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The Apartment - Part 7

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gentlemanmariner
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The Apartment - Part 7

Post by gentlemanmariner »

Jane and Cassie sat at a small table in the uninspiringly-named Global Trader’s Cafe, inside the mall at HCI, drinking food-court-grade cappuccinos.

Cassie is dressed all crunchy granola today, Jane observed, wearing a denim slip dress over a tee shirt and sandals, beaded jewelry, her long hair loose down her back but covered on top with a bandanna. That’s probably her idea of casual, Jane thought; by contrast, she wore jeans, sneakers and a hoodie, the very definition of casual teetering on the brink of slob.

“The only plainclothes cops I know of who regularly carry Tasers are with the trafficking squad at HPD,” Cassie said, handing back Mike Horvath’s card. “They mostly look for stolen slaves - maybe Audree was kidnapped? Or a runaway?”

“Maybe,” Jane said, only half paying attention. Taking the card, she suddenly stopped herself from licking the creamy foam off her straw, for, uh, reasons.

“What about the laptop you found?” Cassie asked.

“I tried to get into it, but no luck,” Jane replied. “So I asked my sister to give it a try - she wants to be a software engineer and if she can’t do it one of her nerd friends probably can.”

“You’re not worried about her finding out…?” Cassie said, raising her eyebrows.

“Not really. If it’s not software engineering or anime, she’s not interested,” Jane said, smiling to herself. “She’ll probably just crack the password, write it on a Post-It note on the lid, and leave it on the kitchen table for me.”

Jane looked around. There were a lot more people at HCI today, but more interesting to Jane was that the types of people were different. Few tourists and gawkers, many more people in suits, business casual outfits, and work uniforms. Less cameras and selfie sticks, more tablets and earpieces. Not as many slaves on display in the concourse, and the few that were didn’t seem to be getting much attention.

“So,” Cassie said, looking at Jane over the rim of her coffee cup. “How did you feel about it?”

“About what? Giving him a blowjob?” Jane asked.

“No, blowjobs are just blowjobs,” Cassie replied. “I mean about being naked and collared and acting like a slave in front of a complete stranger. Don’t get me wrong, it sounds like you pulled it off, but how did that little taste go down?”

Jane arched an eyebrow.

“So to speak,” Cassie giggled. “Sorry.”

“Well, it was scary at first; being naked in front of a man twice my size AND trying to be calm about it, that was hard - dammit,” Jane looked Cassie in the eyes, daring her to laugh - Cassie snorted, a bit of foam flying off her drink, her face scrunched up as she suppressed a laugh.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Anyway,” she sighed, “Once I got over being scared, it was… kinda hot.”

“Kinda?" Cassie smirked.

“Okay, it was actually very hot,” Jane said.

"What was hot about it?” Cassie asked.

"Well, being naked in front of a reasonably attractive man close to my own age, the looks he gave me, and the fact that I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while, that all contributed,"Jane said, looking into her own cup. “But it was more than that, of course: it was the whole situation. I was kneeling, without a stitch of clothing, in front of a man who could probably break me in half and could absolutely force me to do anything he wanted - the power dynamic is pretty potent stuff. Also he thought I really was a slave, and treated me like an automatic BJ machine - you know, lots of women find being objectified a turn on, in the right circumstances.”

Jane realized she was a coming off a bit defensive, but Cassie just nodded and quietly sipped her coffee.

“The hottest part, though, was the fear.” Jane put her cup down and looked out over the crowd again: a lone female slave, tall and thin and finely-muscled like a dancer, stood naked on a small stage in the middle of the concourse, twirling slowly, showing off the latest in fashionable restraints - these were apparently lighted with colored LEDs - but few paid her any attention.

“The fear?” Cassie asked.

“That it could turn into something more,” Jane answered, not looking at her. “Not just that we might have sex - I was ready for that, believe me. Rather that something else could happen: maybe he drags me down to the front office to ask some questions and everyone in the complex sees me, maybe he just clips a leash on my collar and takes me in as evidence, or maybe he figures out that I’m faking and arrests me, and I’m looking at actually being a convicted slave. Handcuffed and gagged and being led to my doom in a slave auction. It would be so quick - one minute I’m a maintenance supervisor, and the next I’m just a sex toy for any man who wants to buy me.”

“Or woman,” Cassie added.

“Don’t think that didn’t occur to me, among other things. So much was flashing through my head all at once, it almost made me dizzy,” Jane said. “I don’t know if the word I want is exciting, intoxicating, taboo - maybe all of them. All I know is that there was a small part of me that wanted it to happen. At least for a little while.”

Cassie nodded. “I can relate. Many women can, more than you might think. Caught up in the moment, it can be–”

“Cassie, sweetheart!”

Jane turned to see a short, heavyset, middle-aged white woman with brown-grey hair, wearing the uniform of an HCI slave handler: boots, sturdy khaki work pants, a polo shirt emblazoned with the HCI logo, and a heavy belt carrying what she assumed were the tools of the handler’s trade, like handcuffs and a stun gun.

“Gracie Lynn!” Cassie exclaimed, smiling. She jumped up and the two women embraced like old friends.

“It’s so good to see you again!” Gracie Lynn said, holding Cassie by the upper arms and giving her the once-over. “You’re looking good, too! I think marriage agrees with you,” she said, laughing.

