StripSearch

The Tracker

In Victor’s office, he gestured for Carla to kneel in the center. Carla was anxious. The last time she had seen Juma, she had demanded a lawyer to argue her case. Now she had to kneel before him obediently if she wanted to get out of The Slave Academy.

“Attention!” Victor called. Carla snapped into place, legs spread wide, hands locked behind her head. Her skin prickled as she felt their eyes scrutinizing her. But she was desperate to please, so she held the position obediently.

“Kneel!” Victor’s voice rang out. Carla dropped to the floor, knees sinking, thighs parting, her breath catching as Juma’s eyes followed her every move. She didn’t like what she had to do, but pleasing these men was her highest priority right now. This was her chance to prove herself so she could get out of this brutal place, out of reach from Zuri and her whip. Juma had come to pick her up, and all she had to do now was play her part, and she would leave with him. Her heart pounded. Determination steadied her trembling limbs.

“Worship!” Victor snapped. Refusing this position had gotten her into trouble once. This time, there was no doubt in her mind what she would do. Carla immediately bent forward, forehead pressing into the hard floor, hands sliding beside her head.

Juma nodded, with a look of satisfaction on his face. He was impressed.

“Try her out,” Victor said, stepping back with a nod of pride.

Juma stepped closer. “Attention, Carla.”

She rose fast, legs trembling but steady, hands behind her head, her heart racing under his gaze.

“Kneel.”

She dropped again, knees hitting the floor, thighs spread wide.

“Worship.”

Carla bent low, placed her forehead on the floor before him, pushing down her pride and holding the pose.

Juma turned to Victor with an approving nod.

Victor leaned against the desk. “She’s fresh, Juma, only recently enslaved. The Slave Academy’s done good work, but old habits die hard. If you see any lapse in her obedience or submissive behavior, bring her back for a refresher. We’ll keep this young lady in line.”

Juma crouched beside Carla, his tone warm but firm. “Impressive progress, Victor. I hardly recognize her from that insolent girl at the market. You’ve transformed her.”

He ordered, “Hands behind your back, Carla, wrists together.”

She obeyed, shifted her arms into the ordered position to hold her wrists close together, ready to be shackled.

Juma snapped the handcuffs on. Carla’s heart thudded, as she heard the metallic clicks the metal made as it cinched tight around her wrists, denying her the use of her hands. But she was also relieved. She had passed his obedience test and would leave this place.

Victor laughed, a low rumble. “That’s what we’re here for.” He clapped Juma’s shoulder, their voices fading as they discussed her a bit more while she waited on the floor. Finally, they wrapped up their chat and said their goodbyes.

Juma turned to her. “Stand up, Carla.”

She struggled to rise. She wasn’t use to be cuffed, and her immobility threw her off balance. Her legs wobbled awkwardly as she pushed herself off the floor. Her naked body trembled as she stood before Juma. He clicked a chain leash onto her collar.

“Time to go,” he said, tugging gently.

Carla followed behind him. Her mind swirled with fear and faint hope as they left The Slave Academy behind.

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Juma led her out and onto the dusty road. She was finally on the other side of the barbed wire fence that she had seen so many times from the inside when Zuri had chased them around for exercise in the late-afternoon sun. Carla glanced back once as the academy shrunk behind her and felt a dizzying rush of relief mixed with dread. She was out of there, but still enslaved.

The streets were quieting for the day. She spotted other slaves along the way: A few collared men carried water barrels, a woman swept a porch with a chain between her ankles, another hurried past with a basket on her head. Naked bodies moved without shame or hurry. Seeing them made Carla’s own nudity easier to bear. Here, a naked body was not indecent or uncommon. It always came with a collared neck, and meant that this person was a slave. She was far from the only one walking the streets like this.

Juma tried to strike up some awkward small talk, something about the weather, the smell of rain coming, but Carla only managed soft “yes, Sir” murmurs, too tired, too overwhelmed, by her new life.

By the time the low mud-brick office of Tribal Dispatch appeared, the sun hung low and orange, and Carla’s bare feet ached on the warm ground.

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Juma led Carla through Tribal Dispatch’s office entrance. A sleek device with a strange, contoured seat gleamed in the corner, its dildo-like form baffling her. She wondered if it was used as some kind of reward for slaves. Her stomach twisted, and a shudder rippled through her at the thought of having to use this in full view of the office. No way would she accept such a reward, she told herself. She would thank them for any recognition, remain polite, but she would not debase herself like that.

Juma guided her to what looked like a storage room. The room was sliced in half by vertical metal bars with some crossbars, and a door that blended into the arrangement. It turned half of the room into a cage. And there already were three Black Grabesian women inside, clearly slaves. Juma removed her handcuffs and locked her in with them.

He noticed that a mat for Carla was missing, so he fetched a foam mat for her, folded it in half, and pushed it through the bars for her. Carla sank onto the mat. There were four mats now side by side on the tiled floor, the other three occupied by the other slaves. A bucket covered with a cloth sat tucked against one wall. Her eyelids felt heavy, the exhaustion weighed her down.

A voice broke the quiet, warm but curious. “You’re Carla, right?” A woman leaned closer, her sweat-sheened face catching the light. Carla’s gaze flicked to a faucet with a coiled hose dripping on the wall, a drainage grate glinting below it.

