Diary of A Slave
Chapter 1: The First Day
My name is Anna Perez, and I am a slave. My mistress gave me this notebook to do what I want with it in my free time from serving her and her family. You may ask why my mistress cares enough about a slave to even bother giving me the free time to write and draw, but she is like me, a woman forced into dealing with slavery. In her case she didn’t even want me, I was a graduation present from her mother when she graduated college and moved to the “big city” on her own. She grew up in a house staffed by slaves that had served her family for generations, she didn’t want some random house slave that she had never met before. I respected that, even though it made me feel unwanted and foreign at first.
Me, I shouldn’t have been enslaved in the first place. I was the valedictorian of my high school, I even had a full scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania and was going to be the first Perez to ever get a college education. Then it all fell apart. My mother got sick in my senior year and the bills started piling up. By the time I turned 18 and graduated high school shortly after, I was labeled by the courts as one of my mother’s “assets” to be sold off to pay her debts before I could even start college. It wasn’t fair, It was barely even legal. The bailiff that took me away that morning from the courthouse didn’t even let me hug my own mother goodbye before he cuffed me and put me in the van with the other slaves.
On the ride over to the slave processing warehouse I couldn’t stop crying thinking about what had just happened. There were a few other women and one man in the van with me in similar states, with the only distraction being the low sound of the drivers radio playing some bro-country songs. I even remember how I could tell we were getting closer to the facility when the road got unnecessarily bumpy in that shitty part of town. At that point, I welcomed anything to even slightly distract myself from what was about to happen. I had heard since I was younger it was like getting processed into a prison, but worse. One of my cousins who went through it once told me they were going to treat me like livestock, treat me like I wasn’t even human anymore once I passed through those doors. He only did five years of penal slavery but the fact that my cousin’s usually badass self wouldn’t talk about this place without tearing up scared me more than anything at this point.
When the van stopped and we heard the bailiff get out my heart began to race as I started thinking about what was about to happen. He opened the door and unhooked all the women’s cuffs from the van and ordered us out and into a single-file line. The first thing I remember about the processing center was the sheer size of it. The buildings spread out all around me in a vast complex of warehouses all bearing the name Mercer Servile Supply Group. Everyone knew about Mercer, they literally had a slave dealership in every major city in the country, and supposedly were the biggest importer of slaves from around the world.
The bailiff led us through a set of delivery doors and down the hallway into a secured reception area that reminded me of a shitty doctors office waiting room. There was a few benches along the wall and a silent guard keeping an eye on the room that bore a prominent NO TALKING|NO CONTACT sign on all four walls. We were allowed to sit down for a minute while the bailiff chatted with the receptionist about her kids, he obviously dealt with her alot. By the time the bailiff was done chatting with this woman several more women were brought in with their papers handed over to her and he had to leave. After the bailiff left, the receptionist looked at our paperwork and went around the room writing numbers on our wrists in sharpie. Mine was 876E127S, I had no idea what it meant and was curious to see if any other women get the same number. It was then I realized how overdressed I was for the occasion when I looked around the room and saw most of these other women were brought in wearing nothing more than a ratty tank top or t shirt and a pair of panties or shorts to cover their shame. Their hair was undone, there was barely any makeup on them, and apart from one woman wearing a hoodie nobody wore more than the bare minimum required by public decency.
I was still crying a little bit and I looked around to see almost every woman in this room was just as afraid as me in this moment. We all knew that our lives were over as we knew them and soon someone was going to take us inside to strip us of our dignity, our individuality and for a few of us our virginity. I looked over at this poor girl next to me, shaking like a leaf in her ratty tank top and panties that her family brought her in wearing. It was clearly too big for her, and her perky breasts were painfully obvious to see with how little it actually covered in the areas that mattered. It made me wonder how someone could care so little about their own family to make their own blood wear something so humiliating, so exposing, even if it is only going to go into the garbage as soon as they’re processed. I caught her eye and she looked over at me and just nodded her head, as if she were able to read my thoughts and agree with me. The guard began to walk over to me and her, but in that moment a security door opened and a pair of female overseers came in and yelled at us to get up and line up for processing and get into the next room.
This place was spartan compared to the waiting room. It was smallish and only seemed to contain a garbage can and a few tables within its concrete walls.We were then ordered by the overseers to remove our clothes and throw them in the garbage can that was next to us. I was nervous to take my clothes off in front of all these people, even though we were all women. After a minute I was able to get everything off, with the concrete floor quickly freezing my feet as I nervously stood there covering myself. Then the overseers realized there was a straggler. The girl with the ratty tank top shut down and ended up refusing to strip, as if she had a choice in it. Unfortunately for this poor girl the overseers took this as an act of rebellion and cut her clothes off of her themselves. More horrifically they decided to punish her in front of us with their cattle prod as an example. I will never forget her screams of pain as they pushed the prod into her, and the look on her face as they shocked her until she pissed herself in front of us. One of the overseers wanted to make her lick the piss off of the floor but the other woman stopped her and was nice enough to use one of our shirts to wipe her off, clean up the piss, and pick her up to bend her over the table for her cavity search.