“It does,” Cassie said, reaching into a small pocket on the front of her dress. She showed Gracie Lynn a bronze-colored coin, and added, “This helps too.”

“One year?” the older woman said, looking at the coin then back at Cassie. “It’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?”

“Collar time doesn’t count,” Cassie said. “But I’m coming up on two years with the program, and I’m feeling better all the time.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Gracie said, smiling broadly and clapping her hands on Cassie’s shoulders. “And I’m so proud of you. I miss you, girl — we all do. The place ain’t the same without you.”

Jane saw something, some sort of emotion, pass over Cassie’s face like a shadow. But she quickly got a grip on herself and turned to look at Jane.

“Gracie,” she said, gesturing at Jane, “This is my friend Jane I was telling you about, she’s interested in the business. Jane, this is my old, dear friend Gracelynn, the lady who trained me and the best slave handler I’ve ever known.”

Gracie stuck out a tanned, calloused hand and Jane shook it; a good firm grip, like a woman used to hard work. Jane did her best to return it.

“Nice to meet you, Jane,” Gracie said cheerfully, “but to tell the truth Cassie is the best handler who ever came through the doors of this pile a cinderblocks. If’n you want to learn the business, you’re in very good hands,” she added with all apparent sincerity — Jane couldn’t help but like her, Texas country accent and all.

“Hey, I don’t have a lot of time right this minute, we got a big rush job this morning,” Gracie said, turning back to Cassie and producing a pair of plastic cards from her pants pocket, “You know how it is, so I went ahead and got you two Contractor badges. Besides, you sure don’t need me to show you around.” She laughed, and Cassie hugged her again.

“Thank you, Gracie, you’re the best,” Cassie said. “Let’s set a lunch date next week so we can catch up!”

————————————————————————

“Like I said, she was my trainer when I first started here,” Cassie said to Jane as they walked toward one of the Employees Only entrances. “Gracie’s just as sweet as she appears to be. With the collars she’s strict but never abusive, even-handed and rewards good behavior, never has sex with them, takes care of them as best she can. That made her different from most other mongers, and I’m glad I had a chance to learn from her. She’s a manager now, took over the wholesale department I believe.”

“What’s a monger?” Jane asked.

Cassie laughed. “It’s slang, it’s short for slave monger, kind of like calling a police officer a cop. It’s an old-fashioned word for what we do, not too many people use it any more. I’m showing my age a little by using it,” she said, showing her sad smile, “Or more accurately the age of the person who trained me.”

The wall box next to the security door turned green when they approached, and Jane could hear the door unlock automatically.

“That’s new,” Cassie said, pulling the door open. “HCI is kind of strange; they’ll install state-of-the-art security doors in the public spaces, but the outside door to the employee smoking lounge will be propped open with a brick twenty-four-seven.”

Jane wasn’t thinking about the door’s security, but the fact that it must be soundproof because of the wave of noises that suddenly washed over her: the coarse hum of heavy-duty air handlers, the whine of electric motors, the clash of metal-on-metal, clanking chains, shouts, cries, footsteps, punctuated by an occasional loud pop.

Cassie gave Jane a knowing look. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” she said.

They walked down a short hallway with single doors to either side. It opened out into a cavernous area that looked to Jane like a high-ceilinged warehouse.

Rolling doors ran down one side of the huge room, some open to the outside with vans and trucks backed up to them. In front of each door was a standing desk station, then colored lines painted on the floor led to other parts of the room and to other doors on the opposite side, labeled things like “Shipping,” “Kennels,” and “Wholesale.” The far end had more doors leading further back into the building, but was most notable for the numerous large cages bolted to the floor. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling in this area, but Jane saw that farther back there weren’t as many - probably because a triple tier of large cages stood in that area, arranged like cells in a prison block but entirely open to the air, accessible by metal stairs and walkways that wrapped all the way around each tier.

But the main thing that attracted her attention was the activity, of which there was a lot. Workers in khaki pants and blue polos or t-shirts worked at counters, standing desks, pushed carts around, and led people around by leashes attached to their collars.
Not “people,” of course, but slaves. Naked slaves, women and men alike, most restrained in some fashion - usually with their hands behind their backs - and all wearing metal collars. Some of the collars were colored red or green or white but most were black or plain metal, and all had a ring on the front to attach a leash.

So many slaves. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, so many slaves, more than she had ever seen in one place in her entire life.

Jane observed for a minute, and came to the conclusion that they were roughly divided: the most attractive women (no men as yet) were to her far left, their leashes clipped to standing desks or to the long counters while slaver handlers tapped on keyboards; they were being processed individually, one slave to one handler. The slaves were mostly white, some blonde, and all with pretty faces and enviable bodies. As Jane watched, one trembling blonde slave was being stripped of her jewelry including her navel piercing, all being placed in a plastic bag, while tears ran down her beautifully sculpted face.

The second category she found at the far end near the sign that read “Wholesale”: scores of men and women (er, “males and females”) being herded into some of those tall kennels. None of them were particularly attractive, but none of them were exactly ugly, either, and their skin and hair included every color in the human species. The men generally looked either strong with broad backs and shoulder, like laborers, or else smaller and wiry and lean like greyhounds. It was strange seeing so many men’s genitals on display; none were erect, but Jane felt a blush coming on so she shifted her gaze.

