The Apartment - Part 5

[Carl Bradford]

The three women wandered around the concourse, a huge open area like a mall with small shops and kiosks running up and down both sides. In the center was a series of raised platforms, most having displays of some kind or another, all having to do with slavery, and nearly all had tourists milling around them, openly gawking.

Cassie led Wanda by the hand, pointing at this or that and commenting on it, with Jane following along behind them.

“Some of the device demos are staffed by the seller’s own slaves, and others by HCI rentals. Depends on the seller,” Cassie explained.

“Check out this one,” she said, walking toward one of the raised sections, around which a number of other mall-goers had gathered. On the platform was a white woman in her late twenties, Jane guessed, completely nude except for a thick steel collar around her neck. She was very physically fit, and Jane thought she might possibly be a former bodybuilder, judging by her impressive shoulders and arms; then she considered the numerous flame-motif tattoos all over her body and decided she must have been an MMA fighter. Reddish-brown dreadlocks were twisted up on top of her head, and the expression on her face was - how could she put it? - forbidding, angry, dangerous: she scowled at everyone around her, her small, flat breasts rising and falling rapidly. Her hands were restrained in front of her with a pair of handcuffs unlike any Jane had seen before: they had no chain between the cuffs, so the palms of the woman’s hands were forced into contact with each other, and the thick steel bands looked incredibly strong, like you could tow a car with them.

“Slave, can you speak?” Cassie asked in a loud, assertive voice - one so unlike her normally gentle demeanor that Jane gave her a double-take.

The slave looked over at her. “Yes, mistress.”

“What are you doing here?” Cassie continued.

“This slave—“ Jane could have sworn she heard a sneer in the woman’s voice when she said the word slave, “—is demonstrating a new model of a portable one-bar restraint, mistress.”

“Ah, yes, I can see that now,” Cassie said, and pointed out the matte-black metal bar running from the floor up between the slave’s legs and into her… vagina?

Cassie saw Jane’s quizzical expression and explained that it was a pole that had a sort of metal dildo attached to the end that was inside the slave, and the other end attached to the plate the slave was standing on, effectively immobilizing her.

“Slave, what distinguishes this device from other one-bar prisons?” Cassie asked.

“Mistress, the top of the pole extends whenever this slave raises any part of its feet, like so,” she replied. The woman raised her heels, as if trying to lift herself off the top of the device; Jane heard a slight whirring noise, and she saw the base of the metal dildo disappear back up into the slave’s vagina.

“Interesting,” Cassie said. “Can you lower it back down?”

“Yes, mistress,” the slave woman said, gritting her teeth and grunting as she gingerly lowered her heels back to the ground, pushing the dildo even farther up inside her. Another whirring noise, and Jane saw that the woman could stand flat on the ground again. She also saw a few beads of perspiration pop out on her forehead.

“Hm,” Cassie said, then to Jane she said, “Anything you’d like to know?”

“Not about the bar thing,” Jane said. “How did you become a slave?”

“Mistress,” The slave addressed Jane directly, “This slave was sentenced by the state for trafficking in narcotics, specifically performance enhancers.” The slave subtly flexed her powerful chest muscles.

“Do you, um, belong to anyone?” Jane asked, feeling a little intimidated.

“Jane,” Cassie interrupted, gently: “All slaves belong to someone, that’s what slavery is. Slave,” she directed to the restrained woman, “What my friend here means is who is your current owner?”

“Mistress, this slave is technically owned by the state, but is temporarily in the custody of HCI, Incorporated, until such time as it is sold.”

“Let me guess,” Cassie said, a sarcastic tone creeping into her voice. “You’ve already been put up for auction, but didn’t meet the legally-mandated reserve for judicially-condemned slaves, probably because you are too dangerous. What level are you assessed at?”

“Mistress,” the slave replied, “This slave is assessed as a threat level four.”

Jane thought the slave’s tone of voice lowered a bit. She also noticed her eyes narrow just a bit. Anger? Amusement? Pride?

“You see,” Cassie said to Jane and Wanda and a few other mall-goers and tourists who had stopped to listen to the conversation, “There’s a five-level threat assessment scale used for slaves. The vast majority are zeros or ones, zero being completely submissive with ones exhibiting some non-violent resistance, more like reluctance or hesitancy. Twos are slaves who showed a high degree of resistance without inflicting any serious harm. Threes are the dividing line between violent and non-violent, being slaves who actually have inflicted harm on free people. Fours, like our Tasmanian Devil here, are slaves who are capable of inflicting serious or even lethal harm and must be handled with special precautions. Five is pretty much reserved for murderers and they are almost never encountered outside of a penitentiary.”

“I don’t get the difference between a two and a three,” asked one man with a festive Hawaiian shirt, a pot belly, and a young son held close by.

