. It could happen without us, but I wanted to show you the process. It’s a rare chance to see how abstract numbers become something you can smell. Something you can feel. It’s my gift to you before you go back to school, then go make your fortune in New York.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said, trying not to look at her legs as we flew past the corn fields on I-55 heading south. “I really appreciate the opportunity.”
“You’ve earned it,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from my shoulder. “You’ve been a very obedient little intern. You’ve earned my trust, which isn’t easy to do.”
We stopped at a gas station just past Joliet. While I topped off the tank, Sarah bought a protein bar and a two bottle of water. As I finish pumping the gas, she smirks at the guy with the F150 ogling both the car and her at the next pump.
“He’s my gopher, not my boyfriend. 24 doesn’t have a girlfriend. I keep him too busy running errands. I may have him fixed. There are already too many Indians in the world.”
The yokel laughed, uncomfortably. I flushed, but said nothing.
Back in the car, she sipped her coffee like nothing happened.
“Don’t worry, I was kidding,” she said. “Mostly.”
The EDGE Commodities terminal building in Morris was massive. It was an old grain elevator / cattle yard converted for a new purpose. The smell hit before we parked—earth, hay, urine, fear. This wasn’t a simulation or a spreadsheet. This was the part of the economy no one talked about on CNBC.
As we walked toward the slave pens, Sarah’s heels crunched in the dirt like they don’t belong, but she strode in like she owned the place. And in a way, as one of their biggest investors, she did. The staff knew her. One slave monger in coveralls tipped his hat and called her Ma’am. Another said, “Look sharp, guys. Chicago just arrived.”
Then I saw them—the slave girls. Hundreds of them packed tightly into a holding pen, trembling shifting, lowing in waves. They’re scared. You can see it in their eyes. A few of them are cuffed, but most are just there, staring into space, standing close together, or sitting. They are all naked, save for their steel collars. A few are rubbing their shaved pussies. And I feel something I didn’t expect.
Pity.
Not just for them.
For me.
Because in that moment, I see myself in those animals. I’ve been herded and prodded, obedient, pushed by forces I couldn’t resist. I fetch, I follow, I perform. Owned. Not literally—but not not, either.
Sarah stood next to me, her voice soft for once. “It gets easier.”
“They look terrified,” I say.
She shrugs. “They should be. But they’re just slave pussy, 24. This is our business. This is what those blips on your computer screen actually mean.”
I watch the naked girls shift, bunched shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide. I feel the power she holds—turning life into numbers, into profit. And I realized something I’m not proud of:
It excited me.
The cruelty, the control. The cold arithmetic of it. I know Sarah enjoyed it. And deep down, so did I.
Not because I like seeing animals suffer—but because there was something pure in the exchange. Power. Cost. Value. Ownership.
I glanced at Sarah. She’s not looking at the cattle—she’s watching me.
“You’re getting it,” she said, reading my face. “It’s not about money. It’s about feeling the power. Winning, no matter what.”
I felt a rush. Like I’d been let in on a secret most people can’t stomach. That power—real power—doesn’t apologize.
We finished the delivery process: verify weights, matched contract IDs, logged transactions. The handlers move the stock with slave prods and shouts. The terminal manager, Cooper, 35, dealt with us personally, since Sarah is a big deal. He was dressed a little better than his staff, wearing a white collared shirt, signifying that he was the manager on duty, an operations boss. Still, he was about 90 levels down the ladder from Sara and I, and we all knew it. I asked a lot of questions, which he politely answered. But he looked a little bored by the process and confused as to why Sarah would come down from Chicago to personally execute such a routine delivery.
Sarah signed the iPad with a flourish. I couldn't take my eyes off her. It’s crazy. I was surrounded by naked slave girls, and the woman with clothes on was the sexiest one of all.
We had to deliver 10 contracts. 50 head per contract, 500 girls. Sarah had 9 of the contracts delivered by rail car this morning, packed in like sardines. She had 48 more delivered by truck. She bought one more out of the terminal's stock.
