Fearful Future by Joe Doe / Part 5 by GreyRose

[imreadonly2]

Fearful Future by Joe Doe
Part 5 by GreyRose

The original several chapters of Fearful Future can be found under Joe Doe’s stories, a couple of the chapters are under the original story’s string.

Not sure of the proper etiquette, but I’m posting this under my story group. And commenting where the start of this story can be found for future reference.

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Fearful Future: Getting Ready for a Road Trip

In the darkness all of the slave girls just existed, Sarah could smell that many of the slave girls were trying to pass the time as best they could. The tight confines made many embarrassed to play with themselves, but as more and more were doing it, embarrassment fell before the need to find relief to the desperation and need.

Between the crowd and the darkness she couldn’t find Belinda, had she been one of the lucky ones that got selected? Had the lucky bitch left her behind?

The next few hours passed in a fugue like state, the slave girls once again settled into the mind numbing wait. In the dimness Sarah could see a few hugging each other and softly crying, others were like her young companion from earlier, seeking the solace in self exploration. She thought there was a pair that by the sounds were exploring each other.

With no warning the doors at both ends screeched as they were opened. Once again the sudden brightness was blinding, but over the sounds of confused slave girls, orders were barked, “Form a line! One at a time you will step forward and when you’ve got your stuff move back into the center of the container. Be good girls or…” the loud snap-crackle of a triggered slave goad could be heard, and silenced all of the slaves. The orders were given from both ends and repeated every few minutes, minus the slave goad.

Sarah was part of a group that thinned down into a single file and slowly she made her way to the door. Once the initial excitement was over, the brain-numbed Barbies around her just shuffled along. A few showed more life, they must be new to the collar and haven’t yet given up hope of escape, just like her…

Even though the line seemed to move quickly, with all of the slave girls crammed into the container it felt like it was taking forever for her to reach the door and whatever was happening there. When she finally got close enough she saw 7 men, 3 with slave goads ready, interspersed between two pairs of slave mongers. Each pair, one had a tank of water with a hose and the other had several bags, both on carts behind the men.

Each slave girl was given a few seconds to drink from the hose and from the sacks were given what looked to be an energy bar. Their collar was scanned, after which they were pushed back into the container freeing up space for the next slave. The water Sarah got was flat and stale, but she had never tasted better. It wasn’t an energy bar, it was a kibble bar*, the paste that held it all together almost made the kibble taste better, almost…

For the most part the slave girls were very obedient as everyone filed towards one end or the other and got their food and water and were marked off as fed. There were only a few times when the slave prods were used to send a desperate slave girl back into the container. When the last slave girl had been scanned and they confirmed all slaves had been given their food, the men closed the door, to the faint cries of despair of those close enough to touch it as it sealed.

These feedings Sarah thought of as happening at ‘noon’ of the day, and this way she tracked the passage of time. She struggled to keep her mind active and sought some way to get a message out to Arjun. She knew she was getting desperate when she started on ways to reach out to Trudy or Rusty-Dusty for help.

Sarah gave in more and more to the moments of fear and her pussy’s growing need of attention. At least once she found herself in a fantasy. One where Arjun had seen her and had the slave mongers pull her out of the container, but instead of adding her to the block of slaves to be sold, he grabbed her hair and dragged her back to the manager's office. Where he threw her across the desk and rammed himself deeply inside her!

She woke with a loud moan as a deep orgasm rolled throughout her body, one hand deep inside her pussy, with the other playing with a nipple. The Barbies around her startled at her burst of sound before fading back into their stupor, or their own efforts of self gratification.

Time in the container was hard to track, nothing changed, there were no windows to see the world pass by. In the dimness of the container, the faint light that made its way through the fans and vents let them know when it was day. When there was no light at all that had to be night.

Her fantasy had woken her up and it was still dark, as she sat there trying to put her fantasy of being owned by Arjun her intern, the dark slowly gave way to light. By her best guess today was Monday morning Sarah thought. Her fingers idly stroked her clit to keep the tail end of the dream alive.

