Fearful Future by Joe Doe / Part 7 by GreyRose

[timerider]

Re: Fearful Future by Joe Doe
Part 7 by GreyRose
For those paying attention to the chapter numbering, part 6 is by Joe and is under the part I posted on Sunday.

I just realized that when I posted the first addition to Joe’s story, I thought it was going to be 2 maybe three chapters. This is chapter 7 and I am pretty sure I have at least two more after this to wrap up the story. I’m kinda feeling like Robert Jordan writing the Wheel of Time series, in interviews he was frequently asked “how many more until it's finished?” - “2 maybe three more” was always his answer

And that’s not counting the gems Joe has been coming up with as well.

We’ll see how deep this rabbit hole is when we get to the bottom.

=v=v=v=v=v=v=v=
The truck rumbled along, the girls in the container quickly got used to the vibrations of the tires on the smooth well tended Interstate highway. The steady hum as the tires moved the truck along and the polished handling by the driver, soon had the slave girls nodding off. They just fell asleep on their feet, too tightly packed to do much else.

Up in the cab Bubba had the sound system playing a collection of his favorite ‘make good time’ music. The yard in Morris had kept him waiting, as usual. It was after lunch when they finally loaded up his flatbed with the container. He ran the numbers through his mind, how long to Grand Rapids?

80 here brushed along the south side of Chicago, but he figured he’d still make good time. After that he was good, no big cities along the highways in Indiana, but when he swung up into Michigan…

Grand Rapids, that was the only big city he hit on this run, and it was his destination. So does he push and drive through the night, or does he pull over and have to deal with feeding and watering the animals? The bonus would be that he can pull one out and have a bed warmer.

Time is money as they say, and even the best slave he’d ever had wasn’t worth the bonus if he got his load (he he load!) to the clearing house in time. Besides, as they unloaded his truck and set him up for his next run he should have time to visit the inventory under the building and pick just the right pussy.

Yup, so pushing on through the night it is! Cranking up the tunes, he gets his game face on and proceeds to burn up the road. Great Lakes Clearing House, clear a bay he’s gona be coming in hot!

Over 12 hours later, Bubba yawns and works some kinks out of his shoulders as he shifts lanes to take the exit ramp off of I-196. They picked a great place to put their building, right in the middle of three highways, I-196, I-96 and Hwy 131. But it was a royal bitch getting in and out of there with a full sized rig. But that kinda thing was part of the job, so he just kept going and weaved his way through the street traffic.

The trucks shift from the smooth highway to the stop, start and sharp turns of the side street maneuvering wake up the slave girls, alerting them they are close to their next destination. And when the truck backs up to the dock, the difference in direction has them thinking they have arrived, wherever here is.

With a thump and a jerk the truck comes to a stop, and then nothing. They can hear voices and clattering and the hum of equipment but no one opens the door. After what feels like forever, but was actually about 20 minutes they finally hear the clatter as the doors are unlatched and the following screech as they are flung wide.

There are three figures standing in the open doorway. The one on the left is a woman almost 6 ft tall, built like a power-lifter, with short sandy blond hair. She is wearing a polo shirt with black running from where the buttons stop up to the shoulders and the short sleeves, while the midsection is white. The man on the right is a few inches shorter and looks whip lean, wearing an identical shirt. The central figure is a woman wearing a black shirt and black knee length skirt with black knee high boots that have a 3 inch heel that almost brings her up to the other woman’s height. She is carrying a large tablet and there is both a slave goad and a crop on her belt. The two in polo shirts have both the slave goad and a crop, as well as several slave cuffs and what looks like a holster that has a number of fluorescent green zip ties.

The woman with the tablet speaks, and her voice is amplified out of the tablet so that all of the slave girls in the shipping container can hear. “Welcome to my facility, behave, do as you are told and you will have a pleasant time here. Cause trouble and you’ll regret that decision.”