Back in Cooper’s cramped office we wrapped up the delivery. “You’re still one short,” the terminal manager noted. “Should I get one out of terminal stock?”
“We’re not short one girl,” Sarah said, smiling. “She already here.”
The terminal manager looked confused. “Ma’am, I’m sure my head count is right. 49 is not 50.”
“It’s 50 when you count me,” Sarah said, smiling mischievously. “I’m the 50th girl. Use me to complete delivery.”
I was shocked. The manager was shocked. The clock on the wall, shocked, stopped ticking.
“You want me to enslave you?” he said.
“I want you to take me into custody for an hour. Put me in the pen with the other girls. You’re going to sell the girls at auction later on tonight. 24 can buy me back at the auction.”
“I don’t get the point. If this is some sort of phony wash sale, to create some sort of paper trail, you could have stayed in Chicago,” he said, still confused.
“I want to experience what the slave girls experience,” Sarah said. I want to be in the pens, and get sold off the block. I want to experience that fear, that loss of control. 24 has the credit authorization to do transactions for me. Your buyer, SPM, will take custody of me tonight, and then you’ll flip me and sell me back to my hedge fund. SPRM will make money, as I’m going to sell for Prime, and they're getting me for the futures price. You get your 5% of the auction fee, plus your processing fee for completing the contract. I’m putting money in your bottom line, Cooper. The proper response is not to ask questions, but, “Thank you, Ma’am.”
Cooper looked skeptical. “I can’t sell a girl without a SIN number. And I can’t sell slave girls who aren’t slave girls.”
“You move 75,000 head a year through here. Are you telling me someone is going to cross check one SIN number to make sure the girl is really enslaved?”
“We do double check,” he said. “We scan every girl,” Cooper said. “All nice and proper.”
“That’s why I had one of my friends at Illinois Ag flip my status flag to enslaved. They’ll flip it back as soon as I text them. My SIN number will be all nice and legal.”
Sarah turned up her lip. Much to my surprise, she had a Slave Identification Number tattooed inside of her lip! My penis, which had been rock hard all day, felt like it was about to burst through my pants.
Sara smiled and reached into her large shoulder bag. Counting out 10 stacks $100 dollar bills she said, “Plus here’s $20,000, for your trouble Goober," she said, as his eyes bulged.
“My name is Cooper, Ma’am. I don't mean to argue, but I don't want any trouble," he said. He looked reluctant, but he was already putting the cash in his desk drawer.
Sarah smiled. [“Remember, I designed the systems you seem so troubled by. I actually did some of the programming for the inventory system. This place used to send corn down the river to New Orleans before I took it over. It was losing money, until I stuffed the rail cars and barges with pussy.”
Sarah smiled. She was sexy, cold, calculating, and in charge. She had the world by the balls, including me, & Cooper.
Cooper locked the money in his desk. “There’s one problem. The auctioneer called in sick. We’ll have a replacement for him at 8AM.”
“Fuck that, get an auctioneer now,” Sarah ordered.
“It’s not that simple. They have to be registered to work here, and that takes 48 hours. 3 of our auctioneers are on vacation, one is on medical leave, and the 5th is out sick. The auctioneer I’m going to use, Stick, is flying back from West Virginia tonight.”
Sarah, glancing at her gold iWatch, frowned. “Looks like we have to get two hotel rooms in Morris, 24,” she said, turning to me. “I know there aren’t any hotels around here that are good, but try to find a Holiday Inn Express that was built in the last 50 years.”
“We only need one hotel room,” I said. “The futures contract is dated for today. We need to deliver all the girls by 5pm.”
Sarah looked at me, shocked. I smiled and made a wagging motion with my finger as I went “tick-tock, tick-tock.”
I knew this was a major moment for us, a power shift. Her little mouse of an assistant was calling her out. Until the auction was complete, and I bought her, she was going have to pay the part of slave girl. Was she up for the challenge?
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re serious,” she said.
“You wanted to experience a loss of control, as I recall,” I replied, trying not to smirk. “This is it. You’re the one who decided to take delivery. Now we got to make delivery by 5PM. Otherwise, we defaulted on a contract."