She blinked, confused, her stress-blurred mind blanking on the name. “I’m Lisha,” the woman said, a friendly smile softening her gaze. “This is Amara and Nia.” The two others nodded.

“What is this place?” Carla asked, her thighs shifting on the foam mat.

Lisha chuckled, her tone light but knowing. “We’re slave couriers, delivering goods around Ngalawa Bay. That’s your job now too.”

Carla’s eyes widened, shock stirring her weary limbs. “Juma mentioned that, but how is that supposed to work? Do we actually go to people’s houses naked, carrying packages?” she asked.

The others laughed, a gentle ripple. Their gazes were warm with curiosity about their new colleague. Amara’s lips curved. “Yeah, we haul stuff to homes and shops, all over the bay.”

Carla’s heart thudded, her mind reeling. “They let us go to people’s homes naked? Just… bringing stuff?”

Lisha nodded, her laugh soft. “It’s normal in Grabesh. Everyone expects naked slaves in collars. Just don’t be late, or they might cane you.” She glanced around, voice hushed. “Except white folks. They often stare extra at our nudity. Some ask odd questions, like they’re here to help. But who really knows what they’re up to?”

Amara’s voice cut in, low and firm. “And they’ve got ways to make sure we come back. They’ll whip you or worse.”

Carla nodded, thinking of her time in the box at The Slave Academy. They surely had ways to make their slaves obey. Their chatter faded as Carla’s exhaustion won out. Her eyes closed as she drifted into sleep on the foam mat.

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A sharp click of the cage-like dorm’s door jolted Carla awake. Her heart raced as she blinked in the dim morning light streaming through a barred window. Disoriented from her first night at Tribal Dispatch, she struggled to remember where she was. Her eyes scanned the compact storage room, its tiled floor and the four foam mats squeezed tight. Lisha, Amara, and Nia were already awake, sitting on their mats. Juma stood at the bars, looking at her, and Carla panicked at the sight she realized she was presenting to him, and snapped her legs shut.

Juma passed bowls with oatmeal through the bars. Carla got up to fetch hers. She was hungry and the warm grain meal soothed her hunger.

Ten minutes later, Juma returned to let them out. The slaves went to work on their tasks. But he nodded at her. “Carla, come with me.”

Carla’s heart thudded, she felt the dread of the unknown as Juma snapped handcuffs on her wrists behind her back without an explanation. He then locked a coffle chain to her collar. He gestured toward the door, his presence commanding. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Carla asked, as they stepped outside of the office building.

Juma walked beside her. “To the vet, to get you fit for service.”

The walk to the vet’s office wound through the market’s edge, where vendors set up stalls of yams and mangoes. Carla’s bare feet stung on the gritty path. The sand was still cool from the night but coarse. Every now and then she felt the coffle chain tug her collar, as if to remind her of who she was here.

The vet’s office was a squat building. It was clean inside, and the air smelled of antiseptic and a faint floral scent coming in through an open window. A nurse, a chubby middle-aged Grabesian woman with a brisk nod, greeted them at the door.

“Oh, hello Juma, you’re early for your appointment,” she said in a warm but professional tone.

Juma nodded back, his smile easy. “Hey, good to see you. Can I leave Carla here while I run some errands?”

The nurse glanced at Carla. “Sure, no problem,” she replied.

Juma thanked her, and handed Carla over by giving her leash to the nurse. Then he left with a steady stride, leaving Carla behind at this medical facility.

The nurse led Carla to a small room, where a sturdy exam table stood, fitted with stirrups and leather belts.

“Up you go,” she said. Her voice was clipped but not unkind. Carla climbed onto the table. Her thighs trembled as the nurse fastened leather belts around her wrists, to pin them next to her head, and secured her legs in the stirrups with Velcro straps that spread her thighs.

Carla gulped, as the last Velcro strap softly closed around her ankle. She had been to the doctor’s office many times back home, but never fully undressed, and never in restraints. She felt a mild breeze of warm air from the open window against her inner thighs which she could no longer close.

The normalcy of this confused her. She was not here to be punished. Whatever would happen was routine. But routine could mean anything in this place as far as she knew.

The nurse busied herself cleaning tools on a tray, wiping surfaces with a rag, her movements methodical.



Carla’s heart raced, helplessness gripping her. “What’s going to be done to me?” she asked, her voice tight, the box’s darkness still haunting her mind.

The nurse glanced up, mildly surprised. “Vaccinations, probably,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Whatever the doctor deems necessary to keep you fit for service.” She turned back to her tasks, with nothing left for Carla to do than wait.

As Carla waited she heard the low murmur of voices from the corridor that she couldn’t understand, the occasional shuffle of sandals walking along the corridor. He stomach clenched every time she heard footsteps passing by the wide-open door of her examination room.

If someone glanced in, they would see her strapped down with her thighs forced open. This is what a fly in a cobweb must feel like. She didn’t know if they did look her way. For that she would need to raise her head and look. But she didn’t dare do so out of fear that someone might be looking, and she would make eye contact with him.

Instead, she fixed her eyes on a crack in the ceiling and waited while taking shallow breaths.

Then she heard footsteps that slowed, didn’t pass, and turned into the room.