She pauses and waits to see if there’s any complaints. Seeing none, she continues, “When we tell you, you will move forward. Behind me are wranglers with tablets, you will be scanned by one of them and they will direct you to where you need to go. You will go through the doorway indicated and stop where you are directed to. Most of you will be sent downstairs to the holding cells. If everyone did their jobs correctly that is where you will all go. In the event that there’s an issue, you will be directed to the correct door to deal with the issue. When you do, continue through to the end, there are cameras and anyone that stops or causes problems will be… managed.”

Even though that last word had been delivered in the same calm, measured tone, somehow the woman managed to put a terrifying amount of threat into it. Sarah heard that and shivered, just a few days ago, and she would never have noticed. But now, she was terrified to risk learning what that word meant.

Seeing the ‘deer in headlights’ frozen stair, the woman nods and murmurs to the woman and then leaves. The tall woman stepped up, and at a louder volume just from her own throat than came from the tablet's amplified speaker, “All right you sluts! You WILL step forward at a slow measured pace. You WILL allow the wranglers behind me to scan your collar. They will tell you which door you are to pass through. Before you do they will mark the needed information on your shoulder. When they say go, you will move at a brisk walk. If you do not, we have camera's watching the path, we can trigger a shot to all collars within a specified section.”

“If anyone in a black and white shirt gives you an order, you will say ‘Yes Master’ or ‘Yes Mistress’. You say anything else and you will receive punishment.” The woman pauses and then nods to the man beside her, the two step to the side so the space is open for the slave girls to move through.

At the same time the two yell, “MOVE!” Their voices make the walls of the container vibrate.

The slave girls jump forward, startled by the yelling. “At a walk, cunts,” the man yells as the slaves come out moving too quickly.

As Sara exits the container, she can see a large room that has all of the expected traffic for shipping and receiving slave girls. A few small doors further down the wall look to be for vans and small box trucks, this one and one other for large semi trailers to pull in.

About 10 feet in front of the wave of slave girls, are 8 wranglers wearing the black and white shirts. Each one is armed with a scanner and a tablet. They each select a slave and start their process, all of the slaves in the first bunch head to a door in a pill box that sits about 50 feet in from the exterior wall. As the scanning continues, Sarah can see one or two get sent to a door on the far side of the room. For those another wrangler is called and they escort that slave out of the room.

When it was her turn to be scanned, the wrangler she approached was a young woman in her early 20’s, several inches shorter than Sarah, and quite curvy, her dark reddish hair was in a tight french braid. It was probably only a matter of time before someone this cute ended up in a collar, at least in Sarah the billionaire's opinion.

The wrangler's scanner pinged when aimed at her collar. But when the wrangler checked her shoulder, both tits and then her ass, with no response she was annoyed. Shaking her head she pulls out a small radio, “Got another one that slipped through the system. Sending it down now.”

Turning back to Sarah, the wrangler wrote ‘missing chip’ on her left shoulder. Then took Sarah by the chin and aimed her face at what looked kind of like an airlock door from a movie. “You go through that door. Assume the Present position while you wait. Someone will come for you.”

Each command was in a short clipped sentence as if speaking to a child. Sarah stumbled forward when the wrangler pushed her. She realized that she was the only one that had been directed at this door of everyone processed from her group. This made her very nervous.

It was an over-sized all metal door, it looked as if someone wanted to make a door that intimidated anyone approaching it. The door swung open easily when she pulled on the handle, the room on the other side was a 5 ft by 5 ft square with an identical door on the other side.

Except this door had a key pad, as Sarah looked at it the door closed behind her with a hiss-thump. Startled, she whirled around and saw that it too had a keypad. She tried both doors and discovered that neither would open for her.

This confused her until her collar gave her a shock, this was a higher setting than Rusty-Dusty gave her back in the yard. Her teeth clenched and her entire body shuddered for several seconds. When it stopped she collapsed to the ground still quivering.

After several seconds had passed her muscles started to do what she wanted and she staggered back to her feet. As she stood Sarah remembered the final part of what the wrangler told her to do. As ordered she assumed the Present position, feet shoulder width apart, her fingers intertwined behind her neck, tits out.