Definitely too early for their daily meal, the doors at both ends opened up at the same time. Even the most brain dead Barbie knew something different was happening. Through one end a number of slave mongers moved forward, their slave goads snapping hungrily.

Like the helpless sheep they were, the slave girls moved as one away from the advancing slave mongers. Sarah had no choice; she was carried along with the mob. As the slave girls exited the shipping container, they were funneled into a pen. The area was huge, but already had a number of slave girls in it before those from the container were added in.

Even as the first girls entered the pen, slave mongers pulled out 10 slave girls and dragged them over to some branding racks. Each rack had a brazier all its own, and Sarah would later learn each one had enough spare irons so that there was always one hot when a slave girl was ready, no waiting. The slave girls were quickly strapped down, then with a quick and sure hand the slave was branded. After they were unstrapped, they were then dragged off to a different pen. It took less than 3 minutes to grab, brand and move to the other pen; 10 slave girls.

Sarah didn’t see this first group as she hadn’t left the container when they were branded, but she heard their screams. The slave mongers coming up behind them were more terrifying to the Barbies than the screams they were hearing, so they kept moving forward.

The branding process was nothing like what was done in the auction houses where they wanted to impress the slave girl with her station and give a show for their buyers. No, this was quick, efficient, and impersonal.

By the time Sarah was in the pen herself she could see the branding racks were dealing with the 3rd set of slave girls. Taking a rough guess at the number of slaves could be in the pen (200+), Sarah estimated it would be only a little over an hour for the entire group to be processed.

Looking for anything to distract her from the impending branding, she could see that a crew had started cleaning the shipping container. Something that looked like a cross between a Zamboni and a street-cleaner was working its way through the container. It was quickly finished and the floor and lower walls were clear. They then set up a pair of large fans to force dry the container for the slave girls to be put back into it.

The roar of the fans covered some of the sounds of the slave girls getting branded, but they could still be heard. Sarah fretted over where she should be in the pen, close to the exit so she gets it over with quickly? Or should she stay on the far fringe to delay her delicate skin being marked in this brutal manner? Sarah kept herself to the fringes, watching as the group was trimmed down 10 bodies at a time. The Barbies, even those obviously panicking about the iron, ended up shuffling about near the exit gate. Easy pickings.

A brunette with short hair and a runner’s build, panicked and tried to climb over the fence. That is when the slave girls learned that the pen’s fence was electrified. The mongers grabbed her in the next lot to be branded, so the poor thing was woken by the fiery brand marking her ass.

Finally Sarah was grabbed and taken to one of the racks, she was quickly strapped down and a rubber covered bit gag was jammed between her teeth. This was the worst tasting thing she had ever been exposed to. While she was stressing about the taste of the bit gag, her ass cheeks were spread and a searing pain was laid on the inside of her left cheek. She screamed just like all of the other slave girls had and she pissed herself from it.

Hardly had the iron been pulled away than some medical gauze was placed in her butt crack and she was taken off the branding rack. She was laid over a bench in the new pen, and the slave mongers left her there.

The horror she felt right then, they had treated her like an item that needed a price tag. In that moment she had never felt less human, just some inventory that needed managing. Nothing personal, not brutal, for this to have been brutal they would have had to care enough to have emotions about her. I thought I had felt powerless before, but now I was just an object.

Just a thing.

The humiliation she now felt, lit a fire in her pussy that was hotter than the burning on her ass. Her hand was fingering her clit, her pussy dripping down her legs. It took only a few strokes with her fingers barely inside her before she explosively came. From the sounds she heard around her, she wasn’t the only one getting herself off after the branding.

Once she was able to look around, her need to win drove her to understand what was happening. She saw a number of slave girls with red collar and white cuffs walking through the branded slave girls and they had medical kits. They would tend to the brand and then move on to the next slave girl.