“It’s subjective, if I’m being honest,” Cassie replied. “In general, if you threaten a slave handler, you’re a one. If you take a swing at a slave handler, you’re a two. If you land the punch and it breaks the slave handler’s nose, you’re a three. If you knocked out the handler and tried to escape, or fought off several slave handlers and had to be sedated, you’re a four. If you broke the handler’s neck, you’re a five.”

“Jeezus,” the man said; his son looked up at him and said, “Daddy, what did that lady do?”

“I wouldn’t bother asking her,” Cassie said, “Threes and above are likely to lie, because they have no reason not to, it’s not like they’re going to get better treatment. But from looking at her, I’m guessing she has some type of unarmed combat training, so she probably took advantage of some handler who wasn’t paying proper attention. Is that accurate, slave?”

“Yes, mistress,” the woman said, a truly disturbing smile curling her lips.

“The problem with slaves like this one,” Cassie continued to expound, “Is that they’re so hard to sell. No one wants a slave you have to keep sedated or in high-security restraints twenty-four hours a day. So HCI only has a couple of options: one, send her to a breaker school that will use a combination of drugs, a harsh environment, and brutality to make her more docile; or two, try to sell her on the specialty market, which in this case probably means overseas where slave fighting is more common.”

Cassie looked back up at the slave and said, “The first option really only works on twos and threes - fours are a crapshoot, not to mention that breaker schools are dangerous for HCI’s reputation, and they’re also expensive. So they’re probably going to try the second option, and they’re just using her out here until one of the international specialty auctions starts - they only occur a couple of times a month.”

“What about the mines?” asked a woman with a yellow scarf and large cats-eye glasses.

“Good question. Selling her to one of the labor companies that already follows high-security protocols, like the Uranium mines out west, is a good idea in theory,” Cassie explained, “But in reality it probably won’t happen: they only buy low-cost Utility-grade slaves, so they won’t pay the minimum price set by law for serious offenders. HCI can always try to sell her a few times, and if the reserve isn’t met then petition the court to lower the reserve, but at that point they’re throwing good money after bad. I told them when they started that selling judicials was a bad idea—”

Cassie was silent for a moment, then turned to Jane and Wanda. “Let’s keep moving, shall we?”

————————————————————————

The trio sat on a bench outside a large glass wall, watching a group of nude slaves performing slave yoga inside a sort of exercise studio.

Jane watched, mesmerized, as the women (the females, she reminded herself) went through their routines under the watchful eyes of a pair of slave handlers, their widely varying bodies stretching and bending in unison.

“You should see the day classes, full of free women,” Cassie said. “It’s fun to watch them over time, seeing them progress from yoga wear and athletic shoes to their naked skin and practice collars. I could always tell the ones who were going to end up in the kennels - won quite a few betting pools that way.”

“Doesn’t slave yoga include words?” Jane asked. “Like, um, what do you call them, catchphrases or-“

“Mantras,” Cassie said. “Oh yes, and when they turn back around to face us you’ll see their lips moving. If you want to hear them, you can pull up the audio feed with your phone,” she continued, pointing at a QR code on a sign near the bench.

“Speaking of phones,” Wanda said, “Janey, didn’t you have something you wanted to show Cassie?” She turned to her wife: “It’s a pretty good introduction to what she wants to talk about.”

“Oh yes,” Cassie said, smiling at Jane. “Wanda mentioned that. I’m excited to see it!”

Jane’s face turned red as a tomato. Cassie put a hand on her knee.

“Oh, Jane, honey,” she said, “Don’t be embarrassed. We’ve all been there. Look, I have an idea—”

Cassie pulled out her own phone and thumbed through the screen. She found what she was looking for, and handed the phone to Jane, along with her wireless ear buds.

“You need to hear it to get the full effect,” Cassie said, the sad smile back on her face.

Jane put in the ear buds and looked at the phone. It was a video showing a view of a stage, over the heads of a large murmuring crowd. The backdrop on the stage had a huge HCI logo on it, as did the podium on the right. Jane turned on the audio.

“—Lot number 2494638, slave number 445-92-3961, two year civil indenture,” said the man behind the podium, speaking into a microphone hooked over his ear.

It’s a slave auction, Jane realized.

“This beautiful young thing,” the auctioneer continued, “has the lightest blonde hair I’ve ever seen - all natural, of course - and a graceful physique from years of studying slave yoga.”

A woman walked out onto the stage and stopped in front of a small platform, clasping her hands behind her head and submissively casting her eyes down. She was completely nude (not even wearing shoes) except for a metal slave collar around her neck.

There was no mistaking it, the slave was Cassie.

Mother Mary, this is Cassie’s slave auction, Jane gasped inside her head.