Sarah stood there holding position as ordered, and waited. This was a tiny square room, the only thing to see were the two keypads. But obviously there was a camera that she hadn’t spotted, so she held position as ordered.

She was kept waiting for quite a while, she supposed that was additional punishment for not taking position quickly enough. Time dragged and her muscles started to ache, she could feel the insides of her thighs knot from holding position for so long. Finally the door in front of her swung open, and a woman about 5’4” tall, in her fifties, her black hair showing some white but not a lot, and a bit overweight. The woman is wearing a white lab coat over a black shirt and pants.

“Another one, hmmm? Well don’t just stand there like a moron, step through the door.” The woman orders when Sarah doesn’t move. As Sarah does the woman spins her around and cuffs her wrists behind her back. Then she spins Sarah around again and snaps a leash on her collar.

Without a word the woman turns and walks down a hallway and pulls Sarah along. Sarah, surprised by not even being told what to do, is pulled off balance and staggers along until she’s able to regain her footing.

This hallway is 30 feet wide and there are cabinets and stacks of crates, along with shelving that’s filled with things Sarah can’t make out. They only go about 30 feet before the woman turns to a door on the right and drags her leashed slave along. Inside the room, it looks like a typical medical exam room. With a few additions.

In addition to a desk with a computer, a counter with a sink, and the angled bed with stirrups for exams; there is what almost looks to be an executioner's chair. It has a heavy frame with the back 6 ft tall, and there are straps for the arms, legs, torso and head. Looking closer she can see straps on the exam table as well.

The woman pushes Sarah into the chair and runs a belt across her stomach and tightens it, followed by another above her breasts. She uses a belt over her captives knees to strap both her legs, followed by one just above her ankles. As the woman steps back, Sarah tests and is barely able to take a deep breath let alone wiggle. The leash is still dangling from Sarah’s collar and her hands are still cuffed behind her.

The woman returns to her desk and logs back into the computer and continues with whatever she was working on before. Sarah sits there, unable to move and afraid to speak. The woman goes about her business as if she were alone. With nothing to do but watch the woman, Sarah studies her and guesses that she's in the office of a slave Veterinarian.

Sarah starts to drift off to sleep waiting for the woman to deal with her. But she snaps fully awake when the ‘ping’ of the scanner goes off. The woman turns back to her computer and calls up Sarah’s SIN file.

“Hmm, Former name: Sarah Powers, SIN US-ILDL-1291-0717, Height: 5’ 7”, Weight 124…” the woman’s monologue drifts off into silence. “Well whoever created your account needs to be collared and sentenced to manual labor. Most of your vitals are missing, no blood test, no chip, no grade, no photographs! It’s like someone put in enough information to create the account and left it at that.”

Sarah was glad the woman was talking to herself and not asking questions, she hadn’t been very attentive creating her account for herself. Just another reason she was glad Trudy didn’t ask questions. Anyone else would probably have flagged the account since it was missing so much information. But she was afraid that was about to be corrected.

As if confirming her thoughts, “Right then, we will just have to bring you into compliance. First thing is the medical.” The slave Veterinarian, Sarah’s sure of that now, grabs Sarah’s chin and yanks it down and with a quick spritz de-voices the bound woman. Sarah has a momentary panic attack as the option to speak has been taken from her. She forces herself to calm down, as this will probably protect her as anything she said would get her punished, on top of speaking at all.

The woman starts by releasing Sarah from the chair, and gets her secured to the exam table. First she pulled 0717 by her leash until she’s laying on her back. The leash gets secured and Sarah can’t sit up. The doctor pulls the stirrups into position and then straps each of 0717’s feet into place.

To Sarah this was very uncomfortable as she was lying on her cuffed hands. Now that the slave was secured at three points, she unlocked 0717’s cuffs. She quickly pulled each arm and secured them on the side of the table. With the slave exposed and properly secured, the doctor is ready to start.