The women were roughly of two types as well: the first looking older than they probably were, often somewhat overweight, with sagging breasts or flat bottoms or wide hips, looking like a collection of middle-school lunch ladies lined up at the dermatologist to get their sun-damaged skin treated. The other type looked, well, feral - tending toward either small and thin or tall and heavy, many had interesting hair styles, the smeared remains of makeup, and lots of hideous tattoos or scars or both. Unlike the first group, which kept their eyes glued to the floor, these slaves looked around, curious about their new surroundings, seemingly unafraid — and in a few cases, defiant.

Toward the center, straight ahead of her, was the third category: small groups of females chained together at the neck. They were still attractive, but less so than the first group; if those were models, this group was more like hot teachers and secretaries and baristas. Mostly white, mostly brunettes, with some light-skinned Latinas mixed in, they were being checked in by a couple of handlers. One would read things off from a data pad, tapping each item, and when she was done the other handler released a slave from the neck chain and led her to a long counter where her collar was locked to a steel pole standing straight up out of the ground. There were many poles lined up in front of the counter, and it looked like they would all be taken up this morning.

Jane must have stopped in her tracks because she saw Cassie a pace or two ahead of her, smiling and chuckling as Jane gawked.

Cassie walked back and said, “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

Jane swallowed and nodded.

“This is the main intake area. It’s changed a little since I was here last - that tower of kennels is new - but not too much. You’ve probably already figured out that the PCSers start processing over there,” - Cassie pointed to the counters to their far left, where the most attractive women stood - “and the other grades start over there,” - she pointed at the far end - “which we call ‘Wholesale’ because the slaves there tend to be sold in lots, especially the males.”

“What is a PCSer?” Jane asked without taking her eyes off the group in front of them.

“A slave graded as Prime, Choice or Select, the top three grades,” Cassie replied. “They’re close enough in value that we tend to lump them into one category for processing because we treat them the same way. You know about slave grades, right?”

Jane nodded. “So the Wholesale slaves would be called SCUs, right? For Standard, Commercial, and Utility grades.”

Cassie laughed. “I like the way you think but no, if a slave isn’t PCS she’s just ‘Wholesale’ as far as handlers are concerned.”

“Then what about them?” Jane said, inclining her head toward the group of neck-chained slaves in front of them.

“Good question,” Cassie replied, pursing her lips in thought. “I’m not sure, but it’s clear that those slaves are at least in the CS part of PCS. Keep in mind that handling is fluid, depending a lot on the influx of slaves, the numbers, types, market conditions—“

A rolling door rattled open revealing a van backed up against the loading dock. A handler standing on the edge of the dock opened the van’s rear door, reached inside and pulled out the end of a chain. He began walking toward the middle area, the one in front of Jane and Cassie. At the end of the chain was one, then two, then three women, then six in total. Like the others, they were complete naked, even down to bare feet, except for a steel collar around their necks. Unlike the others, each had her hands secured behind her with a zip tie, and each had her mouth secured with a rubber gag that fastened behind her head. But the biggest difference between these women and the others was that they were all black.

“That’s something you don’t see every day,” Cassie said. “Come on, let’s go check ‘em out.”

Cassie leading the way, the two women walked up to the handler who was doing the checking-in with the data pad.

“Will?” Cassie said, tentatively.

The young blonde man glanced at her, then nearly dropped the data pad as he rushed to embrace Cassie, throwing his arms around her neck.
“Cassie!” he shouted, “It’s so good to see you!”

Breaking the embrace after a while, Cassie turned to Jane: “This is my old friend and partner-in-crime Will. We used to work together. Will, this is my friend Jane.”

“We didn’t just work together,” Will said, reaching a hand out to Jane, “Cassie is the one who trained me and rode my butt until I passed my certification test. I probably wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for her.”

“Oh stop it,” Cassie said. “You were always way too hard on yourself — you passed that exam, not me.”

Jane appraised Will: he was a good-looking white kid with the tan and easy-going manner of a surfer, but without the annoying lingo. He was in very good shape - Jane liked how he filled out his polo shirt, and the fine sun-bleached hairs on his sinewy forearms were hot in a way Jane couldn’t quite explain. His grip on her hand lingered longer than strictly necessary, and as he smiled at her with impossibly white teeth Jane caught him glancing at her chest, appraising her right back.

“So what brings you all here?” Will asked. “Planning a dash?”

Cassie laughed. “Not even close,” she replied. “I’m doing a tour of the place for Jane, showing her the ropes so to speak," Cassie continued. “She’s interested in learning more about the business.”

“Oh yeah?” Will chuckled. “So you’re chaperoning a dash, got it,” he said, and he and Cassie laughed while Jane looked from one to the other, confused.

“Shit, sorry, Jane,” Cassie said. “A dash is what we call it when a woman is coming in voluntarily to collar herself. The vast majority of the time it’s for grading, but either way one of the requirements is that she be completely nude when she enters the premises, which includes the parking lot. Seeing as how they don’t get to wear shoes, there’s a definite tendency to move quickly across the asphalt and into the building.”

“But it’s not too hot right now, so you could keep your dignity,” Will said, smiling at Jane. “If that was what you were here for, of course.”

“Of course,” Jane replied. "What’ve you got here?” she said, gesturing toward the six black women as she changed the subject.