The auctioneer - a short, pudgy, bespectacled white guy wearing black pants and a blue shirt with the ever-present HCI logo pinned on - stepped out from behind the podium, holding an evil-looking whip in one hand. With his other hand he grabbed one of her butt cheeks and walked her a few steps forward. He wore a huge grin on his face as he pawed a woman who was so far out of his league she was effectively in another sport entirely.

The auctioneer read off some statistics - height, weight, virginity - and had Cassie turn around so the audience, which was growing louder, could see her uncovered backside.

It got worse: the auctioneer gave an order, and Cassie bent at the waist, reached her hands behind her, and pulled her butt cheeks apart revealing her most intimate parts to the hooting crowd.

Jane saw that Cassie was completely hairless, and that her, um, butthole was pink.

Like Domino’s. Like her own.

Maybe all potential slaves have that in common, she thought, then immediately suppressed the idea.

Cassie straightened up and was marched up the few steps to the small platform (Jane figured it was the thing they called “the block”). The auctioneer, returning to the stage, snapped his whip in the air. Cassie didn’t flinch, but began something like a performance; to Jane, it looked like a dance that included yoga poses and aspects of a striptease.

“She’s amazing, ain’t she folks?” the auctioneer said over the loudspeakers. “She’s an expert in all the arts of the pleasure slave - hell, she used to teach block routines and slave yoga!” The murmurs from the crowd grew louder, and Jane could make out shouts of “Say what?” and “Go on!” and “Let’s hear it!”

“I know all this,” the auctioneer continued, “Because until a very short time ago she worked right here at HCI Houston!” He slapped the top of the podium for emphasis. “As a certified, licensed and bonded slave handler!”

The crowd roared, some cheering, some shouting, some hooting in derision, some screaming with laughter. Cassie dipped her head briefly, eyes closed, frowning with humiliation, her face turning red. Jane thought she saw the glistening of tears. She recovered quickly - whether because she was a pro or because she feared the whip, Jane couldn’t decide - but she couldn’t eliminate the slight tremble in her body. Cassie was scared.

“And it’s not just the formal stuff she’s good at, either,” he said, leering at the audience. “Oh no. Why, just this morning I got her to give me a slave’s gratuity, if you know what I mean.” More laughter. “Yes, Miss 3961 and I used to work together and she had very little time for ol’ Kenny, but this morning the dumb slut was on her knees and sucking my cock like her life depended on it!”

Kenny gave the long whip a good shake on the floor. “Maybe her life didn’t, but her ass sure did!”

The roaring of the crowd grew so loud it drowned out the remainder of what the auctioneer said.

Judging from the tear streaks on Cassie’s face, she didn’t need to hear it.

————————————————————————

Jane paused the video and took out the ear buds.

She looked at Cassie, sitting next to her. She was holding Wanda’s right hand, and Wanda’s left arm was wrapped protectively around Cassie’s shoulders. Cassie saw Jane looking at her and gave a wan smile.

“That must have been incredibly humiliating, Cassie,” Jane said. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” Cassie said. “And yes, it was. Incredibly humiliating. The hot, burning shame I felt was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before in my life, and then there was the fear — I was so afraid, I had no control over anything, especially my fate, I was completely in the hands of others, others who did care about me. I. Was. Terrified.”

“But let me tell you something else,” Cassie said, leaning in towards Jane a little and lowering her voice. “I was SO TURNED ON it was unbelievable.”

“Really?” Jane whispered. “What part?”

“Everything,” Cassie replied. “The shouting, yelling crowd that saw me as a piece of meat, the buyers inspection where I was groped by strangers, being paraded around naked, standing up at the block in front of a sea of people while I bent over and spread my butt cheeks. The auctioneer knew me, we’d worked together many times before, but he didn’t change a thing about how my auction went. I was just another item of merchandise, when I didn’t move like he wanted he snapped my thighs with a whip, called me a dumb slut, squeezed my ass and my tits, and then told everyone I used to work there! The crowd was suddenly very, veeery interested in me, over and above the usual reasons. It was like being carried along in the current of a raging river, and I was just hanging on the best I could.”

“Did you really have to have sex with the auctioneer?” Jane asked, breathless.

“He was telling the truth, I took his fat little prick in my mouth just before we went out onto the stage,” Cassie said, smiling. “I remember him saying that I wasn’t a bad cocksucker considering I was a carpet muncher.” Cassie let out a rueful sigh. “It was all so strange, seeing it for years from the handler’s side, then experiencing it from the slave’s side. Like I said, once I was collared I was just another piece of slave meat to him and to everyone I used to work with. It was like flipping a switch. People I used to eat lunch with every day, people who’d never touched any part of my body other than my hand to shake it, would pull on my nipples just because they could. People whose homes I’d been to, whose parents I had met, would pop me with a herding strap and leave a bright red mark on my butt cheeks without even thinking. One couple who were my friends - we’d gone on vacation together! - the husband used my mouth, my pussy, and my ass in one session in the overnight kennels, and took videos of it to show his wife! If I’d stayed there another night, I’d for sure have had to service her, too. No pity, no sympathy, no nothing: I went from Cassie, close friend and respected colleague, to 3961, a set of holes that couldn’t say no.”