The Veterinarian does the slave medical work up, including taking blood samples. The unnamed vet seems to enjoy it when she tests Sarah’s slave response. “From looking at your drippy crotch you seem plenty slave hot to me. But this needs to be done correctly.” Smiling, the woman made a production out of putting on a fresh rubber glove.

Sarah stiffens when the woman’s fingers penetrate her, “Good 0717, good girl! You ARE slave hot, all ready for a bunch of wranglers to take you to the break room.” At the thought of being surrounded by strange men, stinking of hard labor, waving their rock hard cocks at her. Ordering her to service them, 0717 shuddered, her pussy clenching. Fighting with her self image, In her mind she corrected herself, I’m Sarah, Sarah Powers! I’m not some stupid slave slut!

But when the Vet’s seeking fingers finds 0717’s spot, the tightly bound slave arches her back with only her shoulders touching the table, as she is brought right up to the edge of orgasm by the skill doctors fingers. Seeing the reaction she wanted, the Veterinarian pulls out, leaving 0717 hanging.

Gasping, Sarah’s body collapses back to the table, she is desperate for the woman to continue but can only glare as the doctor strips off the latex glove and returns to her desk. Once seated she quickly enters in all of the missing medical information from 0717’s file. Well most of it.

Still seated at the desk, the doctor turns to face 0717, when she speaks Sarah has to look between her spread legs to see her. “While not properly official, nothing in your case is, I put your grade as Prime.” Pausing to see the slave girl's response, the doctor is pleased to see the shock on the slave's face and the way her pussy flexes. “Good girl 0717!”

The doctor pulls out a chip, and puts it into a reader next to her computer and sync’s it with 0717’s SIN account. With it programmed she puts into an injector and steps up to 0717’s side. “Hmm, the latest positioning has these do-hickeys right below where the collar sits, but I’ve been hearing of issues between these latest international compatible chips and high end feature stuffed collars. Better to go old school, besides, this spot is so much more fun!”

She proceeds to fondle both of the slave girl’s titty’s, her thumbs flicking 0717’s nipples. While not in the least professional, Sarah finds the attention exciting, this revives her earlier edging. Deep inside a hollow in her self-image is happy that the doctor sees her as fun to play with! Just as 0717 is getting wound up again, the doctor stops and injects the chip into her left breast. She would have screamed at the unexpected pain, had she been able to make any sound at all. The doctor follows up by putting a band-aid over the spot.

The woman brings out some cream and slathers it over 0717’s already smooth mons, and leaves it to sit. Sarah is puzzled as she had waxed there on Wednesday, so she should still be good. The doctor has gone back to her desk and is typing away at 0717’s account, as the cream sits it starts getting warm and intensely itchy. All Sarah can do is squirm, she can’t moan or groan, or complain, she can’t move her hand to try to clear it away. So it just continues to burn and itch.

Picking up a phone the doctor makes a call, “Hey Mitch! How’s your day going? …. Ah right, that huge lot of pussy that came from the Commodities place in Morris? …. Yeah I understand. In fact they found one for me. ….. You got it in one, I don’t know how these keep popping up, it's like someone slaps a collar on some hot pussy and calls them enslaved. Then someone has to fix their sloppy work. …. Yeah, I got just about everything filled in. It’s kinda unofficial but I listed her as Prime. …. Oh yeah, this slut is prime in the looks department and the way she’s been dribbling slave syrup all over my equipment it’s like she's been dosed with Horney Juice. But I think she’s all natural, but the blood test will show if she’s got any in her system. … I do need something from you, care to guess what? ……. <laughter> Aw I can’t surprise you with anything can I?. …. Good, I gotta run but you have the key to my office, don’t you? ….. Perfect, then you just swing by when you’ve got the time and put her through the moves and update her file? …. Wonderful, if I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you at Denise's party this weekend? …. <laughter>” and she hangs up the phone.