“Oh, them,” Will said, “Another batch of the 490’s we’ve started getting in from Africa. These are from West Africa somewhere, Ghana I think? Not that it matters, they’re all headed for recycle. At least this time they got their hoods taken off at the airport so they’re not drenched with sweat.”

“Naked, too, I see,” Jane said.

“That’s how they send 'em across now,” Will said, sounding disappointed. “I miss stripping them and then burning their clothes right in front of them.”

The three of them turned their heads to look at the group of chained women; another handler was removing their gags and reciting something to each one, getting a nod and a reply from each:

“You are in the United States of America, at the Houston, Texas branch of HCI Incorporated. You are here for processing as a slave. I am required by law to tell you that the collar you are wearing can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all HCI employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include but are not limited to electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?”

Cassie sighed. “International Arrival Servants, officially. We call ‘em 490s after the last three digits of the federal regulation number. Basically they’re foreigners who can’t get into the US legally and can’t afford to do it illegally, so they sign themselves up for a period of indenture and consign themselves to a US-based dealer. They get sold to owners here, and when their term is up they can apply for permanent residency. At least, in theory.”

“Yeah,” Will said, “In reality it almost never works out that way. Most of them get reclassified, which doubles their indenture time, and automatically bars them from residency except as a perm. When their term is up they get to choose between being deported with nothing to show for their time in the US, or being legally converted over to a perm, and so most of them leave.”

“Perm?” Jane asked, already knowing the answer.

“Full permanent slaves,” Cassie answered. “Not indentures, but lifetime, until-you-die slaves.”

Jane looked over at the six naked black women, standing frozen in place in their chains. Most of them had their gaze lowered to the ground - they’ve learned that much already, Jane thought - but one was looking straight at Cassie as she spoke.

The other five women were dark-skinned - one was as black as the tile in a discotheque’s bathroom, Jane thought - but this one was more of a medium brown. She was on the tall side, though shorter than the others, not nearly as thin, and her hair was longer, actually gathered into a loose braid that was wrapped around her head. Jane thought she was quite pretty, with a good body - her breasts were impressively large and firm - and a striking face with strong cheekbones contrasting with a soft, sensual mouth.

“That seems kinda… wrong,” Jane said. “How does it happen?”

Cassie frowned. “All kinds of ways, if I’m being honest - the system is really stacked against 490s. The most common method is for them to be reclassified as a result of regrading.”

“We call it recycling, for some reason,” Will said. “They get re-graded by a state-licensed slave grader, and if the new grade score deviates from the country-of-origin score by too much then poof” - Will snapped his fingers - “they’re reclassified on grounds of fraud.”

“But if we are graded by a licensed and bonded international grader, following ISO standards, then nothing should change.”

All three of them turned and looked at the black woman in the coffle, the one who Jane had noticed watching them and apparently following their conversation.

“What was that?” Will said.

The woman held her head all the way up, and spoke: “I said, a properly licensed and bonded—“

Jane startled when she heard the pop, and smelled the faint whiff of ozone.

Will walked over to the crumpled body of the woman, tucking the shock-collar remote back into his belt. He detached her collar from the coffle and dragged the stunned woman by her ankles back to the podium. Finding his water bottle, he poured a stream onto the woman’s face. The black slave regained consciousness, sputtering and coughing.

“Look here, 3087,” Will said, consulting his data pad. “You may have been a law clerk in Accra, but here you’re just a slave. You need to get a few things into your head. First, slaves are seen and not heard, so never speak to a free person without permission. Second, when a free person addresses you, you always begin your reply with master or mistress or sir or ma’am, unless the free person tells you otherwise. You with me so far?”

3087 - the woman - glanced up at each of the three white people watching her in turn, then said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Will said. “Next, understand that after a slave has been corrected, it is customary for her to get on her knees, beg forgiveness, and thank the free person for instructing her. Think you can handle that?”

Looking around wildly, 3087 started to protest but when Will brought out the remote again and showed it to her, her protest died in her throat.

“The collar you’re wearing has twelve power settings,” Will said. “The shock I just gave you was a three. Keep that in the front of your mind when making your next decision.”

Slowly, 3087 rolled to her knees, straightened her back, then bowed low, touching her forehead to the ground. “Please forgive me, sir, for my mistake, and thank you for correcting me,” she said.

Will placed the toe of his boot in front of her.

3087 looked up far enough to see it, then twisted her head to look at Will. Jane looked at him too: the easy-going dude had been suddenly replaced by a hardass. Jane shivered, involuntarily, at the look on his face… in her mind’s eye, she found herself in the place of the black slave woman, kneeling in front of this hot young guy, her naked ass in the air, begging his forgiveness—

The black woman shuffled forward on her bare knees, her large breasts hanging low, nipples dragging on the concrete, and placed a kiss on the top of his boot.

Jane felt a little thrill run up her spine.

“Better,” Will said. “Much better. Sit.” The slave raised herself back up until she was sitting on her heels, back straight, her lovely body taught and ready. “Present,” he said; the slave hiked her hands up into the small of her back and spread her knees, “presenting” her large mocha-colored breasts and her most private parts to the three free white people.

Will clipped a leash to 3087’s collar, and secured it to the podium, then reached down and grabbed a large nipple with each hand and rolled them between his fingers before slapping each breast with his open hand.

Jane thought the poor woman looked terrified, and that was turning Will on.