"You can always buy a girl out of stock, and complete the contract that way," Cooper suggested.
I smiled. “Don’t look so sad, Sarah. You can’t win ‘em all.” Her eyes flashed in anger. It was fun playing her like a fiddle.
Sarah’s frown grew deeper, as she ALWAYS won them all. She had set this up to teach me something, and use her servile Indian eunuch to help her with her little role play sex fantasy, but she hadn’t anticipated the twist. The air grew electric, the smell of dust and fear thickening with the scent of her challenge.
“Fine,” she said, her voice a purr. She swung the strap of her large Prada bag over her shoulder and let it fall to the floor with a soft thump. Kicking off her Gucci heels, she stepped out of them, placing them inside the bag. Her legs looked even longer, more powerful, standing barefoot on the linoleum floor. Then she reached up and undid her hair, letting it cascade down over her shoulders, a beautiful golden brown. She was a goddess, but Cooper & I watched slack jawed as she assumed the identity of a piece of cattle.
With a dramatic flourish, she unbuttoned her jacket dress. It hung open, and she let it fall away, revealing her perfect body. She was completely naked beneath it, and she knew exactly what she was doing. Her breasts were firm and high, her stomach flat, her pussy hairless and gleaming. She had been working out—I had noticed that before. Her abs looked like they had been sculpted by a master artist, not from a personal trainer. The sight was so stunning, so unexpected, that Cooper had to take a step back, his eyes wide. I felt the blood rush to my face.
Sarah stood there, naked and powerful, watching Cooper, watching me. She knew we were both staring at her, and she reveled in it.
She was used to being the one in control, the one with all the power. But now she had ceded that power to me. I had the credit authority to buy her at the auction, and she was going to have to pay the price—being treated like a commodity.
Her eyes found mine and held them for a moment. Then, she reached into her elegant bag and took out a steel slave collar. Smiling, she knelt before me and held out the collar as she offered me her neck in collaring position The collar was was heavier than it looked, made of polished steel with a digital lock and a USB port. It was the standard issue collar for the Morris facility, which meant it hand two prongs on the inside that could deliver a jolt of electricity, if the girl misbehaved.
I took the collar, my hands trembling a little. This was it. I had to act the part now. I had to be the one in charge. She held her hair, offering me her slender throat. I took a deep breath and put the collar around her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin, the pulse of her throat as she swallowed. The click when it locked into place was so loud it echoed in the small office.
“Is the collar tied to your SIN number?” I asked, my voice sounding strange to my ears.
“Yes, my master,” she said, her voice meek and submissive, a stark contrast to the usual command she had.
I felt a jolt of excitement go through me, and I felt my cock was straining against my pants. This was something new, something primal. I had never felt so in control before. Her voice betrayed her excitement. And yet, there was something else there too—a hint of fear. What had she gotten herself into?
I turned to Cooper. My voice was strong and authoritative. "Let's not waste any more time on her. Get her put into the system."
Cooper nodded, and picked up the large programmable scanner gun. He approached her with the gun, and she trembled as if it were a real gun being brought to her head. Her chest was heaving as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. Quickly, he scanned her bar code, tying her in and completing the lot. The gun beeped, and the screen displayed her former name, height, and SIN number. She was officially property, at least until I bought her back.
He turned to me. "Look, I can keep her in my office tonight, so she doesn't have to be with the others. This isn't Chicago."
I smirked. "Why should she get special treatment? She's just another number in our book."
Sarah's eyes shot to me, a mix of anger and excitement. She knew the game we were playing.
"Where are you keeping the girls who are making up the last lot?" i asked.
"They're in a shipping container out by the loading dock," Cooper replied, his voice hesitant.
Sarah's expression morphed from one of calculated confidence to genuine shock. Clearly, the woman who planned everything hadn't planned for this.
"That will be perfect," I said.
Cooper nods and reached into a drawer, pulling out a leather leash. He quickly snapped it onto the steel collar around her neck. She's wasn't just playing a game anymore—she was livestock, an animal that needs to be leashed, caged, and handled.