Carla’s heart lurched. She raised her head just enough to see the vet in a white coat step in, carrying a file in his hand. He looked at it, and began to prepare a syringe.

“What is that?” Carla asked nervously looking over to him.

“Vaccinations first,” he said. “Barefoot walking means cuts and infections, especially in new slaves like you. These are for common diseases, to make sure you stay healthy for service.”

He administered three quick injections in her thighs, sharp stings that faded fast. Carla winced, but was calmed that it wasn’t anything worse, but her cheeks flushed with annoyance. Why strap her legs open like this for shots? The exposure felt pointless. Her thighs quivered in the stirrups.

The vet set the syringe aside and unboxed a small device from a sterile packet, its sleek form mysterious in the harsh light. He scooted his chair closer to position himself between Carla’s legs. The stirrups held her strapped thighs wide open for him. Her heart pounded, nervousness surging. He held up a small device.

Carla lifted her head. “Oh my god, what is that?” she asked, her voice trembling from her strapped-down position.

The vet looked up. “A tracker. Makes it easier to know where you are.”

“A tracker?” Carla muttered, incredulity flaring. “You’re putting a tracker into me? Tech like this actually exists?” Her voice shook, it seemed absurd to have something like this in a country as primitive as Grabesh.

The vet scratched his head. “Yeah, some new technology Tribal Dispatch brought in, meant to keep track of slaves. Comes from a company on the Kivana Islands, Celtic Circuits. Never heard of them before.” He shrugged, turning to his tools.

“Celtic Circuits?” Carla said, outrage surging as realization hit. “I worked for those bastards. They framed me! They are the reason I lost my freedom!” The thought of their tech inside her sent panic through her. She yanked against the belts, her arms straining, legs fighting the Velcro, but the straps held firm.

The vet, ignoring her upset, positioned a speculum. Its cold metal pressed against her. She tensed as her body involuntarily stiffened as he inserted the device. She felt a sharp pinch deep inside her, followed by cramping pressure that radiated through her pelvis. She gasped and her thighs quivered at the discomfort of the intrusion. A cold stretch remained as the device settled inside.

“Ok, that should do it.” The vet stepped back, wiped his hands, and left the room.

Carla lay strapped, her heart pounding, as she felt the alien presence of the tracker. The nurse returned to clean up the vet’s tools.

“When will I be released?” Carla asked in a shaky, desperate voice.

The nurse didn’t look up. “Your master will pick you up soon,” she said while continuing her work.

Later, Juma returned with the vet and the nurse. She hear their voices from the corridor as they approached. Carla tensed involuntarily as her thighs strained against the Velcro to close, but the straps held her legs wide as the nurse had left her. She exhaled a frustrated sigh, her cheeks burning, and fixed her gaze on the ceiling again.

The vet nodded at Juma, his grizzled face serious. “All done, vaccinations and that tracker device implanted,” he said, shaking his head. “This Western technology is so complicated. What was wrong with whips? They’re much cheaper.”

Juma frowned but nodded, while tapping on his phone. “We have to move with the times,” he said.

The vet leaned over his shoulder, curiosity creasing his brow. “What’s that about?” he asked.

Juma tilted the phone, showing a diagnostic display. “It’s the app for the tracker, I have paired it with the device you put in her. It runs checks to make sure it’s working. See this here, it does the diagnostics.”

The vet squinted, reading aloud, “One hundred percent operational.”

Juma grinned. “Great technology, seems reliable. No issues with the other slaves so far.”

Carla watched from the table. Her heart pounded, while she waited for someone to release her.

Finally the nurse came over, unstrapped the leather belts from Carla’s wrists and the Velcro from her legs, and helped her sit up.

Carla rose shakily, her legs wobbly from the stirrups, her naked body trembling under their gazes.

The nurse guided her to Juma, who cuffed her wrists behind her back, snapped the coffle chain onto her collar, and led her out.

As they walked back through Ngalawa Bay’s market, the tropical sun beating down on her naked skin, Juma pulled out his phone. “Let’s see this in action,” he said. A map appeared on the screen, streets and stalls laid out, a glowing dot marking Carla’s position, shifting slowly as they continued to walk. “See? Tracks you wherever you go. The other slaves have this too, keeps them motivated.”

Carla’s eyes widened, incredulity surging. “You’re tracking me right now?” she said, her voice cracking with incredulity as she watched the dot move in real-time as they walked.

“How does it ‘motivate’ them?” she asked. She was afraid of the answer, but her curiosity had won out.

“It has reward and discipline features, check it out,” Juma showed her the app, which had a button labeled “Discipline Subject.” He gave it a tap.

“Arghhh!” Carla cried out.

A sharp sting erupted inside her, searing her core. Overwhelmed from the pain, Carla dropped to her knees before Juma with a cry. Her cuffed hands jerked forward instinctively to catch her fall, but the metal cuffs painfully held them behind her. Her lower legs and knees throbbed from the sudden impact on the sandy path. The tracker’s pain was intense, but it was now accompanied by the sharp aches in her wrists and shins.

She glared at him, her breath ragged. “That hurts!” The pulsing agony in her pelvis mingled with the stinging burn in her wrists and the dull ache in her knees.