When one of the nurse slaves saw her try to rise, they hurried over, “Don’t go injuring yourself, they’ll punish you for it. Just lay there and let me take care of this.” Her brand felt much better after the burn ointment was applied and the bandage was in place. “Just be really careful when you go number 2, for the next while.” For some reason the way she said that caused Sarah to break out in a fit of giggling.

The tension and fear and all of the emotions that had been hammering at her since Thursday night, came out in that giggle and just kept going and going. She tried but couldn't make herself stop, even when she could no longer catch her breath she just couldn't stop.

Apparently this happens often enough for the nurse slave to be ready, so she brought out a capsule and broke it under Sarah’s nose. The sharp sting to her nose snapped her out of the killing giggling fit.

Sarah, grabbed at the nurse slave, “You need to help me, I need to get a message to a co-worker. It’s vital!”

The nurse slave slipped away, successfully dodging Sarah’s grasping hands. “NO! What you need to do is focus on the here and now. And be ready when they put you back into that steel box. Don’t know if it’ll be by rail or by barge but you lot are shipping out. They don’t do the branding until they have all of the girls they are going to stuff into the container all together.”

With that the slave nurse was off to the next branded girl, leaving Sarah to think. She was out of time, they had decided her group was to be shipped. Arjun had better be tracking her and have a plan to get her out of this soon!

Sarah focused on being able to stand and walk. She wasn’t sure she would be able to do that second part any time soon. The best she managed was a slow shuffle, anything that caused her hips to sway aggravated the brand.

She wasn’t the first to start walking around, and more were joining them. Which was good, this pen had been set up with a lot of padded boxes for the branded slaves to be draped over. Which freed up places for more branded slaves to be placed upon.

As the slave mongers brought the last of the branded slave girls and dropped them off, the part of Sarah that once lived in that penthouse condo was proud of how efficient these workers were. No wasted movements, no taking time out for slave kisses. Probably because they are on a tight schedule and have to get the container out by a specific time.

That woman was a long way from here, probably enjoying her morning late brought to her by her intern. Sarah shuddered, she was already feeling separated from who she had been, as in her mind she was becoming a slave girl.

Just a slave girl… she fell to her knees as a wave of helplessness washed over her. Her future was currently in Arjun’s hands, and she had no idea what, when, or if he was actually coming back for her. If she was shipped out before he came for her, the chances of his finding her dropped significantly.

Her pussy clenched demanding attention, as she felt overwhelmed by the helplessness all slave girls feel. Part of her wanted to beg one of the slave mongers for any attention at all. Anything to make her feel wanted, like she had some value to someone, anyone.

She kneels there fingering herself just so she can feel something, when she cums and it happens surprisingly quickly, she screams and blacks out as the most powerful orgasm she has ever had rips through her.

She is woken by a monger that is dragging her to her feet, she looks about, confused as to where she is. Then it all snaps back into clarity, the simple game she had planned that had been re-scripted so that she had no idea what the game was anymore.

The slaves had been left alone in the sunshine for a while, but now the mongers were getting them moving. The slaves were herded back to the cleaned and dried shipping container. Sarah could see that there were cables attached to the top of it, and a crane was all ready to move the container.

As the girls were allowed back into the container, they were directed into multiple lines, where they were watered and given their kibble bar. Their collars were scanned, confirming/updating the bill of lading with all of the slaves that were now in their group. After all SNATCH is a brilliant idiot, it had to be fed the correct info, and updated when changes happen for it to do its job correctly.

As her collar is pinged, she could feel her SIN being highlighted on the spreadsheet. Just another line item on the list, easily overlooked in the mass of slaves listed as packed into this container.

As soon as the doors were sealed the crane was cranked up and the container was lifted off the ground. Even with the swaying motion as the crane swung the steel box around, most of the Barbies were so out of it they barely reacted.