After that horrifying distraction from their routine, the overseers cavity searched the rest of us one by one. I watched them bend the women over the table and force their gloved fingers into their vagina and ass, with most of these poor women shaking and audibly crying as the overseer probed them for contraband. I was nervous when it was my turn and reacted much like the other girls when she probed inside of me, but the overseer was thankfully done quickly. Nobody likes having unwanted fingers inside of you , but that “example” made all of us too scared to do more than lay over the table and be the obedient little slaves we were supposed to be to these people[I am your obedient little slave mistress, don’t worry
]. After our searches we were lined up again and brought out of the room and led across the hall into a medium sized concrete room. There were a dozen shower heads coming out of the wall with water already running and the floor was still freezing my feet at this point, but that didn’t matter, I just wanted to get this over with. We were all handed a plastic packet of soap as we walked in and told by the overseers that we had five minutes get ourselves scrubbed clean and ready for the doctors. I took my packet and made my way to the nearest free shower head. I didn’t expect the water to be as cold as it was and yelped as I rushed to get my body wet enough to for the soap to lather. After I applied the soap to my body and hair, the freezing water couldn’t be felt as the delousing chemical in it burned my skin and left me rushing to rinse off the horrible soap before it could hurt me anymore. I wasn’t alone as I watched the other women scramble to get rinsed and ready to dry off. One of the the women had the bright idea to ask if there were any towels and all she received was a quick shock from the overseer’s prod and a laugh. The other overseer was again nice enough to let us know that we had to drip dry while we waited for the doctors to be ready for us.
The “waiting room” they brought us to was more of a cage than anything else, but it was our first time to really rest in this whole process. We still weren’t allowed to talk, but as I looked around the women's faces said it all. In less than an hour we had already gone from free women to slaves standing there cold, naked and wet in a holding cage waiting for a doctor to inspect us like a vet inspects an animal going to auction. We were still scared, but there was nothing we could do anymore and the fatigue of this realization just made all of us want to get this over with.
We were taken out of the cage by the overseers two at a time and brought over to a pair of examination tables. We were told by the overseers to address the doctors as ma’am or sir and only answer the questions asked of us. Still reminded of the strip search incident, we obliged. Apart from us being naked and still a little wet from the shower, this seemed like a normal checkup that I would get if I were a free woman. The only difference for us was the rapid drug test, the body measurements, and the pelvic exam we were forced to endure. The drug test was easy, I don’t do drugs anyway, and I had the “luck” of getting the male doctor for my exam. He made me get on an old scale and noted my weight, 120 pounds. Then he measured my height, 5ft 6inches, and for some unknown reason by bust size. After all the boring exams I got to endure every woman’s favorite exam, the pelvic exam. Unlike free women, however, slaves don’t get the luxury of lube on the speculum or a doctor that is gentle with their exam.
I was ordered to put my feet in the stirrups and put move forward until the doctor stopped me. What I didn’t expect was the straps that he used to prevent me from moving after he tightened them. I began to hyperventilate until the doctor assured me that it was for my own safety, I didn’t believe him but my only other option was to end up being used as another “example”. The doctor had this habit of quietly narrating to himself what he was doing so I seemed to have a good idea of what was happening. He roughly examined my labia and clitoris for what he called “defects”, no idea what he meant by that but I wasn’t exactly in the position to question anything. Then my favorite part happened, a cold metal speculum without a single drop of lubrication pierced my opening and made me audibly cry out as exposed me for all to see.
Trying to distract myself from being violated by this man I looked over to see the woman with the ratty tank top in a similar predicament. The overseers already thought she would freak out so the “nice” overseer was holding her hand over her mouth to shut her up while holding her head down facing me. Getting the hint, I locked eyes with this poor woman and allowed myself to be her distraction while the female doctor examined her in a way that was somehow rougher than what I was dealing with at that same moment. Our mutual distraction worked and after what seemed like forever[actually five minutes according to the other slaves], I was reunited with the other women and waited for this medical nightmare to be over.
After we were all done getting poked and prodded by the doctors we were lined up and led off to yet another cage masquerading as a waiting room. Unlike the previous places we were taken however, this one was full of women being processed. The two overseers leading us through the facility were replaced by six and there were almost fifty women of all shapes, races, and sizes waiting in this cage for further processing. I watched women get taken out of the cage and get led to one of six desks where a worker just sat there talking to them and asking questions after their picture was taken. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but the process seemed to move slowly compared to everything before this.