“Is it really that bad?” Juma looked down at her as if trying to determine if she was being dramatic. Carla glared up at him, fury and fear mixing, her body trembling on the sandy path. “Don’t worry, it is only used when it is necessary to discipline someone.”

“Come, let’s go,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Carla’s heart pounded, her throat tight. “What will we do next?” she asked, her voice shaky, struggling to scramble back to her feet with her cuffed hands behind her, fear coiling in her gut.

“Now it’s time for your branding.”

Assignment as a Fleet Slave

Carla’s first day at Tribal Dispatch began under the tropical sun. Her bare, still-tender feet found each step cautiously on the sandy paths of Ngalawa Bay as she gripped the rickety wooden cart beside Lisha. Its wheels creaked under plastic bags of milk, water, produce, and oats, labeled for locals and tourists. She had been told that her role as a Fleet Slave demanded constant motion, hauling goods across the area full-time. Her arms strained as she pulled the cart. Lisha had been assigned to point her in the right direction to get her started on her first day.

Lisha nodded toward a cottage, “That’s our stop.”

Carla took two plastic bags of yams and milk from the cart, knocked on the cottage door, and placed them before her. Juma had taught her the delivery protocol the previous day. And so she knelt while she waited for the door to open. Her bare knees sank into the sandy porch, while her skin prickled under the warm breeze.

An elderly man opened the door. His weathered face softened with a smile as he saw her.

“Your order, Master,” she said as she had been taught.

“Bring them to the kitchen, slave-girl,” he said kindly. He seemed frail, which likely explained his reliance on a delivery service.

Carla felt a mild sting at the word “slave-girl.” Juma had attached a plastic sleeve to her collar the previous day. It read ‘Carla, TD Slave, ID: 04’ with a QR code etched into it, clearly stating that she was a slave if it wasn’t already obvious. Juma had snapped the black plastic sleeve to her collar like one of those phone protectors. She would normally have felt angry about being labelled like a piece of inventory, but she had felt relieved because she had feared worse when Juma had told her she would be “branded.” Carla shuddered at the thought that actual branding could be done to slaves here.

Carla rose. Her skin tingled under his gaze as she carried the bags inside to set them on a worn counter.

“Good service, this,” he commented, satisfied.

Lisha, waiting on the street, grinned as Carla rejoined her.

“Nice work! Always ask for a rating after It helps keep you out of trouble.” She tapped her own collar.

Carla nodded. She was glad to be out of The Slave Academy, but she also remembered the conversation she had overheard between Victor and Juma. That she could be sent back at any time for a ‘refresher’ training. That place had been the worst. Getting good reviews would surely help to keep her out of there. But she did miss the company of the other slaves. She wondered what would become of Melissa, Hannah, and the others, if she would ever see them again.

“Also helps in the quarterly performance reviews.”

“The what? Performance reviews?” Carla couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was corporate Celtic Circuits all over again, but with no pay and no way of quitting.

“Yeah, I know,” Lisha rolled her eyes. “Ever since they started working with that company that gave them the trackers, they pretend they are running some mega corporation.”

Carla stared, the absurdity hitting her like a slap. Corporate reviews… for slaves. Even in this place, there was no escaping the spreadsheet.

Lisha seemed satisfied and left Carla to finish the deliveries, while she left to work on her own.

Back at the office, Juma had put a dozen or so bags on her cart to be delivered to addresses somewhere in this neighbourhood.

Each plastic parcel carried a yellow post-it note stapled through the top — scrawled address, customer name, and placed there in the order she had to deliver them.

Since she was new to this place, Juma had added a map to the cart. It was a dog-eared map of the area that Juma had photocopied for her, laminated and chained to her cart.

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The trail became increasingly rough and uneven the further out she went. She had to watch every step of her bare feet. The cart kept catching on roots and jerking her back, until the cottage finally appeared.

Carla rapped on the door, set the bag before her, and knelt. Footsteps approached, and a woman opened the door.

The woman’s eyes flashed with anger. “Half an hour late! Tribal Dispatch promises speed.”

Carla’s stomach tightened. “I’m new, Ma’am, I’m sorry — I got lost on the little path back there—”

“Excuses. Head to the ground.”

The worship position. Carla had refused this one once, and it had cost her dearly. After her day in the box, Zuri had ordered her into the worship position countless times until the revulsion wore off, until the word had lost all taste, until her body simply dropped the instant it was spoken. Like a reflex.

She bent forward and lowered her head to the ground.

“—my feet aren’t used to the rough ground yet, every stone—”

“This is unacceptable. You slaves need more discipline.”

Carla gulped as she placed her hands next to her head. The woman’s mind was already made up, there was no arguing with her. As a customer, this woman held mastery over her at this moment, so her instructions were to be followed.

The woman fetched a cane from within the cottage. When she returned, she found Carla positioned as ordered, ready for punishment.

The woman struck her butt-cheeks with the cane. Carla cried out from the sudden surge of pain. But Zuri had taught her well, and she didn’t break position. She hated that this woman could punish her on a whim. But Lisha and the other slaves had warned that such acts were customary. Though they were not the customer’s property, they could administer minor corrections. Accepting them was wiser than risking escalation. A complaint to Tribal Dispatch would likely end up in her ‘quarterly performance review.’

“Well?” the woman asked expectantly.