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Cassie,"Jane said.

Cassie laughed. "Being a free woman and an employee was like wearing armor or a halo or something, everyone had to be careful how they treat you. I was well aware of the things - some of them really terrible - that my colleagues had done to slaves when the supervisors weren’t around, but I never worried about it before because it didn’t affect me."Cassie shook her head. “Did you know that using one of your control tools on another HCI employee is not just a firing offense, but a summary fired-on-the-spot offense? No horseplaying, like where some of the boys think it’s funny to pop the butt of a female handler with a whip or gives her a little shock - HCI takes that very seriously, it’s a career ender. But as a slave? I got a lot of stripes from men I had worked closely with and considered friends. They laughed and teased me and called me slut and whore and cunt and all I could do was take the lashes and say Thank you, sir. Being naked and collared and kneeling in front of a fully-dressed man holding a whip is scary, but when he tells me to do a good job sucking his cock or else he’ll have me spread my legs so he can land a whiplash directly on my pussy - well, it made me so wet I was nearly gushing.”

“Really?” Jane whispered.

“It was overwhelming me,” Cassie continued, “My brain, my senses, my very idea of myself and who and what I was. All of that got stripped away, along with my cares and worries. I didn’t have to think about anything — I knew exactly what I would be doing for the next two years, even if I didn’t know the exact details. Nobody giving me shit for being a woman, or a queer woman, or bisexual, or who I was sleeping with and why it wasn’t them, much less whether I had too many of my shirt buttons undone. And to be honest, that level of complete sexual freedom was really hot, so I leaned into it, and ultimately my indenture wasn’t so bad - being a desirable sex object helped me make it through.”

Cassie placed a hand on Jane’s knee.

“Does any of that sound even the least bit like what you’re experiencing?” she asked.

Jane sat silently for a minute, thinking.

“Maybe,” she replied.

Cassie glanced at Wanda, who nodded encouragingly.

“Then let’s have a look at your video, shall we?”

————————————————————————

Jane sat, trying to stop herself from fidgeting, while Wanda and Cassie watched the video she had taken of herself stifling her moans and rubbing her thighs together inside the slave kennel. Neither made any comment, but it was a short video so maybe that’s understandable?

The two women pulled out their earbuds simultaneously, and Wanda handed the phone back to Jane.

“Wow, Jane,” Cassie said. “Wanda didn’t tell me it was so hot!”

Jane turned a bright shade of red while Wanda replied, “I wasn’t really looking at it like that at the time - I was more concerned with getting my friend out of a jam. But now that you mention it, it is pretty hot in a cinéma vérité kind of way.”

“Sure, cinéma vérité, that’s a good way to put it,” Cassie said, smiling at Wanda, then to Jane she said, “I mean that it was clear that you were sincerely aroused by the situation, not acting or anything. The real thing is always hotter than pretend.”

Cassie stood, moved to Jane’s opposite side and sat down next to her.

“But that’s not what I want to talk about,” Cassie said. “I want to know what you want out of all this.”

Jane raised her head and gaped at Cassie, clapped her mouth shut, then said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she replied, “That my wife thinks of you as more than just her friend, more like her sister. She’s afraid that your exploration of something you know so little about, and excites you so much, will end with you in a collar or possibly worse. She wants me to be your guide. I’m happy to be that, for her and for you — I really like you, Jane, and I really, really value your friendship with Wanda, so of course I’ll help in any way I can. But I need to know,” Cassie placed a hand on Jane’s cheek, “What do you want?”

Jane exhaled. “Two things. First, I’m serious that I really do want to find out what happened in that apartment, and where the former tenant went. I’m really excited about searching the place for clues and piecing together the story. It might lead to something better for me: a book, a podcast, maybe a career as a detective or a federal agent.”

“Second, I want to learn all I can about the realities of the slave business, partly because it will help me with the first thing but mostly out of personal… curiosity. It’s important to me to figure out why I, y’know, like it so much. Does that make sense?”

Cassie laid a hand on Jane’s knee. “Of course it does. I’m willing to help you any way I can, starting with being your guide to the world of slavery. How about coming back here one day in the morning? During the day is a different world, when the real business is done.”

[CommodorRaptr]

I missed your perfect grammar and writing man. Excited for the next chapter.

[Belinda]

Such a great story. Your skills as an author are unrivaled.

[gentlemanmariner]

Belinda, Commodor, you're making me blush

Thank you!