Sarah's hand went up to touch the leash, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. She had thought this would be a simple role-play, but she hadn’t counted on the emotions she would feel. I could tell that, like the girls outside, she now felt the fear of the unknown. As Cooper led her out of his office she turned, and looked back at the bag with her clothes.
"What about my things?" she asked. We both ignored her as Cooper's office door locked behind him, sealing her off from her old identity.
We walked thru the warehouse, she felt eyes on her, as the slave mongers imagined fucking her, evaluating her worth.
The warehouse was a cacophony of noise—machinery whirring, slave girls moaning as they played with themselves, or cried, or both —and amidst it all, the sound of her own tiny bare feet on the concrete floor. I could tell from the way she was walking the floor was freezing cold. Sarah was used to the click of her heels echoing across the hardwood floors of her office, not the slap of her bare soles in a grimy slave pussy warehouse.
As Cooper led us through the maze of steel beams and concrete, the other handlers and truckers smiled as the ogled the new girl. They didn't see the owner, they saw a naked woman with a leash attached to a collar around her neck, and they don’t know or care who she is. Stripped of her clothes, she was just another piece of merchandise to be bought and sold. And she knew it. The smell of fear and sex filled the air, thick and palpable. The girls in the pens watched us with their usual mix of hope, desperation, and despair.
The sun felt warm as we walked outside. Sara gasped as she saw the endless row of container cars awaiting a truck, train, or barge to pick them up in. Looking at the scanner Cooper rattled off the number SPS-U-3873907A, the container where "loose" inventory for the final load was "resting". "Right on the end," he said.
As he pulled her toward her container car Sara hesitated. "Wait. I need to go to the bathroom, first."
"I can take her back to the ladies room," Cooper offered.
I regard her request cooly. "There's a grate over there," I said, pointing to a large run off grate next to the watering trough the slave girls used. "Pee there."
She looked shocked, but I was the boss now, so Cooper pulled on her leash and led her over to the grate.
"Please," she said. "I can't go to the bathroom like that, Arjun. Not in front of you."
It was the first time she had used my name. "Do the shock prongs on your collar work?" I ask.
"Yes, Master."
I turn to Cooper. "Test it."
He dialed the voltage down, and gave Sarah a shock. It was low voltage, but she danced like she was in the electric chair, grabbing her collar as she screamed and breasts bounced.
The shock made the impossible possible. Sarah's knees wobbled as she squatted down. She closed her eyes, fighting to keep her dignity as she relieves herself in front of us. The stream of urine was surprisingly strong, and arched up like a fountain. It was loud against the metal grate. I smile as I watch the little slut make her water at my command.
"Drink some water, too," I order. "There's no assistant to fetch your fancy ass coffees in the shipping crate," I said, taunting her with the endless errands she had given me.
She looked at the murky water in the trough doubtfully, but she knew I was right. I enjoyed the sight of her perfect ass as she bent over and sucked water out of the trough like a good little slave girl.
As we walked to the container car, Sarah wondered aloud what the futures contract she was satisfying was for. Was someone getting financing for a brothel, or a work farm, and they needed to lock in the price? Was it a breeding facility, or an oversees sale. I laughed and said it didn't matter, and even if I knew it was none of her business. "Curiosity is unbecoming in a slave girl," I reminded her.
Cooper removed the shipping container lock box and opened the container car. I had never seen one opened before, and it involved lifting two levers and sliding several bolts out of place. It felt like he was opening a metal tomb, and the smell that hits us when he swung the doors open was overwhelming. The stench of pee and wet slave pussy filled our nostrils, making my cock throb. The girls inside stirred, blinking in the sudden light, and I can see their eyes widen at the sight of Cooper and I. A few had managed to sit, but most were leaning against each other, and sleeping that way. They looked to us anxiously. Was it time for their unloading, or their sale?
Sarah gasped when she saw the girls packed in here like sardines. They're all naked, of course, but what surprised me was the variety. There are blondes, brunettes, redheads, black girls, Asian girls—every type of pussy you could imagine. They're all beautiful, all at least Choice, as per the contract, but they're all just numbers to us. Pussy to satisfy contracts. Commodities.