When the shipping container was set down, Sarah quickly realized that they had been put on a truck bed. It wasn’t long before the truck was moving. Though she never knew, they were soon on I-80 heading east
= = =

*Kibble bar - a compressed brick about the same size as an energy bar. It is made from regular slave kibble held together by a tacky paste that was developed from slave candy, just less tasty.
- A great way to keep your slave fed when you are on the go! -

[imreadonly2]

This is brilliant, and I've found myself checking 22 times a day to see if the story had been continue yet. GreyRose's wonderful writing has turned the tables on me, by leaving me wondering what was going to happen in my own story. I've been turned into one of my readers the way Sara was turned into a slave girl.

I was glad that my last appendix made Canon, so I thought I'd try again. As with the other, no plot here, just a focus on what is going on in our heroine's mind.

Now it's back to me checking every few minutes to find out when the next chapter is going to be posted!!



The gauze strip between my butt cheeks did nothing to alleviate the pain of being branded. It wasn't meant to. One of the many widely proclaimed benefits to branding was the way the pain focused the slaves mind both on their status as chattel and the price of disobedience. I thought the latter was bullshit, as I hadn't even been disobedient. I hadn't resisted. I hated myself for it, but I had let myself be put into the branding rack like a good little slave girl. Why get shocked for no reason? Whether I was a goat or a lamb, I would be branded just the same. What I was experiencing was policy, not punishment.

Slowly my tortured mind drifted to Arjun. My gopher, yes, but at least technically, now my owner and master. After all, he had collared me and put me in storage the way I might leave a bag in a locker at the Admiral's Club at the airport. He had left me to be branded, either on purpose or because he wasn't competent enough to prevent it. I vowed to make him pay when I got out of this mess.

But when would that be? Yes, Arjun was the one who could get me out of here, but WHEN was the big question. A question that, as the minutes turned into hours, was looking less like a WHEN and more like an IF.

Arjun could have saved me when the first 50 were selected, but didn't. He had dumped me in this cargo container, and for whatever reason he was clearly in no hurry to spring me. It made sense, really. I had said I wanted to experience what it was like to be a slave girl, experience the fear, the shame, and the humiliation. So let her sweat it out.

Of course, by leaving me here for so long he had set me up to be branded. Rusty-Dusty had told me the girls were going to be "hallmarked" before they were shipped.

Hallmarked, like a silver tea set, or those little gold seals they put on the envelope. For me, Hallmark invoked images of Christmas movies about the plucky girl from the city finding her true love back in her home town, not a bit between my teeth and the smell of a branding iron burning my flesh.

It was an unforgettable, life changing moment for me. Even now I felt shattered, violated, and in a real sense, destroyed. The cute "hallmark" had made me question my entire identity.

As inconceivable as it might seem, he might have simply forgotten. Truthfully, commodity traders like us are important people. I had sold slave girls by the thousands while sitting behind a keyboard in my comfortable, air-conditioned office in the Rookery on LaSalle Street. Branding wasn't the sort of thing that a trader usually concerned themselves with. I was worried about margins, not some Pleasure Slut biting thru her gag.

Branding livestock had started in the old west as a protection against rustlers. Later it was used at feed yards in places like Chicago and Kansas City, where cattle from countless feed yards might be mixed together to graze. It was easier to pull all the cattle from Hill Valley Farms if they all had the same letter H on their sides.

Ear tagging and RFID collars had made that reason for branding largely obsolete. Nonetheless, some auction houses and livestock yards still branded their stock, ostensibly because while tags could be switched, brands could not. With a truckload of prime slave pussy, if we were now the property of ABC Slave Market, it might make sense to get an ABC brand on the inside of our butt cheeks at the slave monger's earliest convenience.

I wondered what brand was on the inside of my ass, and when I would find out. Was it SPS, or some intermediary who had bought us? I would need someone else to tell me, or look between the cheeks of another slave girl, when they had healed enough. I hoped it was a pretty brand, a brand that would make the other slave girls jealous.

I pushed the peculiar thought from my mind. I wasn't a slave girl. No, no, this was all a mistake. I wasn't like these other girls.

Was I?

