Fearful Future - Part 2, Belinda's Story
Posted: Sun Jun 29, 2025 5:32 am
Hi Belinda! When I write, I frequently look up images of real places and people, as it makes it easier to throw in the little details that make the story feel real. So I'm glad you like the pictures, as they are part of the creation process. And as you'll see below, it's never too late for you to enjoy a fantasy, as our imaginations know no bounds.
When the door closed, I was plunged into total darkness, followed by the echoing sound of metal upon metal that signified bolts sliding and doors LOCKING into place. The finality of the sound reverberated in my head like it was the closing of a tomb door. I was packed in so tightly I could feel the girls around me moving, and smell their breath. But it was the silence that followed that really terrified me.
As my eyes adjusted, the silence was replaced by the sounds of sobbing, and girls rubbing themselves. I heard the soft whirr of some ventilation fans high above my head. The air was moist, hot, and stunk of urine and slave pussy, but at least I wouldn’t suffocate.
I realized the movement was coming from the girl I was pressed against. She was facing me, eyes closed, grunting softly as she masturbated herself. She must have sensed I was there, because her eyes popped up, and she stopped pleasuring herself.
Unsure of what to say, I blurted. “This is a mistake. I don’t belong here.”
“Neither do I,” she replied.
I just looked at her. She was a naked Pleasure Slut, jilling off in a car packed with naked slave sluts. Perhaps sensing my skepticism, she told her story.
“My name is Belinda. I’m an accountant. A CPA. I’m here to verify the inventory.”
I smiled at the absurdity of her claim. She WAS the inventory.
Seeing my smile, Belinda tried to explain away her present circumstances, which might cause a casual observer to mistake her for a Pleasure Slut.
“I work for KPMG. I’m a Senior Manager, so when I heard we were auditing a slaving terminal I asked if I could supervise the count. My Partner thought I was nuts. He said these places are dirty, dehumanizing, and no place for a woman.”
“At least not a woman with clothes on,” I said.
Ignoring me, Belinda continued telling me her story.
“The truth is, the whole slavery thing… it always excited me. As a fantasy, I mean. Was I pretty enough to be prime, what would I bring on the block, that sort of thing. Heck, every girl wonders THAT. Anyway, it was about a 3-hour drive, but arriving here felt like I was entering a different world. You should’ve seen the looks I got when I stepped out of my Lexus, in my power business suit. It was like a scene out of a bad sitcom. These guys—calloused hands, trucker hats, coveralls covered in... I don’t even want to know what—all staring at me like I was a Martian. The men here looked me up and down, smirking at the sight of a well-dressed woman in their midst. Their eyes lingered on the leather briefcase that hung from my shoulder, and their sniggers grew louder. "Girl boss," one murmured under his breath, while another called me a "city girl." Their hostility didn't bother me. As an auditor I had implicit authority over them, and I was there for a job.
I strode in, clipboard and audit satchel in hand, ready for business, smiling in spite of the smell, ‘Hi! I’m Belinda Hogan, I’m here to observe the inventory count and verify your internal controls.’ And they’re just... blinking. Like, ‘Who let her in?’”
So, they took me to the pens, and my mouth literally fell open. Countless naked female bodies, each one more beautiful than the last. Their eyes met mine, a mix of terror and curiosity, and I felt a real thrill run down my spine. It’s one thing to look at a picture of a naked slave girl, it’s another to have a live slave girl look back at you.
Drawn in, I let them lead me deeper into the market, trying to keep my composure as my heart raced. The slave girls were displayed in various forms of restraint, some in cages so small they could barely move, others chained to the walls with their hands above their heads, and a few even lying on tables, legs spread open, as if on display at a meat market. The sight of them, so vulnerable and exposed, was both disturbing and electrifying. I won’t deny I got excited, but the girls seemed excited, too. I watched them stuff one container car with naked women, like a turkey farm the day before Thanksgiving. Then they sealed it, and used this giant crane to lift it into the air and swing it onto a barge. The whole time I’m getting more and more excited, thinking about what those women in the container must feel, jostling against one another while they were flying through the air. Being put on a barge for who knows how long, that will float who knows where.
As I walked past the pens, a few of the girls caught my gaze and even dared to smile at me, their eyes gleaming with a knowing look that sent a shiver down my spine. One particularly bold slave, with breasts as large as melons and a mischievous glint in her eye, raised her hands behind her head and playfully jiggled her tits for my amusement. I wondered if it was a silent invitation, or was she mocking me?”