“Uhm… One!” Carla cried out.

They had drilled this at the Academy. Slaves paired off, tapping each other’s butt cheeks with light, pretend strokes while counting aloud, while Zuri circled around like a shark. Real cane blows had been dealt out by Zuri, but only on the girls who had slipped up in some way. Carla had been careful not to get herself into trouble again. And so she had never had to suffer the punishment protocol in earnest. Until now.

She hated the protocol so much: Being forced to count every stroke, to thank the woman for it, to help deliver her own punishment.

“Arrgh!” Another strike. “Two!” she said swiftly, then “Three, four, five!”

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, little one,” the woman said.

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you for correcting this slave, Ma’am,” Carla forced out, the words tasting like ash.

The woman dismissed her, and Carla decided it was best not to ask the angry woman for a rating on the app. She felt the afterglow of the butt strikes as she stumbled back to her cart.

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Carla rolled the empty cart into the shaded yard and let it clatter against the wall.

Nia was already there, sitting on the ground with her back against the cool mud-brick, eyes half-closed, savouring the few minutes of peace. Her own cart stood half-loaded beside her.

Carla’s legs gave out. She crouched at the faucet first, gulping mouthfuls of lukewarm water straight from the tap, then splashed her face and neck. The relief was instant and overwhelming.

She dropped down next to Nia with a groan, stretching her aching feet out in front of her. The blood rushed back into her soles; every bruise and cut from the day’s trails announced itself at once.

“Hey, Carla, how’s it going?” Nia said quietly, barely opening her eyes.

Carla managed a tired laugh. “I just want to sit for five minutes without someone telling me to move.”

Footsteps on concrete.

Rafiki appeared in the doorway carrying the last stack of bags for Nia’s cart. He dropped them in with a thud, then turned.

“Nia — go. These are late.”

“Yes, Master,” Nia sighed. Carla watched the young muscular black woman push herself up, grab the handles, and roll the cart out.

Rafiki’s gaze landed on Carla, still sprawled against the wall.

“Attention.”

The break was over.

Her body obeyed before her brain had even finished hearing the word. The Academy had drilled it into her with endless repetitions—in the yard, in the dark, in sleep-deprived exhaustion. It was as if the command no longer required conscious thought and went straight to muscles instead. Legs spread wide, hands locked behind her head, and her chest thrust forward. It didn’t matter that her legs were tired or that her feet were hurting. She hadn’t chosen to obey. She simply did.

Rafiki stepped close, and Carla could smell the scent of his cigarettes on him. Without warning, he dragged two rough fingers upward against the grain of her pubic hair.

Carla gasped in surprise at the intrusion of what she considered her private area.

“This is unacceptable. Red on white shows like a flag.” He ran the same fingers through the faint stubble in her armpit. “Both. Need to be smooth. Every day.”

Carla’s cheeks burned, but she kept the pose.

“You’ll report to me every morning for inspection until it becomes habit. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

Juma passed by to bring bags for the next deliveries. Rafiki snorted, eyes flicking up to Juma with open irritation. He pointed at Carla.

“You always have to try something new, eh? Like your impulse buy of this white girl. Now look — red on white, extra shaving, extra training, extra headache for me.”

Juma grinned. “Hey, I got her at a fifteen-percent discount. A bargain always needs a little polishing.”

Rafiki barked a laugh. “That polishing costs money, genius. She spent a whole week at the Academy instead of working. That’s seven days of lost deliveries. Plus daily grooming, plus her soft little feet will slow her down.”

Carla kept her hands locked behind her head, eyes fixed on the far wall, pretending they were talking about someone else. They knew she could hear them, right?

Juma just grinned, already halfway to the door. “Come on, old man. If we never tried anything new, we’d still be using donkeys. Besides…” he glanced back at Carla with a wink, “…the customers will like the novelty.”

Rafiki muttered something about “novelty not paying the bills,” but Juma was already gone.

He stroked the stubble once more, almost playful. “Not now, though. These deliveries are already late. Move.”

Carla dropped her arms, grabbed the handles, and pulled the cart back into the heat, glad to get away from this old creep who thought he could just grab her vagina like that.

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The cart’s wheels creaked under the bags as Carla headed for the next address. Her skin prickled under the tropical sun, and she occasionally felt the tracker in her vibrate calmly as if it wanted to remind her of its presence.

She reached the cottage, a modest home with a thatched roof and a small porch. Her heart pounded as she knocked with the crate before her. A middle-aged man opened the door, his face lit up with a smile when he saw Carla kneeling before him.

“Your order, Sir,” Carla said. She tried to keep her voice steady despite how nervous she was.

The man took the crate and set it inside. “Thank you. You’re new, aren’t you?”

Carla nodded. The man seemed friendly. And most importantly, he seemed to have been happy with her service. She looked at him with pleading eyes, “Yes. Please, Sir, can I have a good rating on the app?”

The man chuckled. “Of course, dear. You did fine.” He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and showed Carla the screen: Five stars.

“Thank you, Sir.” Carla was relieved for this small win. But then the IUD began to vibrate inside her. A warm hum spread through her core, like an adult toy meant to create arousal. Carla stood up to leave. She clenched her thighs as if this could stop the device as the arousal built. She forced a smile.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said again, her voice tight. The tracker continued to vibrate in her even as she walked away.