As the hallmark was a mark of quality, in a way my brand was a compliment. Everyone on this container car was clearly Prime. Someone clearly saw a benefit in taking a few minutes to brand us. Sometimes beautiful girls were marked simply for passing through a facility, as a sort of ass backwards (pun intended) attempt at marketing. Girls passing through a French Port (particularly high-quality merchandise) are often given a small Fleur De Lis brand, as a symbol of French national pride.

The issue was that as a girl moved from facility to facility and port-to-port, she was often branded multiple times. The brands were small, and the interior of a girl's bottom often served as a half assed (pun intended), permanent passport, marking multiple ownership changes and ports of call. Many girls were proud of being well traveled, and some found it humiliating. But their opinion did not matter. Only the master's opinion mattered.

I didn't know who had branded me, or what my brand was, or the purpose for my "hallmark." At some fundamental level, I think all brandings are about fucking with the girl's mind by removing her status as an individual and reducing her to a barnyard animal. For even as I reviewed the rationale of branding my bottom, another, stronger voice overwhelmed my sophisticated girl boss analysis.

The voice was deep and powerful, and seemed to resonate from the very core of my being. It was not the voice of the SIN system, but something far more primal, something that had been buried deep inside of me for a long time. It was the voice of a girl who had been told she was worthless, that she didn't matter, that she was only good for one thing.

You're not a person anymore. You're a slave.

I realized the cold, cruel voice was the new voice of reason, of reality, stripping away the layers of my useless former identity with the efficiency of a corn shucker. Sara Powers, the woman who had strutted through the gleaming offices of the world, the woman who had held the reins of power, no longer existed. The butterfly had been turned into a caterpillar.

The sting of the brand was nothing compared to the torment in my soul as I struggled to accept my new identity. The smell of burning flesh had filled the container car, mingling with the weeping and moans of the other girls, creating a symphony of despair that was beautiful in its horror. Wiping my nose, I sobbed along, happy that I had my sisters to share my pain with.

I had more in common with the naked, freshly branded Pleasure Sluts in my container car than I did with Ajar. The brand had done that.

We had all been branded. Every one of us. We were all the same. We were all cargo on this SPS-U whatever container car, bound for parts unknown. I was part of some broker's future trade, one of the head of girls being used to satisfy a hedge. For all I knew, I had placed the trade, not that it mattered. I was no better than these other girls, regardless of what I had been before. And the brand ensured there was no going back.

Trudy had the power to flip a switch and make me a free woman again in the SNATCH system. But the mark on my ass was permanent, a scarlet letter that told everyone that I was a slave, a piece of meat, a thing to be bought and sold. Anyone who saw it would know the truth. Even if I was freed, I would be a former slave girl... or in the minds of many, a slave girl now pretending to be a free woman.

I had wanted to experience an auction, but I hadn't wanted to be put in a container car, or shipped, or branded. But I had wanted to be a slave girl, and that meant giving up control. As carefully as I had planned my faux enslavement, what happened to me was up to Ajar or, if he abandoned me, the vagaries of the open market.

The truck barreled down the Interstates to parts unknown. With no safety belts, I was glad that we were packed in so tightly, as the cushioning of the girl next to me was the only thing that kept me from injuring myself as the truck sped up and slowed down. I knew we were on the expressway, but hadn't been able to figure out if we were on I-57 or I-80. I was sure it was one of them, which meant I was traveling north, south, east, or west.

Brilliant insight, slave girl. You really are a stupid little bimbo, aren't you? Brainless, good for a suck and fuck, but not much else.

The girls around me whispered, sharing their fears and dreams, and I found myself getting lost in their conversations. They talked of the auction house, of the rumored buyers, of the horrors and the pleasures that awaited them. Most sobbed from the pain of their brands, and a few could hardly wait to see them. Most of us were terrified of the unknown, while others spoke of the thrill of being bought by a wealthy master, of serving his every need, of being his favorite. I listened to my sisters, as my life on La Salle Street seemed to retreat into the distance.

I wondered where Arjun was right now. I had location services turned on his phone, so I could track him 24/7. But my phone was in my Prada bag in the manager's office, which meant I had no idea if he was in the manager's office chattering away with Rusty-Dusty, or doing an onsite inspection of the terminal, or hedging trades, or fucking some stupid brainless slave girl.