“When I’m done processing her companions,” Will said to Cassie, smiling, his easy-going-ness returning, “I’m going to take her with me on my break and she can show me her appreciation for not zapping her again. Then I’ll walk her to recycling personally. If I can get her in at the head of the line, I might be able to brand her myself."

“I thought slaves were only branded when they’re sold?” Jane said.

“Generally, yeah,” Will said. “But they get branded for all kinds of other reasons too, like being a convicted felon, graduating from certain training programs, or in this case,” he nodded toward the black woman kneeling next to him, “a slave who’s been officially re-classified gets a down arrow, a brand about the size of a quarter so not that big a deal.”

Jane looked at 3087, a beautiful woman whose day was not going the way she envisioned at all: tears were forming in her eyes, and Jane detected a slight tremble - she appeared to be holding herself together by sheer force of will. It was clearly a big deal to her.

“Kind of a shame to have to mark up that beautiful ass-” Will bent over and slapped the helpless woman right on the spot where (Jane imagined) she would be getting branded today, “-but rules are rules, and besides: I get to be the last guy to tap that unmarked ass. You know,” he said, looking at Cassie, "If she’s never seen a branding before I think Jane might appreciate it, it’s pretty much the ultimate act of enslavement.” He looked over at Jane and smiled. “You want to come with?”

A thought flashed through Jane’s head: I know Will’s going to have sex with this woman, not just ordering her to blow him but from what he said he’s going to have anal sex with her - welcome to America, I suppose - but why do I get the feeling Will asking me to “come with” is so he can persuade me to join them? Jane, naked and kneeling next to 3087, their large breasts pressing up against each other, both worshipping his cock with their mouths, their tongues brushing together, then before she knows what’s happening she’s zip-tied and gagged and collared, the two of them led on leashes to the blacksmith, the branding frames with their heavy straps, the heat from the forge on her bare skin, the rough men laughing at her white, unblemished body—

“Sure, text me when you’ve got her in for grading,” Cassie said, “We’ll be there!”

————————————————————————

Cassie and Jane walked toward a set of doors underneath a sign reading “Grading.”

“It’s still unusual that a young woman in this day and age hasn’t been slave graded,” Cassie said. “Ever thought about doing a grading run with your friends up to the Big D in Dallas so your family wouldn’t find out?”

“I don’t really have those kinds of friends,” Jane said, adding silently Besides, Ma would’ve flipped out.

“Haven’t you ever been curious about what you missed?” Cassie persisted. “Wondered what your grade might be?”

“No, not really,” Jane lied. She could see where Cassie was going with this, and she was not ready for it - at least, not yet.

“Well…” Cassie said, trailing off. “Let’s see how the ladies getting graded are treated, to compare with the slaves,” she said, pushing open the swinging door.

Inside was a different world; though the room was large, it was completely unlike the warehouse beyond the door. Quiet, well-appointed, tastefully decorated in soothing earth tones, with plants and a fountain (somewhere, Jane assumed - she could hear the trickle of water), comfortable seats and benches, video monitors around the ceiling showing the public grading area, stations spaced along the walls for makeup, hairdressing, photography, and so forth.

There were a few slaves in here. Most were seated on benches near another door, their leashes clipped to metal rings attached to the front or back sides of the padded benches. All were white, and most were very young - eighteen was the minimum age to be graded and it was common for girls to get graded right on their eighteenth birthday, even if they were still in high school. Even so, it was weird to see so many girls the same age as her sister Teresa, naked and collared and prepared to be displayed to the world for the very first time.

“They’re all waiting their turn out on the ol’ gawk and grope. What really interests me, though,” Cassie said quietly, “is the older women coming in to get graded. Some of them I can guess, like torpedo tits over there-“ she flicked her eyes at an attractive middle-aged woman displaying a toned and sculpted physique and a great deal of cosmetic surgery, including some very fake breasts that were slightly conical like the nose cone of a rocket or, apparently, a torpedo, “-she’s probably getting re-graded, hoping all the money she spent on herself will boost her score so she can brag to her friends at brunch.”

“But that one over there,” Cassie gave a slight nod toward another woman, “What do you suppose her story is?”

Jane followed Cassie’s gaze to another older woman. She was pretty, but was not trying nearly as hard as the silicon-enhanced cougar who was her only age peer in the room: she had brown shoulder-length hair styled in a typical a “mom” cut, deep frown lines on either side of her mouth, her breasts were full but starting to sag, she had a some old, faded stretch marks on her stomach, and while she was reasonably trim she carried a bit of extra weight in her hips that would probably count against her. A MILF for sure, but not a Prime, Jane guessed.

“Probably some sort of money problem, wouldn’t you think?” Jane whispered.

“Could be,” Cassie replied. “She might be offering herself up as collateral, and the bank insisted on a more recent grade. That happens from time to time, especially if the loan is a big one.”

“What are her chances?” Jane asked.

“For a grade?” Cassie said, then thought a minute. “At most Choice Minus, more likely Select or Select Plus - she’s kinda cute, and she might have skills and talents that would boost her.”

“No, I meant if she were to be sold,” Jane said. “Who would buy her?”

“There is no telling, sweetheart,” Cassie said. “But in her case I don’t think it matters: look who’s sitting next to her.”

Jane saw a young white woman with long brown hair, full breasts, and a nervous expression on her familiar face—

“That’s her daughter, isn’t it?” Jane said.