“Her smile grew wider as she licked her lips slowly, and I felt a strange kinship with her in that moment. Were they all just acting, putting on a show for the buyers and the men who held the keys to their cages? Or did they genuinely find some perverse pleasure in their objectification? Were her fantasies my fantasies, too? I wasn’t sure, but I knew I had never been so turned on in my life.
It was then I noticed the men watching me, confused as to why I was so fascinated by watching this naked slave girl shake her tits at me. He asked if she was bothering me, and I said no. The man replied I looked bothered, and the other men laughed. I quickly turned my attention back to the audit, hoping they didn’t see how excited I was, but clearly they knew from the way I was breathing and perspiring that I was having some sort of panic attack.
I ordered them to continue their count. While the barge and truck loading was super-efficient, the inventory verification was a mess. They scanned collars when they took the girls in-and-out of the pens for transport, but the methodology of the count was very sloppy. I'm watching, and—of course—they're just eyeballing the girls and doing one-potato, two potato, and sayin’ it’s ‘close enough.’. No one's checking ID tags, no one's logging lot numbers. I'm like, 'Okay, maybe they're doing it in batches, maybe it's just the warm-up.' Nope. That was their process. Tell the accountants whatever they wanted to hear.
I stopped them and say, politely—but firmly—you know, audit voice: ‘Hey guys, I think we need to pause. We have to match the physical count to the ID tags and reconcile it with the lot sheets, otherwise we’re not proofing anything.
And bam—it’s like I set off a bomb. One guy, Dusty or Rusty or some classic Midwest name like that, turns around all sweaty and red-faced and goes, ‘Lady, we don’t got time to read every little tag and write it down for the tits in the office. We move thousands of pussies a week. You wanna slow down the whole damn line?’ Like I’m the crazy one.
At this point I’m thinking—should I back off? But no. I worked way too hard for that CPA to be steamrolled by a guy who wears a hat with a logo on it for a living. So, I tell them, ‘This audit’s not a suggestion. I need this done right, or it’s getting flagged. And I’m not putting my name on it if the count isn’t supportable.’”
Dead silence. One guy actually spit. Like, spit. Into the dirt. I thought they were gonna run me off the lot.
But instead, Randy goes, ‘Fine. You want it done your way, you’re helpin’ us. Hope you’re not afraid of gettin’ dirty, Fortune 500.’
“I was like, bring it on. I mean, internally I was screaming, but externally? All business.”
“I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty,” I said.
As Dusty talked the other men slowly formed a circle around me, closing in tighter. They were all smiling as they looked me up and down, but they were angry, hostile smiles. “You come here in your fancy Chicago clothes, with your girl boss moves and your bullshit job. You don’t know shit about how real men sweat and strain and work to EARN their money.”
“I know enough to get you all fired,” I shot back, trying to sound confident. One call from me, and they’ll shut down this warehouse, and shut you down, too. Dusty won’t just be your name, it’ll be your bank account. The next hat you wear will have a Golden Arch on it, if you don’t toe the line.”
My name is Rusty, and I don’t want that, Princess. We want you do your count. Only we don’t want you to mess up your fancy clothes. If you’re going to help, you’ll need to take your clothes off. All of them.”
“Every stitch!” a goon behind me said.
“Yeah, down to the skin,” another creep echoed.
I just stared at them. I should have fired them right then. Or walked away. I think if I had left, at that point, they would have let me. Or I could have called my supervisor in Chicago, or his supervisor, or a million other things. Or I could have threatened them until they backed down, which I’m sure they would have done, eventually.
Instead, I just gave him my best death stare.
Are you afraid you can’t compete with the 100% Prime Illinois River pussy?” he taunted me. Are you ayn’t pretty enough, to stand shoulder to shoulder with Illinois Prime?”
Again, I should have had him fired. But instead, I changed the game. I took down my hair, and shook it out loose as the men went AHHH.
“Pretty enough?” I said, challenging him.
“Your face & hair are top quality, but I can’t tell if you’re Prime with all those fancy city girl duds on ‘ya,” he replied, as his buddies snickered.