After an hour it was finally my turn and I was led over to desk four and ordered by the overseer to stand against a white backdrop and stare directly at a dot on the opposite wall. The overseer walked away and the clerk working the desk pressed a button to take my picture and then instructed me to turn and stand still for another picture. It felt humiliating having a fully nude picture taken of me, but as was the theme of the day, I was property and that picture was no more sexual than a mugshot in prison. I was then briefly instructed by the clerk on how to properly stand and speak in the presence of my “betters” while keeping my eyes firmly planted on the floor in front of me as I answered his inane questions.
Name?: Anna Perez
Slave Number?: 876E127S
Date of Birth?: 6/29/2000
Virginity?: No [I lied about that one, I wasn’t about to end up in a whorehouse somewhere]
Shirt size?: Medium
Literate?: Yes
Education?: High School Diploma
These questions went on for what seemed like forever until the clerk clicked a few buttons on his computer and turned on a light that summoned an overseer over to his desk. Upon the overseer’s arrival the clerk left his post and returned with a flat paper bag that felt like it contained clothes. I was instructed by the overseer escorting me that I wasn’t allowed to wear them yet as he led me through a doorway into a long concrete room that sounded like a torture chamber as soon as I walked in.
Along both sides there were half a dozen machines using a laser to tattoo the government mandated bar code on every slave’s arm. I stood there in the holding cage watching these women writhe in pain as the last nail in their freedom’s coffin was laser-tattooed onto the inside of their wrist. All of us were standing there in fear of this machine, some of us were crying like sad children and some of us were petrified thinking about our futures. This was our last stop before we were officially slaves, this was quite literally the last moments we would ever be citizens of our own country.
They weren’t really supervising us in this cage, so as long as we were quiet we were able to chat a little with the other women in there. Ratty tank top girl even caught up with me and was finally able to tell me her name, Allison. I found out that her own parents sold her as a “punishment” for failing her freshman year or college and wasting their money. How someone could sell their own daughter I could never understand, but it didn’t seem like it mattered to Allison’s parents. They had 3 other kids to worry about and the act of selling your “problem” children as soon as you legally could when they make the family look bad had become a common enough parenting trend in some circles [Seriously, how is a 19 year old still considered their parent’s property in 2022? This is Pennsylvania, not Mississippi.]. We were still scared and nervous, but the ability to have a quiet conversation honestly helped me more than anything in calming down that day.
When it was my turn to get my tattoo, I had already seen and heard almost every woman who went before me scream and cry from the pain. I knew what was going to happen as the tech put my package on the table, locked my arm in the brace and typed my numbers into his computer. What I didn’t know was going to happen was the blinding pain that overwhelmed my senses. I proceeded to piss myself a little in the chair and pass out, and in true slave management fashion, they didn’t do shit until the laser tattoo machine was finished with its work.
I woke up a few minutes later to the sight of an angry overseer shocking me awake on the floor with her cattle prod and yelling at me to clean up my mess. She threw a bottle of bleach spray and paper towels at me and proceeded to firmly press the tip of the prod into my skin the whole time I was wiping up my mess. I did my best to clean it up with what I was given, but apparently my work wasn’t good enough and that earned me a nice long shock from the overseer’s prod. In that moment of pain I felt exactly what Allison had felt a few hours earlier and rode it out yelping in pain while the overseer had her “fun” making an example out of me in front of the other new slaves. The only good thing about this experience was the fact that I couldn’t feel how bad the tattoo hurt over the cattle prod.
While this was happening, an overseer that looked like a supervisor came over to the woman shocking me and made her stop. He wasn’t much gentler than she would’ve been in getting me to my feet, but a win is a win in a situation like that. That was the first lesson I learned as a slave now that I think about it. Even if it wasn’t my fault, it still is and I am going to get punished either way. I was barely on my feet before the supervisor grabbed my papers and my package, and shoved it into my hands and lead me away from the station into a coffle of other female slaves waiting for another girl to fill out the coffle’s last set of cuffs.
By this point, I just wanted my life to be over. My tattoo burned, my skin burned from the cattle prod, and all these women around me looked just as stressed out and scared as me right now. The only thing that I wanted at that moment was to get out of this glorified torture chamber and away from the sounds of pain and suffering behind me. I was so distracted by it that I didn’t even notice the fact that the coffle was moving until I got pulled out of my stupor by the ebony woman in front of me moving forward. By the time I fully came to my senses we were being led through a prison-like sally port while a young, blonde overseer led us to our temporary new home.
If this is too dark do not be afraid to tell me and I'll get rid of it myself