“Bingo,” Cassie smiled. “Sometimes mothers, big sisters or other female relatives escort or “chaperone” young women when they get graded. The real giveaway is the tag hanging from mom’s collar - she’s got an ‘A’ ticket, meaning she’s accompanying someone else, so any grade she gets will not be officially recorded.”

Jane stood, silent, staring at the two women; before long, they returned her gaze and Jane felt embarrassed.

“Why?” Jane asked. “Why would a mother subject herself,” she nodded at the room in general, “to all this if she didn’t have to? If she’s not even getting a grade?”

“Some daughters ask for it, to help them feel less frightened, like holding her hand on the rollercoaster,” Cassie replied, “And mothers will do it in order to protect her, or to increase the odds of her getting a better grade. Others do it because it’s a family tradition, a right of passage, a mother-daughter bonding experience. A few do it for the excitement, the titillation, for the video recording of their own session they can watch later with dear hubby. All kinds of reasons.”

Cassie and Jane wandered through the grading prep area, with Cassie giving a running commentary.

“Each slave to be graded is assigned an individual handler who’s with her each step of the way. It’s part of the service, and makes the women feel safer, less like they’re being thrown to the wolves like at the Big D. In some ways it’s more like a spa day, and in fact HCI can bill grading under the DBA name of “Northeast Spa and Wellness Retreat,” in case the customer would prefer to avoid explaining a charge on her credit card.”

They paused and watched a woman in a smock applying some makeup to a collared gradee, attempting to cover up some minor skin flaws. “It’s great PR for HCI, too,” Cassie observed. “Women who want the adventure, the sexual thrill, go up to the Big D or across town to the Longhorn, but women who just need to get graded for work or school or whatever come here because they’re treated gently, respectfully. And after the way they’re treated, mothers are much more comfortable sending their daughters to HCI for grading, friends recommend it to friends, nervous first-timers read the reviews online, etcetera, so it brings in lots of business.”

Jane stood silently for a moment, lost in thought. She watched the two women: the mother sitting completely still, resigned, clearly wanting to get this over with, while her daughter fidgeted, rocking side to side, rubbing her thighs together.

“Do you think we could talk to them?” she asked. “The mother and daughter?”

“I’m afraid not,” Cassie said, her sad smile reappearing. “Did you notice anything unusual about the women waiting for grading?”

“Oh, duh — they’re being really quiet for people who are about to be taken out in public naked,” Jane said. “They’ve been silenced, haven’t they?”

“Very good! And we call it devoxing,” Cassie said. “It lasts anywhere from an hour to all day. There are chemicals that can extend that out even longer, to a week or more, but we don’t use them at HCI because they can cause long-term damage to the slaves. It’s also gentler than a gag, doesn’t leave marks, and the graders can see her entire face without distortion or drool.”

“Why are they devoxed?”

“Officially it’s so that they can’t influence their grade by speaking to the graders, but it’s also to help them: no begging and pleading, no freaking out at the last minute and claiming this is all a mistake or screaming they’re being held against their will, that sort of thing. But to be honest, a big part we don’t tell the gradees is that it induces a level of mental and emotional submission that helps them get a better grade.”

“How so?” Jane asked. “I think I’d just be pissed off.”

Cassie chuckled. “Part of handler training is getting devoxed, just to see what it’s like, and you’re right: under normal circumstances getting devoxed is just irritating. But when you’re in a strange place, a strange place that’s a slave market, you’re completely naked down to your toes, handcuffed, collared, being led around on a leash, with strangers touching you and groping you and pulling on you, and you can’t talk at all? Can’t get anyone’s attention? Can’t ask for the manager? Can’t even make a noise? That’s completely different. It really hits you, hard and fast, that you’re just a piece of meat and everyone from the handlers to the graders to the bus boy at the food court has complete power over you, and not only can you not resist physically but you can’t even resist verbally. We women use our voices to defend ourselves, especially against men who are physically more powerful than us. The slave psychologists tell us that a common response to losing that ability is to become more submissive, it’s a protection mechanism. It’s really scary, but it’s also…” Cassie trailed off, then gave Jane a sideways look. “Well, you’d have to experience it to really understand.”

Jane looked back at the mother and daughter waiting in silence for their turn in the spotlight and swallowed, hard.

Cassie took Jane’s hand and led her out of the room.

————————————————————————

“These are the slave pens,” Cassie said. “I know the sign said ‘Holding and Transfer’ but nobody calls it that - either ‘the pens’ or ‘the kennels.’ A few old-timers like Gracie call it ‘Cage City’ because when it first opened this location grew so fast they had to fit cages anywhere they’d go - even stacking cages on top of cages - in order to handle the volume."

Jane looked around the cavernous area. Like Cassie said, there were large cages crammed everywhere, some of them stacked two and even three high. It seemed dimly-lit, but that was probably just because the sheer volume of cages blocked out the fluorescent lighting hanging from the ceiling. Some of the paths through the cages appeared to have lights stuck here and there, but nothing uniform - the place certainly had an air of chaos about it.

“How do you find anything in here?” Jane asked.