The hum was like a vibrator, slowly arousing her from the inside. She looked around nervously, hoping no one noticed her flushed cheeks or the way her breath quickened. The device hummed stronger, her skin flushed, and she felt a warm wave of lust through her aroused body. Carla was anxious, she realized that she had no way to stop this.

The warmth spread, and she was afraid she might climax, and people would notice. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to be naked in public like this.

She pulled her cart, trying to appear normal, as far as that was possible in this surreal place. After a few minutes, the buzzing subsided, leaving her horny and unsatisfied. Her mind churned with fury at how Tribal Dispatch sought to use her lust to manipulate her like this.

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Her next delivery took her to another cottage. She had to cross the market with a load of fish to get here, and the crowd had slowed her progress. She knelt before a stern woman.

“Your order, Ma’am,” Carla said, voice trembling.

The woman snatched the bag, her eyes cold. “Late again. This is the second time. I have the patience of a saint, but there’s a limit to everything.”

Carla’s stomach knotted, her voice shaky. “I’m new, Ma’am—it’s my first day. The last delivery must have been someone else.”

The woman grumbled, taking the bag in one hand and tapping her phone with the other. She went inside her house and pushed the door shut.

Carla, relieved to have avoided butt slaps this time, rose to leave. Then a sharp sting erupted inside her, searing her core, dropping her to her knees with a cry.

“Arghhh!” Carla screamed, partly in surprise, but mostly from white-hot agony. From a shock that ripped straight through her core.

Her legs buckled. She dropped hard to her knees, arms clutching her belly, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The pain pulsed again, shorter, but vicious, and she folded forward, forehead almost touching the floor, trembling, waiting for the next wave that mercifully never came.

Slowly, the pain subsided.

Carla breathed. In… out… in… out…

She forced air into her lungs, each breath shaky. When the last tremor finally left her limbs and her heart stopped pounding, she carefully pushed herself up with her unsteady arms, and rose, slowly, wobbling, back to her feet.

Carla stumbled back a step, cheeks burning, the realisation hitting harder than the shock itself.

The sting had been the bad rating — just like the vibrations had been for the good one.

Ratings really did mean everything.

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Carla stumbled back to the Tribal Dispatch hut. Her bare feet ached from the long barefoot walks, and the memory of the pain the tracker could give was still fresh. Moreover, the tracker in her had started buzzing every now and then. They were low, insistent pulses for a few seconds that seemed to grow sharper the later if got. She hated that thing, hated how it seemed to mock her and her inability to do anything about it. Her naked body trembled under the fading sun, sweat drying on her skin, and exhaustion weighed her down.

All this work, she thought, miles of dusty trails, burning sun, strangers’ eyes, and for what? To be locked back in that storage room until morning, only to do it all again tomorrow.

As she entered the Tribal Dispatch office, she saw Juma looking at her from his desk.

Juma greeted her with a frown, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her. “You’re an hour late, Carla. What’s the holdup?”

She huffed, planting her feet. “My feet are killing me! Why must I run barefoot? And everyone is staring because I’m naked out there!”

Juma shrugged, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “No one’s staring at you for being naked. Naked slaves are common here. They’re gawking because they’ve never seen a slave work so slow. Pick up the pace next time. If you return too late, the tracker will start shocking you.”

Carla stared, voice small. “What? This thing in me will just shock me while I’m out and about?”

“Eventually, yes. But first it gives warning buzzes so you have time to get back.”

Juma gestured to a sleek device she had noticed before. Carla’s eyes widened at a sybian bearing a dildo-like form, its glossy finish and smooth contours gleamed like a costly technical instrument.

“You need to recharge your tracker when you return at the end of the day,” he said. “This is also what tells the tracker that you have returned to base, and stops the daily countdown to the shocks.”

Carla gulped uneasily.

“Sit on it, Carla, so we can see if it works. There’s lube on the shelf. Use it if you want.”

Carla’s eyes widened. Her gaze darted to Juma’s face to check if he was serious. His steady expression confirmed he was—he expected her to use the device in front of him. Her stomach knotted, and she glanced at him again with incredulity. She didn’t want to debase herself like this, not here, before him. But disobedience was not an option. Not with the tracker in her that could shock her at any time someone was displeased with her, not with the prospect of another stint at The Slave Academy. Her heart pounded, and her voice trembled as she said, “Uhm… Ok…”

Swallowing her pride, Carla grabbed the lube, applied it, and slowly lowered herself onto the dildo. A shiver coursed through her naked body as it slid in. She felt a mild tug within her as if a magnetic mechanism in the tracker had aligned itself with the dildo. Shortly after, the dildo began to vibrate within her.

Juma nodded. “Stay on it until the vibrations stop. That’s the signal it’s fully charged.”

Carla nodded. Her thighs tensed as the device hummed softly. Juma returned to his desk, to type something at his computer. Rafiki sat at another, his fingers clacking, indifferent to her. The office was quiet, soft light from open windows casting shadows across the concrete floor.

The hum deepened, and Carla’s mind flashed to the previous evening, when she had glimpsed the sybian’s sleek, contoured seat. She had wondered if it was a reward for slaves, and a shudder had rippled through her at the thought of having to use it here. Now that she was sitting on it, she saw what it really was for: it recharged the hated device in her. Her cheeks burned as the vibrations intensified, as she felt it arouse her body against her wishes.