While that woman had her casual conversation, poor 0717 was squirming and silently cursing a blue streak. That cream has been torturing her all this time, and she's crying from the pain and frustration. Finally the doctor soaks a pad and uses it to wipe 0717’s burning flesh. The doctor carefully scans the area. “Now 0717, if at any time in the next few days, if a rash appears in this area, you have permission to speak up. In fact you will be punished if you don’t tell a wrangler, they need to know you need medical attention. This stuff is still new and we’ve not got all the bugs worked out yet.”

“For whoever buys you from the block, let them know that you are guaranteed to be smooth down there for at least a month. Some slaves we’ve used this on have been clean for 6 months. Your owner might appreciate the cost savings. If hair starts growing again, they can purchase some of this cream online from us.”

0717’s mind is reeling from two things the doctor just said, that her pussy is going to be hairless for a long, maybe a long, long time. And she mentioned her being sold…

In her mind the image of Arjun forms, he had been laughing and totally in control. In her mind she calls out to him. ”Master, please save me! Find me and take me home!” 0717 is desperate to have Arjun pick her up in his arms and take her out of this place.

By the time her mind calms down and she has control of herself again, her cheeks are glossy from the tears she cried. And she sees that the doctor has gone. She is left for this guy Mitch to come take her out of this room and someplace to have her file photos taken.

While she waits 0717 tries to figure out what day it is. She’s not too sure, it could be Wednesday, but she’s pretty sure it's only Tuesday.

The thought she had about getting a message to Arjun, something about that felt… off. She tried to remember but she could feel herself fighting the slave stupid that was trying to take over her mind. She slowly worked through events. They went down to Morris on Thursday, she had intended to be sold and set free by Arjun that night and they would be back to the office by Friday Noon at the latest.

Something about the timing, she chose that date because Arjun’s internship ended on Friday of this week. That way he wouldn’t be around too long in case things got… embarrassing. She had been delighted at the thought of sending him away knowing how close he came to her perfect body that he could never have.

His internship ends in 2 maybe 3 days? If she’s not in the office, what’s to keep him from signing out early? Once he no longer has access to the systems in the office, he will no longer be able to log into SNATCH. He won’t have any way to track her, no way to find her.

She lays there bound to the table, in the dark, as the grains of sand in her hourglass to freedom drop one by agonizing one.

[imreadonly2]

As I don't know what is going to happen next, and don't want to mess up the narrative, I thought I'd return to the container car, and catch up with Belinda. Part 6B!

I love that she is at Great Lakes Shipping. From there, she can go ANYWHERE. I love that they didn't bother to tell them where they are. The suspense is awful. I hope it lasts.



I watched the truck fans overhead, their slow, methodical rotation a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions I felt: panic, fear, curiosity, all underscored by a marrow deep sexual excitement. I thought of my clothes and identification back in the manager's office at the terminal, and how each passing second was now taking me farther and farther away from my old life. The fans reminded me of the gears in a clock, steadily ticking away the loss of my freedom. Each rotation brought me closer to the auction block, to the moment where my fate would be decided by the invisible hand of capitalism driving the system that had made me rich, and had stripped me of everything I had.

I felt the truck lurch as it changed lanes, the acceleration pressing us all against the side of the metal box. The strobing of the light outside grew more intense, and I could feel the vibrations of the road beneath me. The rhythm matched my heartbeat, which grew more frantic as we sped along. We had to be on the interstate, which meant we could be going anywhere. The thought made me squirm, my branded ass stinging with each movement.

I knew the pain was for the best. The pain of the brand would serve as a stark reminder of my new status in life, a constant reminder of my animal status. By the time it fully healed, the feeling would be internalized to the point that the pain would no longer be necessary.

I flashed back to Tim Harlan, an old Texan with a handlebar mustache who had gone from cowboy to cattle yard operator to beef trader to slave trader over the course of a long and storied career. Tim had told me that burning a slave brand into a girl's butt was necessary, but burning slavery into her mind was essential.

I could see his leathery face and hear his gruff voice, "Missy, slavery isn't just about a piece of paper or a fancy collar. It's about making sure that the girl knows that they ain't nothing but cattle. And cattle don't have no rights, and no say-so. They exist to serve, and to please their masters."