“Making your way through the pens is the most important skill you pick up when you first start here,” Cassie said. “There are tips and tricks the old-timers will show you, like your data pad will always point you to the nearest fire exit - even if it doesn’t know how to get there from where you are - so you can use it like a compass, stuff like that. But the pens don’t really change much, and honestly you just get used to it. I have no doubt I can still find my way around in here, even after all this time, like navigating my own bedroom in the dark. C’mon,” she said, and walked toward one of the entrances.

"The first time I came back here it made me think about what being lost in a labyrinth might be like,” she laughed, “and then I realized that I was the Minotaur.”

————————————————————————

Cassie and Jane chatted quietly as they wandered through the kennels.

“It’s not unusual for a free woman to want to spend the night in the kennels,” Cassie said. “In fact HCI used to have ‘Overnight’ packages where you could get the complete experience: stripped, collared, paraded, hosed down, everything, then get put in a cage overnight. Of course, it’s expected that the staff would use her just like a real slave, so we had all kinds of women - from successful business executives to ordinary stay-at-home moms - sucking and fucking the night away.”

“Seriously?” Jane asked.

“Oh yeah,” Cassie answered. “Almost all of the overnight handlers are young - recent high school grads or college students - and that’s appealing to a forty-year-old woman, having all the fit nineteen-year-old cock she can handle and then some, without having any choice about it, no ability to say no.”

“So they want to be raped?” Jane asked, puzzled.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t act so naive, I know you know better,” Cassie sighed. “What they want is to act like a slut without being a slut. Naked and caged, they have to do what they’re told, so it’s not their fault. But they volunteered, see?”

“Hm,” Jane replied. “What about lesbians?”

“What about them?” Cassie said. “Like I’ve said before, slaves don’t get to be straight or gay or anything else, they’re whatever their masters tell them to be. If that means a lesbian has to become a pincushion, so be it, and if a straight girl has to become a vaccuum cleaner, well, so be that too.” Cassie chuckled. “Believe me, more than one straight woman entered the overnights with the hope, the desire to be forced to go down on some girls, just to see what she’s been missing. Same with guys.”

“Sheesh, Cassie,” Jane said, “Let me get this straight–”

“No pun intended,” Cassie interjected.

“Hm,” Jane said, hiding her annoyance. “Somebody’s chubby, helmet-haired mom, after dropping off the kids for the weekend, will come here and voluntarily commit themselves to be humiliated and degraded just so they can have a same-sex encounter? Really? And then just go home in the morning like nothing happened?”

“One hundred percent true, I assure you, more anonymous than Tinder and safer too,” Cassie said, smiling. “I’ve had plenty of free women, part-time realtors, small business owners, PTA chairwomen, you name it, and many just regular ordinary soccer moms too, naked and kneeling in front of me late at night in these cages.” Cassie giggled as she sidled up to Jane and put a hand on Jane’s hip. “Why, you interested?”

“You’re not funny, Cassie,” Jane said. But after what happened in the apartment lately, the thought of lots of young, muscular male bodies compelling her to serve their rock-hard… well, that was appealing. Then she remembered–

“Oh Cassie, I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t upset you,” Jane said. “I forgot that you’ve been on both sides of that situation.”

Cassie laughed and shook her head, giving Jane a side-hug. “I’m not upset at all, Jane, really. Dealing with it just requires the right mindset. But I have to mention that it’s not all about fulfilling sapphic fantasies - most women just want to be turned into a sex doll, used in any way they’re told. Very few have any interest at all in lesbianism, but they do have an interest in being forced to do things they normally wouldn’t. Do you see what I mean?”

Before Jane could answer, Cassie stopped. “Look who it is!” she said, pointing at one of the cages. Inside was the muscular, tattooed woman they had seen on an earlier evening when Jane and Cassie and Cassie’s spouse Wanda had visited the mall. Seated on a plastic bench, she was still completely naked except for her collar and some metal bands on her wrists and ankles, but her dreadlocked hair was down and gathered over one shoulder. She glanced up at them, then fixed her gaze on Cassie.

“Don’t get too close to the wire, Jane - arms length,” Cassie murmured, gently pulling Jane back. She looked at the number written in erasable marker on the door of the cage, then back at the glowering woman inside. “So, 6645, how’s it hangin’?” Cassie said.

The woman deliberately waited a beat before replying: “This slave is doing well, mistress, thank you.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Cassie said. “Do you remember us?”

“Yes, mistress, this slave remembers there were three of you,” the woman replied, her relaxed demeanor and steady gaze reminding Jane of a lioness at the zoo, sizing up the visitors for lunch.

“Very good,” Cassie said, nodding. “Any word on your fate? I know the Abu Dhabi Invitational is coming up in less than two months, so the drafts must be happening soon.”

“This slave has not been told anything, mistress,” the woman said.

“Well, chin up, dear,” Cassie said, then to Jane: “Notice the cages are as bare as possible. The benches double as beds, there are no toilets, and nothing to pass the time.”

“Why?” Jane said.

“Because slaves are cattle. You don’t hook up cable TV in a barn, nor would you here - an unnecessary expense. But primarily this is all done for a reason: giving the slave plenty of time alone with its thoughts, and emphasizing its new status - so low it doesn’t get clothes, Internet, a bed, or even a toilet, just a drain in the floor. For most, it helps get them into the right frame of mind to accept their new lives. Others,” she gestured at 6645, “take a bit longer.”

“Say,” Cassie said, turning back to the slave, “have you had any overnight visitors since you’ve been here? Especially females?”