The arousal crept slowly but relentlessly, and she began to feel mild shivers of lust. These would have been soothing under normal circumstances if she was alone or with someone she cared for. But here, it seemed to be a pacifier to keep her occupied while she had to wait for the tracker being charged.

As time passed, the shivers of lust intensified, and the prospect of a climactic release build up within her. She tried to relax, breath deeply, think of something else. Her case, Tara, how she might get out of here. But her body was tired from a day of physical labor, and her mind was exhausted from the overwhelming number of new experiences.

Her mind drifted off, and she began to feel the lust of climax rising within her.

No, she thought, clenching her jaw. I won’t let this happen. She glanced over to Juma, to find out if he was watching her being masturbated like this. His eyes stayed on his screen. She breathed deeply, in and out, trying to quell the rising tide. The vibrations pulsed, teasing her nerves. Her thighs quivered against the smooth surface. Sweat beaded on her brow, and she nervously gripped her ankles. She pinched them in the hope that the mild pain would offset the rising lust, and make the budding climax go away.

Eventually, Juma looked back at her. A smile crossed his face as their eyes met. Carla looked away, her cheeks flushing. He shouldn’t flatter himself! She wasn’t thinking of him while this device forced her into arousal. The hum grew stronger, coiling low in her belly. She bit her lip, suppressing a gasp, her fingers digging into the sybian. Breathe, she urged herself, slow and steady. The vibrations shifted, teasing her closer to the edge.

The warmth continue to build up. Carla revolted at the thought of orgasming before these two men. So she forced slow breaths and focussed on the floor’s cracks before her to distract her from the rising tide within her. But the device’s hum relentlessly teased her closer to the edge. Eventually, a wave surged of lust surged, unstoppable, and despite her best efforts, she exhaled audibly, a soft moan escaping despite her clenched teeth, her thighs trembling as an orgasm washed over her. Her cheeks burned hotter, her hands clenching the sybian’s edges as she stared down at the floor, trying to ignore Juma and Rafiki in the office, her naked form exposed in the dim light.

She glanced at Juma again, heart pounding. He met her eyes, his smile soft—or was it a grin? Did he know she just had an orgasm? Fury mixed with humiliation, her gaze dropping. He shouldn’t think she was thinking about him.

Carla couldn’t bear this outrage any longer. It was unacceptable. She wouldn’t degrade herself before Juma and Rafiki. She was not an animal. She rose, feeling a magnetic tug in her core as the dildo disconnected from the tracker implanted in her and slid out, pulling away from the sybian.

“Arrrrgh!” Carla’s knees buckled as a sharp shock jolted her core, forcing a cry from her lips.

She dropped to the floor, clutching her abdomen. Another sting hit. It was agonizing and relentless. Her naked body trembled in the quiet office.

Juma rose from his desk. “Oh, right. If you break contact, the IUD shocks you to motivate you go back. It’s not a big deal. Just reinsert it to stop the jolts. You have to wait until the recharge cycle is complete.”

He walked over to her.

Desperate, Carla scrambled back onto the sybian and slid the dildo back in. She felt the tug in her again as the dildo magnetically connected to her tracker, and the pain stopped immediately. Carla sighed with relief, and wiped away the sweat from her forehead.

Juma stroked her head. “Well done,” he said. He gently scratched the back of her head.

“How long do I have to sit here?”





Juma paused, glancing back. “Until the device is fully charged. When it stops vibrating, then you can safely dismount.” He turned to leave again, but Carla’s voice rose, urgent.

“What if I have to do a delivery while I’m stuck on this?”

“Anyone here can release you from it early.”

“What if there is an emergency and no one is around to release me?”

“Don’t worry, there usually is someone around.”

“‘Usually?’ So what if no one is here?”

“You worry too much.”

“What if there is a blackout?”

“That rarely happens around here.” He took out his phone. “Looks like you are easily aroused, hm?” he murmured, amused. “You seem to be more sensitive.”

Juma tapped on his phone. Carla felt the vibrations soften. They were a gentle hum now vibrating within her. “I’ve dialed it down for you. Better like this.”

Carla looked away. She had no desire to discuss her orgasms, or arousal levels with him. Especially trapped on the sybian as she was right now. So she just murmured, “Mhmmm,” staring forward without looking at him.

With that, he gently touched her cheek, smiled reassuringly and turned to walk back to his desk, leaving Carla seated on the sybian, the hum of the device pulsing within her.

──────────────────────────────

After what felt like an eternity to Carla, the orange light finally switched to green, and the dildo in Carla stopped vibrating, signaling the end of the charging cycle.

The soft vibrations had remained, and kept Carla in a continuous daze of lust. It wasn’t fully unwelcome. It numbed Carla to her aching legs and soles. Carla sighed in relief and carefully eased off the sybian. She felt the slight tug again, as the magnetic connection between the dildo and her tracker separated. She tensed a bit but was relieved that there was no shock this time. The hated device in her had received its charge, and so she was free to detach from the charging station.