I had first learned that when I worked for Tim in his office in Dallas, and now I was learning the lesson again, in an even deeper way, buried inside of a container car speeding down the highway. For all I knew, Tim might have even brokered my trade. I hoped so. He always said I was hot enough to be a slave girl, and having him handle the details of my shipment would have given me a peculiar sense of completion.

We were moving fast, but pushed together so tightly that each of us served as packing peanuts for the other. That pleased me, too -- since the hallmarking, I had started to see the other girls as my sisters, and I felt a kinship in our literal closeness, and the way we were all - even if it wasn't by choice - protecting each other.

Of course, with commodities safety was a relative concept and was always balance with "cost" and "risk." Risk wasn't thought of in terms of the risk of losing a girl or two, but in terms of the risk of losing your capital investment in the slave pussy on the truck. Comprehensive Broad Perils coverage, sensor monitoring in the truck, and a driver with a good safety record could mitigate the financial risk associated with driving a truck load of naked girls packed in like sardines like a bat-out-of-hell down the highway thru the night.

I reached down between my legs, straining a bit to adjust the girl next to me enough to get my finger over my clit. I gave my pussy a comforting rub. It was hot and wet, but got hotter and wetter as I continued to rub myself, turning my mind off as I ceded control and concentrated on my own pleasure.

Don't worry, little pussy: you are safe and secure. Your masters are very wise, and know where you belong, even if you do not. Your pussy is fully insured, with a dollar value and replacement cost computed and paid for.

"Sarah? Is that you?" a voice out of nowhere said. "It's me, Belinda."

I turned to see the accountant, Belinda, gradually moving across the car, each girl cooperating by giving her an inch or so to move forward. It took real teamwork, but gradually, my sisters brought us back together.

I was so lost in my own pleasure, and so totally immersed in my new identity as naked, nameless slave pussy that I genuinely had no idea who she was looking for.

Who was Sarah?

But then it clicked. I was Sarah. Commodity Trader. La Salle Street office in the Rookery. Condo on Lake Shore Drive. As the pleasure in my pussy faded, I remembered who I was.

I assured myself that my confusion was understandable. Naked slave-on-the-hoof didn't have names, they had container car numbers. Names were assigned to them by their masters.

"Hi Belinda," I said. "How ya' doing?"

Belinda looked at me like I was from Mars. "You're looking at it. Branded, hungry, stinking, and locked up in the Cunt Cargo Container. How do you think I'm doing?"

I frowned. The Cunt Cargo Container remark was unkind, particularly since the "cunts' had just made way for her. I sensed in Belinda that smug, superior attitude that free women had, and I didn't like it one bit.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked.

"What do mean, what's the plan?" I said, genuinely confused. "What plan?"

"How do we get out of here?" she asked.

Now it was my turn to look at her like she was from Mars. Still annoyed by her container cunt remark, I let the little bean counter have it.

"I don't know, Belinda. I thought we could throw you up into that gigantic fan and if we time it just right, you'll be passed through instead of being chopped up like mincemeat. Then you can chew your way through the metal grate, and when you get to the roof, jump off a truck that's moving 80 MPH down onto the pavement while avoiding any other cars. Then you can put your thumb out and see if anyone wants to commit a federal crime by abetting the escape of a naked, collared slave girl."

"I'll offer them a hand job," she said. "Or maybe even a blow job, if I have too."

I laughed out loud. "If you have too? Oh, they'll take the blow job, and anything else they want, and when they're done with you, they'll drop your stupid slave girl ass off at the nearest police station, where the fun will really begin."

"Why are you yelling at me?" Belinda asked.

"Because you're looking at me like I have something up my sleeve, or like I'm going to pull a rabbit out of a hat, when I don't have a hat, and I don't have any sleeves. I'm a naked slave girl in a container car, and the only thing I have is a collar around my neck, and a brand in a place I can't even see."