Without even thinking, I slipped off my jacket, handing it to him, then unbuttoned my blouse. I heard a few “I don’t believe it,” and “We were just kidding, lady”, and “Damn, she’s stripping!” I ignored them.
Why not? I was going to have them fired. I knew that. Why shouldn’t I have my fun? In truth, I wanted to stand naked next to these hot, sexy girls. I wanted to have my moment, and fulfill my fantasy. It was now or never. I was still in charge. I was using them, whether they knew it or not.
It didn’t take me long to get down to my lacy pink bra and panties. The concrete floor was cold and hard on my feet. Rusty licked his lips as he looked me up and down.
“How far are ya’ll gonna take this?” he asked. “Cuz’ this is a dangerous game you’re playin’, Missy.”
I only hesitated for a moment before I slid off my bra and panties, and put them into his meaty hand.
The men around me circled me slowly, given their consensus as I stood in present position, legs spread, hands on my head.
“That is one hot boss girl pussy, that’s for dang sure.”
“Doesn’t look so scary with no clothes on.”
“She’s at least Prime Minus.”
Rusty seemed doubtful. “Does she got any skills?”
The game escalated as Rusty unzipped his pants. I knew what to do. Slave kiss. Sort of like a blow job, but more enthusiastic, more wanton, like you’re dying to get his load blasted into your mouth. I had watched the videos, and although I’d never think of doing it with any guy I dated, somehow getting the 5 of them to blast off in my slave girl mouth seemed like nothing unusual, just part of the process. I swallowed every drop.
When they were done, they collared me – I don’t know who the collar says I am – and put me in the cargo container. I have no idea if they are going to do some sort of verification, but I know if I can get out of this container before we leave the United States, it will be better.
I took a moment to absorb Belinda’s story, which was told to me as she slowly rubbed herself. It didn’t matter, because I was rubbing myself, too.
“The question is, how do we get out of here?” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get swung onto a barge in New Orleans and then shipped to some brothel in Asia or Fuck-er-stan.”
Belinda nodded. “I hear you. The problem is that they are going to take 50 girls out here, maybe less, depending on how many they need. This is a tunnel container, which means it has doors on either end. We don’t know which door Joe-Nobody is going to open. And if we stand in the center, we’re practically guaranteeing that we won’t make it out of here. Then we have to fight to the front. There is a lot of slave pussy on this dock, and these barges are huge. I do numbers for a living, and I don't like what these numbers are telling me one bit.”
When the door closed, I was plunged into total darkness, followed by the echoing sound of metal upon metal that signified bolts sliding and doors LOCKING into place. The finality of the sound reverberated in my head like it was the closing of a tomb door. I was packed in so tightly I could feel the girls around me moving, and smell their breath. But it was the silence that followed that really terrified me.
As my eyes adjusted, the silence was replaced by the sounds of sobbing, and girls rubbing themselves. I heard the soft whirr of some ventilation fans high above my head. The air was moist, hot, and stunk of urine and slave pussy, but at least I wouldn’t suffocate.
I realized the movement was coming from the girl I was pressed against. She was facing me, eyes closed, grunting softly as she masturbated herself. She must have sensed I was there, because her eyes popped up, and she stopped pleasuring herself.
Unsure of what to say, I blurted. “This is a mistake. I don’t belong here.”
“Neither do I,” she replied.
I just looked at her. She was a naked Pleasure Slut, jilling off in a car packed with naked slave sluts. Perhaps sensing my skepticism, she told her story.
“My name is Belinda. I’m an accountant. A CPA. I’m here to verify the inventory.”
I smiled at the absurdity of her claim. She WAS the inventory.
Seeing my smile, Belinda tried to explain away her present circumstances, which might cause a casual observer to mistake her for a Pleasure Slut.
“I work for KPMG. I’m a Senior Manager, so when I heard we were auditing a slaving terminal I asked if I could supervise the count. My Partner thought I was nuts. He said these places are dirty, dehumanizing, and no place for a woman.”
“At least not a woman with clothes on,” I said.
Ignoring me, Belinda continued telling me her story.