Her legs had been aching, but after sitting on that stupid device for so long, she felt a bit rested. Her bare skin still carried a sheen of sweat from the day. The weight of the steel collar on her neck reminded her that while she was free to detach from the charger, she was far from being a free woman.

Juma looked up from his computer, “Go over to the janitor Carla.”

The janitor was already at the door, thick fingers wrapped around a length of chain leash. He locked it to Carla’s collar with a practiced snap and marched her out the back of the mud-hut office into the late-afternoon glare.

A concrete yard, one rusted showerhead bolted to a pole, a single drain in the ground. The janitor locked the leash to a ring on the wall near the pipe.

“Wash,” he grunted. “And shave properly this time. That red stubble of yours shows up like a fire on snow. You have to look presentable to customers. Don’t forget your armpits. Kit’s on the shelf.”

He placed a cheap plastic razor and a half-used bar of soap there, then walked off.

Carla stood alone under the open sky, chain clinking whenever she moved. The water came out lukewarm and smelled of iron. She scrubbed the day’s sweat and dust from her skin, then lathered between her legs. The razor scraped over her sensitive skin, each stroke leaving her smoother. She shaved until not a single red hair remained. Armpits next. When she finished, the yard was empty. No one came.

Minutes stretched. The leash only let her pace three steps in any direction. Villagers passed on the far side of the fence, some glancing, some pretending not to see the naked white girl chained to a shower pipe.

Finally, she heard sandals slapping the concrete, and Juma appeared from around the corner. “Hey Carla, had a good shower? Turn around.”

Juma motioned her to turn around, which she did. By now she had gotten into the habit and placed her hands behind her back, ready to be cuffed. She heard the metallic clicks of the cuffs as they tightened around her, fixing her hands behind her back. He turned her around by guiding her by her shoulder with his hand, unlocked the leash from the ring, and gave it a tug.

“Come with me,” he said. Juma’s fingers tightened on the leash as he led her into the tropical dusk.

Hey everyone,

I hope you enjoyed the read!

Carla finally gets out of the Academy, meets her new best friend (the tracker), and discovers what a “first day on the job” really feels like when you’re barefoot, naked, and on a deadline.

What did you think of:

• The tracker,
• Carla’s first day at work and
• The new images?

As always, don’t forget to hit the poll and let me know your thoughts!

Thanks for reading!

Glad to see you haven't dropped the story. Grabesh is a fun place unless..... 5/5

From the inactivity on the site, it looks like many others haven't solved the lock-out yet.
Any rumors about what caused the problem?

Hoggle: Loved this chapter and the tracker I hope she has to mount it after every shift. Batteries usually lose charge faster the older they are. Conditioning a sex slave this way was a great idea. The pictures were great. I hope Carla really gets used more as a three hole sex slave with some of her repeat customers of any sex or age it furthers reinforces her status as a slave for at the next two years. One question I have for you are you still putting drafts up until the story is ready to release? Love the direction this story is going especially the conditioning through some pain and I hope alot of sex for s sex slave.

Hey cardman314,

cardman314 wrote: Mon Nov 24, 2025 12:44 am Glad to see you haven't dropped the story. Grabesh is a fun place unless..... 5/5

From the inactivity on the site, it looks like many others haven't solved the lock-out yet.
Any rumors about what caused the problem?

Thanks man, I'm really glad you’re still enjoying Grabesh (from a safe distance ). 5/5 means a lot!

Yeah, these two chapters fought me hard. I kept editing them and then fell deep into the AI-image rabbit hole. Worth it in the end, I think, but wow did it eat time. But finally stable diffusion technology is being put to good use.

Updates will probably slow to roughly two-week cycles soon. I have burned through the buffer I built while the site was down.

As for the outage: I don't know. The error was super generic and the host won’t share logs. Everyone should be able to log in again (there’s a big banner with password-reset instructions for guests). If anyone is still locked out, they can post in “Welcome & Status” even without logging in.

P.S.: Also, if it feels quieter than usual, it’s probably because a bunch of people still think the site is dead after those six weeks down. If you know any old regulars who disappeared, give them a nudge: we’re back!

Hey Lovethissite,

lovethissite wrote: Mon Nov 24, 2025 9:13 am Hoggle: Loved this chapter and the tracker I hope she has to mount it after every shift. Batteries usually lose charge faster the older they are. Conditioning a sex slave this way was a great idea. The pictures were great. I hope Carla really gets used more as a three hole sex slave with some of her repeat customers of any sex or age it furthers reinforces her status as a slave for at the next two years. One question I have for you are you still putting drafts up until the story is ready to release? Love the direction this story is going especially the conditioning through some pain and I hope alot of sex for s sex slave.

Glad the tracker and the charger got the seal of approval!

And yes, recharging is a permanent part of every shift. Tech always sounds simpler than it is. I wonder how having only one recharging station plays out when there are four slaves who need it.

Initially I was concerned that the tracker would be a bit out of place in the primitive Grabesh environment, but it was just too fun to not include in the story. So I came up with a bit of backstory to explain its origins. I have a feeling readers might not care about the backstory, but I've already put so much thought into it that I'll likely reveal it in a future chapter anyway.

Yes, I'm still posting on AO3. This forum was a bit behind due to the outage, but it has almost caught up. Carla's story is available here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/71365 ... /185723926

Thanks as always for the enthusiasm!