Most of the girls stared into space, dazed, broken, confused. Others slept. But a few of the girls leaned in closer. They sensed that I knew what I was talking about, and they were eager to hear any words of wisdom I had to offer. They were looking to me, Sarah Boss Lady from La Salle Street, to give them hope, or at least to ease their fears. But I had nothing to give them. I was no different than they were, except for my understanding of how commodities markets worked.

"Look around," I whispered to Belinda, my voice carrying in the stale, silent air of the container. "We're all in this together. We're all just cattle now."

"Bullshit," Belinda said. "We're nothing like these bimbos. I'm a CPA from KPMG, you're a Trader. If the asshole driving this truck knew who we were, he'd shit his pants."

I strained to laugh. "I doubt it. As for us, we can’t shit our pants, because we have no pants. As for who we were, the verb in that sentence is WERE."

"But we don't belong here. They just slapped a collar on me, that doesn't even match my SIN number."

"And how long do you think it'll take them to tie a new number to your collar?" I asked pointedly. Some teenager can do it while he's playing Royal Kingdom on his phone.

"They can't do that. We're not slaves!" she insisted. "Like I told them at the terminal you need to track every SIN number, and check the girl's lip, and photo, and tie it back to--"

"And how did that work out for you, back at the terminal, Miss CPA?" I said sarcastically.

There was a dead silence. Belinda suddenly was out of answers.

"Exactly," I said. "They stripped you naked and collared you. People in operations don't give a shit about what the auditors think, or what you were taught in your accounting seminar. Do you think Wallmart or Best Buy grinds to a halt when they discover they have one more computer monitor than they should? No, they make an adjustment in the system, and they fucking sell it, and clean it up later."

Belinda made the journal entry in her head. "A gain in inventory, resulting in a reduction of cost of goods sold."

"Exactly. We are naked slave girls in an inventory management system designed to sell snatch as profitably as possible. Nobody is going to launch an investigation, or turn the truck around, or call in Superman unless someone high in the food chain orders them to, not for two slave girls. Do you know why?"

Belinda was quiet.

The fan above us beat a steady rhythm. The rumble of the truck's engine was the only constant, a low, steady growl that was both soothing and unnerving.

Brenda stared at me, her eyes widening with understanding. "We're immaterial," she murmured, the word rolling off her tongue with a hint of bitterness. "We're an immaterial part of their margin. Even if someone sues, they'll either buy us back, or if it's cheaper, let the insurance company pay out the loss."

I knew that her pussy would be such a small portion of their bottom line they wouldn't bother to file a claim. They'd just pay it out. I didn't tell her that. I had beaten the feistiness out of her, and her eyes had the same hopeless, vacant look that the other slave girls.

I hugged her. I hugged her tight, and together we cried it out. We cried until one of our sisters warned us to stop.

“Don’t exhaust yourselves. Save your tears for later,” she said gently.

Belinda reached between my legs, and began rubbing. I returned the favor. Soon the girl next to me was pleasuring her neighbor, and the girl next to her. Soon the car was humming with the sound of warm, sisterly, shameless, slave girl love. Kissing, stroking, pleasuring.

The time passed quickly until finally, exhausted, I fell asleep in Belinda’s embrace.

I dreamed we pulled into a rest stop where we were lined up on a large grassy lawn for exercise. It was a warm summer day, and as our eyes adjusted to the brightness we all laughed and giggled, for it felt wonderful to be outside of the stinking confines of the truck. There was a watering trough for us to drink from, with a large red fire hydrant at the center. As this was a dream, I recognized several of the dogs near me from my morning runs through Lincoln Park, and seeing them brought me a sense of calm and normalcy, even if we were all slobbering into the same water supply.

Our hose down was brutal. No soap, quick, high pressure hose as we turned in a circle, with a particular emphasis on armpits, tits, and, of course, between our legs. They didn't shoot it between our butt cheeks, though, as we all had hallmarks, and they were still healing. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but I felt grateful for the hose. I remembered from my former life trading slaves that Pleasure Sluts are naturally filthy animals, and the high pressure is required to get the stink off them.