“The truth is, the whole slavery thing… it always excited me. As a fantasy, I mean. Was I pretty enough to be prime, what would I bring on the block, that sort of thing. Heck, every girl wonders THAT. Anyway, it was about a 3-hour drive, but arriving here felt like I was entering a different world. You should’ve seen the looks I got when I stepped out of my Lexus, in my power business suit. It was like a scene out of a bad sitcom. These guys—calloused hands, trucker hats, coveralls covered in... I don’t even want to know what—all staring at me like I was a Martian. The men here looked me up and down, smirking at the sight of a well-dressed woman in their midst. Their eyes lingered on the leather briefcase that hung from my shoulder, and their sniggers grew louder. "Girl boss," one murmured under his breath, while another called me a "city girl." Their hostility didn't bother me. As an auditor I had implicit authority over them, and I was there for a job.
I strode in, clipboard and audit satchel in hand, ready for business, smiling in spite of the smell, ‘Hi! I’m Belinda Hogan, I’m here to observe the inventory count and verify your internal controls.’ And they’re just... blinking. Like, ‘Who let her in?’”
So, they took me to the pens, and my mouth literally fell open. Countless naked female bodies, each one more beautiful than the last. Their eyes met mine, a mix of terror and curiosity, and I felt a real thrill run down my spine. It’s one thing to look at a picture of a naked slave girl, it’s another to have a live slave girl look back at you.
Drawn in, I let them lead me deeper into the market, trying to keep my composure as my heart raced. The slave girls were displayed in various forms of restraint, some in cages so small they could barely move, others chained to the walls with their hands above their heads, and a few even lying on tables, legs spread open, as if on display at a meat market. The sight of them, so vulnerable and exposed, was both disturbing and electrifying. I won’t deny I got excited, but the girls seemed excited, too. I watched them stuff one container car with naked women, like a turkey farm the day before Thanksgiving. Then they sealed it, and used this giant crane to lift it into the air and swing it onto a barge. The whole time I’m getting more and more excited, thinking about what those women in the container must feel, jostling against one another while they were flying through the air. Being put on a barge for who knows how long, that will float who knows where.
As I walked past the pens, a few of the girls caught my gaze and even dared to smile at me, their eyes gleaming with a knowing look that sent a shiver down my spine. One particularly bold slave, with breasts as large as melons and a mischievous glint in her eye, raised her hands behind her head and playfully jiggled her tits for my amusement. I wondered if it was a silent invitation, or was she mocking me?”
“Her smile grew wider as she licked her lips slowly, and I felt a strange kinship with her in that moment. Were they all just acting, putting on a show for the buyers and the men who held the keys to their cages? Or did they genuinely find some perverse pleasure in their objectification? Were her fantasies my fantasies, too? I wasn’t sure, but I knew I had never been so turned on in my life.
It was then I noticed the men watching me, confused as to why I was so fascinated by watching this naked slave girl shake her tits at me. He asked if she was bothering me, and I said no. The man replied I looked bothered, and the other men laughed. I quickly turned my attention back to the audit, hoping they didn’t see how excited I was, but clearly they knew from the way I was breathing and perspiring that I was having some sort of panic attack.
I ordered them to continue their count. While the barge and truck loading was super-efficient, the inventory verification was a mess. They scanned collars when they took the girls in-and-out of the pens for transport, but the methodology of the count was very sloppy. I'm watching, and—of course—they're just eyeballing the girls and doing one-potato, two potato, and sayin’ it’s ‘close enough.’. No one's checking ID tags, no one's logging lot numbers. I'm like, 'Okay, maybe they're doing it in batches, maybe it's just the warm-up.' Nope. That was their process. Tell the accountants whatever they wanted to hear.
I stopped them and say, politely—but firmly—you know, audit voice: ‘Hey guys, I think we need to pause. We have to match the physical count to the ID tags and reconcile it with the lot sheets, otherwise we’re not proofing anything.
And bam—it’s like I set off a bomb. One guy, Dusty or Rusty or some classic Midwest name like that, turns around all sweaty and red-faced and goes, ‘Lady, we don’t got time to read every little tag and write it down for the tits in the office. We move thousands of pussies a week. You wanna slow down the whole damn line?’ Like I’m the crazy one.
At this point I’m thinking—should I back off? But no. I worked way too hard for that CPA to be steamrolled by a guy who wears a hat with a logo on it for a living. So, I tell them, ‘This audit’s not a suggestion. I need this done right, or it’s getting flagged. And I’m not putting my name on it if the count isn’t supportable.’”
Dead silence. One guy actually spit. Like, spit. Into the dirt. I thought they were gonna run me off the lot.