Had he gone back to Chicago, or was he still in Morris? He might as well be driving the truck for all I knew. I, on the other hand, or at least the container car I was in, was in the SNATCH system. Arjun could track me by tagging my car in his tracking alerts on his phone, and he could even set it up to send him text alerts as my container passed various transponders. I had even shown him how to do it.

The irony wasn't lost on me; the people being tracked never know anything about where the people who are tracking them are. It isn't for the slave to know where the master is.

They cleaned out our trailer while they branded us. I was glad they did that. My masters were strong and wise. How often did they clean the container car? ? Did the cleaning mean I had a long trip ahead of me? New to the collar, even by slave girl standards I was unusually stupid.

I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was "in transit", "on wheels" or my favorite, "on the hoof." We were moving, and with every mile that passed, I was being taken farther from my old life. Farther from my cell phone, my identification, my credit cards, and the power I had once wielded.

Not that it mattered. None of it mattered. I was a slave girl now. I was just another container car cunt, stripped and collared, on my way to be sold to the highest bidder.

I couldn’t help but think of Ajar, and the smug smile on his face when he had upped the ante on my slave girl game by consigning me to the container car. He was right to do it; my fantasy had been to experience what a real slave girl experiences, and feel that loss of control. As he said, why should I get special treatment?

True, Ajar could have saved me from the branding iron, and my subsequent shipment to wherever on God's green earth I had been sold, but truth be told there was no reason to. As soon as my number was scanned into the system, I became just another girl in the SPS-U-38XXX container car. There was really no reason to pick me out of the lineup and auction me that morning, as the whole point of hedging and commoditizing us was to make us interchangeable. There was nothing special about me. They needed 50 pussies to auction. What difference did it make if they sold me here or there, today or tomorrow?

If one of my co-workers on La Salle street or one of my elite Chicago friends had been in the shipping yard, watching me slurp water from the hose and devour my kibble bar, I doubt they would have even recognized me. The realization stung, but it was also a strange sort of relief. I had been living a lie, thinking that I wasn't like the other girls being used to satisfy the hedge. I had thought I was somehow sue generis, but now that I'd been hallmarked I had more in common with all the girls in my container car than with any of my Gold Coast friends in Chicago. The truth was I was just slave pussy in a shipping container, with a fresh, hot brand on my ass, no different than any other animal being sent to market.

[Jim927]

I love the fact that both greyrose and Joe are adding to this story. greyrose added a great chapter and then Joe complimented it by filling in what was going through the mind of Sara. Together you are writing what will turn out to be an epic story. Thank you both so much. As Joe said, I will also be checking hourly for the next chapter.
Jim

[jeepster]

Once again Joe you deliver. In reading your part it has added depth and flavor to what I'm working up next. And like you I'm repeatedly checking to see if you've posted something awesome in response.

This next part is a going a bit slower as I'm not as familiar with Illinois as I used to be, but I'm updating my information and that's adding flavor as well. I'm having fun creating a few things and ironing out some plot points. But making progress.

(in fact I had to correct a typo in my story as I had the truck going the wrong direction)

Back at you Joe, how's that 4th of July parade going?

[imreadonly2]

I'm grateful for GreyRose for continuing the story, as I love writing about what's going on in the girl's mind, but I get bored with minor details like plot or what the character's names are or what the hell is happening. Now he's doing the heavy lifting on a story that I found hot enough to write about, inspiring me to write about what I love to write about, my heroine's psychology.

It's also great to be constantly checking to see if my story is making progress, while someone else struggles to put in all the details that take me forever. You've turned me into the reader, and now we have a real writer continuing my story.

Your work is awesome, and very much appreciated. I worked on the hooker/wife story this weekend, and expanding on Fearful future, to the tune of about 20K words between them. However, I did add a little bit to Slave Parade, based on your wonderful post. Again, thank you for your great work.