I began doing my slave girl exercises -- jumping jacks, squats, and a block routine I didn't know but performed flawlessly. As it was my dream, I was in the front row of my formation, dead center, a natural focal point of everyone's attention.

As we stretched and bent, my eyes met those of a young couple who had stopped to watch from their car. They didn't look away. They stared at my nakedness, my pussy, my breasts, my brand. They were fascinated, and a little horrified. It didn't matter. I was a spectacle, and I knew it. In fact, part of me craved the attention, and loved it.

I felt the eyes of the men on the wooden bleachers, too. They were drivers, mostly, some from the terminal in Morris, but then I noticed my father walking back from the ice cream truck to offer my mom a treat. My cousin Ralph was running the popcorn concession while keeping his eyes glued to my hot, wet pussy.

"Daddy," I said. "Daddy, I'm right here!"

My father saw me, but didn't seem to take any notice. Everyone saw me, and recognized me, but they didn't see me. They saw a naked slave girl.

I continued my performance. It was an impressive show, and everyone got a good look at my hot, wet, slave girl pussy. I didn’t know what the hallmark on my ass looked like, but my dentist, mailman, and the security guards from the Rookery did.

My neighbor, Mr. Jenkins from Lake Shore Drive, walked by, his German Shepard, Checkers, straining at the leash trying to get to me. His nostrils were flaring and his tail was wagging as he surged toward me. Clearly, he smelled something that intrigued him. Mr. Jenkins didn't look surprised, just smiled politely, not a greeting, exactly, but an acknowledgement that all was as it should be. I was a slave girl rubbing her pussy to orgasm while everyone she had every known watched.

Tim Harlan, Josh Hardley, and a bunch of other traders I was close with sat at a picnic table, enjoying water and soft drinks as they watched me lather up. There was no alcohol, and it was clear from their expressions they were discussing some sort of big deal. I could have been with them, if I wasn't a naked slave girl.

A line formed and I was soon giving blow jobs to Tim, Josh, my High School Geometry teacher, a boy I had dated and dumped in college, and the janitor who cleaned my office. No one said anything, for there was nothing to me. Their smiles said it all. I was a naked slave girl, kneeling in front of them to suck their dicks and swallow their cum.

Tim Harlan's Texas grin, even when he was putting his tired old dick in my mouth, was infectious. His cock was thick and smelled faintly of leather and sweat, and being older he took longer. His spunk had a twangy, BBQ sauce flavor.

The line grew longer as it filled with old friends, and my parents’ friends, and people I had met at parties. My father was in line, too, chatting with Mr. Jenkins, who was still holding Checker's leash.

The next customer moved forward in line. I looked up to discover Arjun, smiling down on me. Arjun could save me. He could pick up his phone, and call dispatch, and have me released. We could drive back to Chicago, with me, ass up in the back seat, rubbing cream onto my brand.

But that was not to be. Arjun, still smiling down at me, said nothing, but took his dick out of his pants. I took it in my mouth and sucked it, attempting to earn please him with an unforgettable slave girl kiss. I rubbed myself to orgasm as I pleasured him, and we cam together.

When he was finished, he said nothing. He simply smiled, zipped up his pants, and walked away. I opened my mouth, eager to please the man who handled my dry cleaning.

Arjun, my neighbors, my co-workers, and even my parents didn't try to save me, or help me, or even bother to say hello. If they even realized it was me, all they saw was naked slave pussy, there to please, and to entertain.

In college, I learned that dreams are when we learn, when are brain resort the impressions of the day and form the permanent memories that make us who we are. I don't know if the orgasms I had as I rubbed myself were real, or the result of Belinda pleasuring me. I do know that night I came and came again. I do know it was a sweet, restful sleep. I had no idea where I was going, but I was home.

[Mrxloves]

am I missing something because i cant find 6 th part

[Mrxloves]

Mrxloves

Look under part 5, Joe's reply to that is the part 6. It's not numbered, but the numbering worked out so that I've been designating his reply's as the even number sections.

[Jim927]

Another great chapter. The two of you are busy creating another masterpiece.

Jim