“No, mistress, this slave is not permitted any visitors because of its status.”

“Too bad, that’s the only perk of being a slave, all the sex,” Cassie continued. “I was just talking to my friend here about staying overnight in the kennels so she could get her pipes cleaned by a woman who knows what she’s doing. Would you be up to the task?”

Jane blushed, squirming out of Cassie’s partial embrace and hissing, “REALLY?”

The woman never took her gaze off of Cassie. “This slave is skilled at servicing women in numerous ways, mistress.” she replied, emphasizing the last word.

Cassie laughed, folding her arms. “I’ll bet. Tell me, what would you do to this new slave who found herself in your kennel? I mean just look at her, with her big boobs and her curvy hips, isn’t she a tasty little morsel? What would you do with her?”

“This isn’t funny, Cassie,” Jane said, glancing at 6645. “C’mon, let’s go.”

6645’s expression never changed. “This slave would likely be employed holding down the new slave while she serviced the staff, mistress.”

“You can do better than that,” Cassie said. “Assuming the staff finally sated their lusts, as they say in the slave romances, and you were left alone with this adorable little newbie, exhausted, cum leaking out of every opening, what would you do?”

The amazon slave was silent for a long moment; Jane saw that her face was struggling to remain still, but she couldn’t guess what the woman was concealing.

“Mistress,” 6645 said, slowly and carefully, “This slave would make the other slave understand its place by forcing it to kneel over the drain and then urinating on its face. Mistress.”

Cassie returned her gaze and laughed, shaking her head.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Jane exclaimed. “That’s it, I’m leaving.”

Cassie tilted her head at the sound of footsteps coming their way, then said almost to herself: “Bravo 6645, well played. I wonder how good you are at taking punishment?”

A pair of slave handlers, both male and tall and muscular, one Hispanic and the other black, walked around the corner at the far end of the walkway. Following them was a short, thin white woman with glasses, wearing an HCI polo shirt - from the radio on one hip and the holstered Taser on the other, Jane guessed she was a supervisor of some sort.

“Trouble?” the small woman asked as the trio approached the cage.

“Yes,” Cassie said, thrusting out her hand. “My name is Cassandra McMillan, and this is Jane O’Meara,” she waved at herself and Jane, “We’re contractors.”

The woman took Cassie’s hand and said, “Marcella DiNovio, day shift housing supervisor. What’s going on?”

“We’ve been brought in to make Health & Safety recommendations,” Cassie lied, smoothly. “That includes polling the inventory, and this one,” she nodded at the cage with 6645, “not only will not cooperate, she cursed at us and actively threatened us with bodily harm! Surely that’s not an example of how the Houston branch runs things?”

“Um, wait, what?” Jane sputtered.

“Of course not, ma’am. Leave it to me,” Marcella said quickly, signalling to the two handlers who opened a narrow locker between two cages opposite that of 6645. One took out a long pole with a loop on the end, a loop made of steel cable, while the other produced a four-foot-long cattle prod with a big square battery below the handle.

“I’m so sorry that happened. That one’s been a pain since it got here,” Marcella said, smiling. “I’ll have a word with it, you can check back in a couple of hours and it should be in a more cooperative mood.”

Jane watched the two men, their expressions faintly amused as they pulled on black gloves.

“Thank you, Marcella,” Cassie said. “I’m very pleased to see someone taking discipline seriously. We’ll be sure to mention it in our report. Jane,” she turned, smiling, "should we observe?

Jane glanced into the cage - 6645 was now squatting on the plastic bench, a cold, hard look on her face - and shook her head.

"Okay then, let’s go get lunch, shall we?"Cassie said, turning once more to Marcella and waving. “Thank you!”

As they walked down the concrete-floored corridor toward an exit, Jane could hear the commotion receding behind them: the clanging of metal-on-metal, shouts, curses, thuds, low groans, and the popping sound of zap after zap from the huge cattle prod.

I have to know, Jane thought, then turned to look down the walkway behind her.

6645 was being pushed out of the cage by the long pole, the steel cable drawn tight around her neck, her hands cuffed behind her and her legs in shackles. Her hair was wildly disheveled and her skin was dotted with fresh abrasions, dirt smudges, and bright red marks like little vampire bites. The tall Hispanic handler - limping, it appeared, and his shirt now untucked and torn - guided her into the walkway, followed by the even taller black handler, who rubbed the side of his face with the hand not holding the cattle prod, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

The supervisor, who apparently did not enter the cage, had her Taser unholstered and was speaking into her radio; Jane could make out the words “punishment detail.”

The slave looked around, her eyes wide and her whole demeanor like that of a wild animal caught in a trap. Her gaze landed on Jane, and she smiled, baring all of her teeth.

It was the most unsettling thing Jane had ever seen in her life.
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Mr. Smith
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Re: The Apartment - Part 7

Post by Mr. Smith »

I went back and took the time to just sit back and slowly read this chapter and savor all the fun nuggets in it from the vivid description of the warehouse, new terms such as PCSers, 490's, and dashes. The description of the types of slaves was fun from the obedient ones to those who appeared feral. The stories within the story of the girl from Ghana who was getting recycled and literally screwed in a process that will find her as a "perm" in ten years. Then the girl getting slave graded with her mother that Jane helps out all culminating in the brutal take down of the last slave. This is great work!

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