"Fifty?" she says, her voice shaking a little. "There are more than fifty girls here."
Cooper shrugged. "Yeah, we're going to take fifty out in the morning for the auction, and then pack as many as we can from the next rail delivery before loading this up onto the barge to New Orleans."
"Take me, Master!" one of the girls said.
"No, take me! I will fetch you a higher price."
The girls started to surge forward, until Cooper took a slave prod off his belt and with a quick flick of his wrist extended the goad to its full three feet. Pressing the red button, a spark flew between the two metal prongs as the goad let out an evil HISS.. Frightened, the girls immediately shrank back.
Cooper turned to me to explain. "After getting kenneled in the cargo container, the girls want out. When you start skimming girls, they all start fighting each other to get out first, even though they don't know shit about what is going to happen to them. Sort of cute."
"Competition is what forces us to do our best," I replied, throwing one of Sarah's favorite quotes back at her. "How long does it take to get to New Orleans via barge?" I asked. About 3 weeks, isn't it?" I say, enjoying the sight of Sarah turning green.
"About," Cooper says casually.
"Are they gong to sell them in New Orleans?"
"Not my problem once I float ‘em," he says. "Maybe they'll sell 'em, or load 'em on vessel for Asia or South America."
Sarah's collar BEEPED as Cooper scanned her in, then scanned the barcode on the door of the crate, recording her storage location in the vast yard of slave pussy.
Sarah looked terrified, her eyes wide and pleading. She's so stupefied by the reality of the situation that she didn't resist when I reached between her legs and fingered her hot, wet pussy.
"Look at her" I said to Cooper. "This is what a commodity looks like. This is what it means to be a slave future. A blip on the screen, part of a head count that satisfies an owner's contract. As you finger yourself in your container car tonight, slave girl, remember that you're making a powerful woman in Chicago, with a beautiful penthouse by the lake, rich. Let's hope you're part of the lucky fifty, little girl, so I can buy you back tomorrow. But it isn't up to you. Slave girls don't decide where or when they will be sold."
I turned to Cooper. "SPS? This is a Slave Pussy Seller container car. Do they hallmark their inventory before shipment?"
Cooper nodded. "Yeah, a small brand, between the butt cheeks. Kinda cute."
Sarah whimpered as I rubbed her clit. "I bet," I said. "I guess the 3 weeks will give it time to scar over."
"But you'll try to buy me tomorrow, Masters?" she said hopefully.
Cooper shrugged as he answered me, not her "The wrangler is going to take 50 out. Who knows?" Sarah nearly came on my hand.
"What time is the auction tomorrow, Master?" she asked, grunting with pleasure as she pushed against my fingers like the disgusting little slut she was.
My answer was a hard slap on the ass, as I shoved her into the container car. She tried to turn around, but Cooper uses a slave prod on his belt to push her deep into the center of the car. She pushed back, but yelped as he pressed the button and shocked her ass. At the sound of the goad's crackle, the other girls fell back, too. Sarah disappeared into a sea of tits and ass before he even closed the container door with an enormous CLANG, and locked the two levers securely into place before securing it again with the lockbox. Sarah wasn't going anywhere tonight.
That final look on Sarah's face had been priceless. Eyes wide, mouth agape, her fear and excitement had been palpable. She had truly been stripped of everything, and her hot, wet pussy was now a commodity, no different from corn, cattle, and oil traded in the markets each day. She was no different than the girls pressing in on her, just another pussy used to satisfy a hedge.
As I made my hotel reservation, the smirked as I envisioned some random dock worker in coveralls opening the container in the morning. Sarah would be packed in tight with the other slave pussy, and I chuckled as I imagined her pushing her way to the front as she begged for the auction block. I hoped the competition would bring out the best in her. If not, she'd have to endure the long, slow barge ride to New Orleans, and I knew that brand between her butt cheeks would be absolutely adorable.
I turned, and walked back to the Lamborghini, quickly making a reservation for the Holiday Inn Express on my phone.