But instead, Randy goes, ‘Fine. You want it done your way, you’re helpin’ us. Hope you’re not afraid of gettin’ dirty, Fortune 500.’
“I was like, bring it on. I mean, internally I was screaming, but externally? All business.”
“I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty,” I said.
As Dusty talked the other men slowly formed a circle around me, closing in tighter. They were all smiling as they looked me up and down, but they were angry, hostile smiles. “You come here in your fancy Chicago clothes, with your girl boss moves and your bullshit job. You don’t know shit about how real men sweat and strain and work to EARN their money.”
“I know enough to get you all fired,” I shot back, trying to sound confident. One call from me, and they’ll shut down this warehouse, and shut you down, too. Dusty won’t just be your name, it’ll be your bank account. The next hat you wear will have a Golden Arch on it, if you don’t toe the line.”
My name is Rusty, and I don’t want that, Princess. We want you do your count. Only we don’t want you to mess up your fancy clothes. If you’re going to help, you’ll need to take your clothes off. All of them.”
“Every stitch!” a goon behind me said.
“Yeah, down to the skin,” another creep echoed.
I just stared at them. I should have fired them right then. Or walked away. I think if I had left, at that point, they would have let me. Or I could have called my supervisor in Chicago, or his supervisor, or a million other things. Or I could have threatened them until they backed down, which I’m sure they would have done, eventually.
Instead, I just gave him my best death stare.
Are you afraid you can’t compete with the 100% Prime Illinois River pussy?” he taunted me. Are you ayn’t pretty enough, to stand shoulder to shoulder with Illinois Prime?”
Again, I should have had him fired. But instead, I changed the game. I took down my hair, and shook it out loose as the men went AHHH.
“Pretty enough?” I said, challenging him.
“Your face & hair are top quality, but I can’t tell if you’re Prime with all those fancy city girl duds on ‘ya,” he replied, as his buddies snickered.
Without even thinking, I slipped off my jacket, handing it to him, then unbuttoned my blouse. I heard a few “I don’t believe it,” and “We were just kidding, lady”, and “Damn, she’s stripping!” I ignored them.
Why not? I was going to have them fired. I knew that. Why shouldn’t I have my fun? In truth, I wanted to stand naked next to these hot, sexy girls. I wanted to have my moment, and fulfill my fantasy. It was now or never. I was still in charge. I was using them, whether they knew it or not.
It didn’t take me long to get down to my lacy pink bra and panties. The concrete floor was cold and hard on my feet. Rusty licked his lips as he looked me up and down.
“How far are ya’ll gonna take this?” he asked. “Cuz’ this is a dangerous game you’re playin’, Missy.”
I only hesitated for a moment before I slid off my bra and panties, and put them into his meaty hand.
The men around me circled me slowly, given their consensus as I stood in present position, legs spread, hands on my head.
“That is one hot boss girl pussy, that’s for dang sure.”
“Doesn’t look so scary with no clothes on.”
“She’s at least Prime Minus.”
Rusty seemed doubtful. “Does she got any skills?”
The game escalated as Rusty unzipped his pants. I knew what to do. Slave kiss. Sort of like a blow job, but more enthusiastic, more wanton, like you’re dying to get his load blasted into your mouth. I had watched the videos, and although I’d never think of doing it with any guy I dated, somehow getting the 5 of them to blast off in my slave girl mouth seemed like nothing unusual, just part of the process. I swallowed every drop.
When they were done, they collared me – I don’t know who the collar says I am – and put me in the cargo container. I have no idea if they are going to do some sort of verification, but I know if I can get out of this container before we leave the United States, it will be better.
I took a moment to absorb Belinda’s story, which was told to me as she slowly rubbed herself. It didn’t matter, because I was rubbing myself, too.
“The question is, how do we get out of here?” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get swung onto a barge in New Orleans and then shipped to some brothel in Asia or Fuck-er-stan.”
Belinda nodded. “I hear you. The problem is that they are going to take 50 girls out here, maybe less, depending on how many they need. This is a tunnel container, which means it has doors on either end. We don’t know which door Joe-Nobody is going to open. And if we stand in the center, we’re practically guaranteeing that we won’t make it out of here. Then we have to fight to the front. There is a lot of slave pussy on this dock, and these barges are huge. I do numbers for a living, and I don't like what these numbers are telling me one bit.”