Cargo of desire
Posted: Sat Feb 14, 2026 5:19 pm
Cargo of Desire
Sophia Langford adjusted the lapels of her charcoal Armani suit as the private jet touched down on the auxiliary runway of Langford International's new subsidiary facility outside Houston. February 14, 2026—Valentine's Day, though the irony felt less romantic than surgical. The board had approved the acquisition of AeroServitude Logistics six months earlier, a boutique air-freight outfit specializing in "regulated human cargo." Profit projections were obscene: premium pleasure slaves fetched margins that made container shipping look like charity. Sophia had volunteered for the site visit. "Due diligence," she'd told the CFO with her trademark cool smile. Internally, the reason was simpler and far less defensible: curiosity that had metastasized into something hot and insistent.
The operations manager waiting on the tarmac was a broad-shouldered man in khakis and a polo embroidered with the Langford logo over a stylized collar motif. "Ms. Langford? Buck Harlan, ops director. Welcome to the sharp end of the supply chain." His drawl was pure West Texas, friendly but edged with the casual authority of someone who weighed naked women like freight tonnage.
They walked through climate-controlled corridors that smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm skin. Buck gestured like a tour guide at a luxury car plant. "Air only, per international regs. No ocean crossings—too many variables. Humidity fluctuations, piracy risks, motion sickness complaints. FAA mandates full environmental control: 72 degrees, 45% humidity, HEPA filtration so the merchandise arrives showroom-fresh. We run Boeing 767 freighters retrofitted with modular slave pods. Think premium economy, but with better restraints."
They entered the main hangar bay. Rows of individual transport cages lined the walls—polished aluminum frames, transparent Lexan fronts, each unit the size of a generous dog crate but contoured for human occupancy. Inside, thirty-two top-graded pleasure slaves waited for loading. All naked, all collared with slim black bands that pulsed soft blue LEDs displaying vital stats and certification codes. Some knelt in the standard display posture: knees apart, hands behind backs, eyes down. Others, under edging protocol, rocked subtly against built-in silicone stimulators, soft whimpers echoing off metal.
Sophia stopped before the first cage. The occupant was a lithe brunette, mid-twenties, skin glistening under LED spotlights. Her grade badge—projected holographically above the collar—read A++ Pleasure Prime / Endurance Certified / Multi-orifice Trained. She met Sophia's gaze for a split second before dropping it, thighs trembling as the embedded vibe cycled low.
"See here," Buck said, tapping a tablet. "Each pod's got biometric monitoring: heart rate, arousal index, lubrication levels. We keep 'em at 85% edge threshold for transit—prevents desensitization, maintains product freshness. Auto-feeders dispense nutrient gel; waste systems are self-cleaning. Like shipping live lobster, but with better compliance metrics."
Sophia felt heat crawl up her neck. She crossed her arms tighter, hoping to hide the way her nipples had tightened against silk. "And the... performance during flight?"
"Conditioned response," Buck replied without missing a beat. "Pleasure grades are pre-programmed for low-stimulus arousal. Long-haul flights—say, Houston to Dubai—run eight to twelve hours. We cycle the vibes on randomized patterns. Keeps the cargo pliant, eager on arrival. Buyers love that 'fresh off the plane' glow. Cost-effective too: no need for in-flight attendants beyond basic checks. Drones handle most servicing."
A few cages down, movement caught her eye. One pod door stood ajar—maintenance access, apparently—and a uniformed crewman, mid-thirties, lean and quietly confident, had stepped inside. A petite Asian slave, A+ High-Yield Orgasmic / Service Certified, knelt before him on the contoured floor. Her hands were cuffed behind her back in the transit position, but her mouth worked steadily, lips sealed around him with practiced rhythm. The crewman leaned against the pod wall, one hand resting lightly on her head, eyes half-closed in professional appreciation. Soft, wet sounds carried clearly across the bay.
Buck noticed Sophia's fixed stare and gave a low chuckle. "Employee satisfaction scores in this division are through the roof, Ms. Langford. Part of the perks package—select inventory gets cleared for short-term use before shipment. Nothing permanent, nothing that affects grading or resale value. Just a quick morale booster. Keeps turnover low and productivity high. HR calls it 'inventory utilization incentive.' Board approved it last quarter—said it improved on-time performance by eleven percent. Pilots, loaders, even the drone techs get to pick once per shift. Builds loyalty. You know how it is: happy crew, happy cargo."
The slave's head bobbed smoothly, no hesitation, no reluctance; her collar LED flickered in sync with her breathing. The crewman murmured something low—praise, perhaps—and she hummed in response, the vibration visible in the way his thighs tensed. Sophia's mouth went dry. She could almost feel the phantom stretch of her own lips, the weight of a hand guiding her, the casual indifference of being used like equipment before being crated and shipped. The scene unfolded with the same bureaucratic calm Buck used to discuss fuel burn rates: efficient, sanctioned, utterly normalized.
Buck continued as if nothing extraordinary were happening. "We badge 'em post-grading—standard corporate protocol. Logo here," he pointed to a faint tattoo outline on the brunette's hip in the next cage, "confirms provenance. Like a VIN number on a Rolls-Royce. Buyers pay extra for certified chains of custody. No knock-offs, no gray-market defects."
Sophia forced a nod. "Efficient. And the cages... ergonomic?"
"Human-factors engineered. Contoured backrest reduces pressure points, adjustable restraints for limb positioning. We can configure for pony posture, spread-eagle display, even fetal curl for nervous cargo. Safety first—can't have bruising on premium assets." He chuckled dryly. "Though some buyers request 'travel wear'—light bruising adds character, they say. Market segmentation."
The irony landed like a slap: her family's tankers carried crude oil; this division carried living desire, shrink-wrapped and certified. Sophia stepped closer to a cage holding a redhead whose fingers—permitted under protocol—teased slow circles over her clit, eyes glassy with denied release. The woman's collar display flashed: A+ / High-Yield Orgasmic / Edging Compliant. Sophia's own core clenched in sympathy—or envy.
"Why edging specifically?" she asked, voice steady despite the pulse between her legs.
"Quality control," Buck said. "Orgasm on arrival spikes resale value—shows the conditioning held. We log every near-miss; data feeds back to training farms. Think predictive analytics for pussy performance."
Sophia almost laughed—almost. The corporate jargon wrapped around raw objectification like gift paper on a whip. She pictured herself in that cage: suit stripped away, body scanned, graded, badged. Langford International heiress reduced to inventory. A+ cunt, premium shipping fee included. The fantasy uncoiled low in her belly, dark and slick.
They moved down the row. Buck pointed out features with salesman pride: "This one's got the new remote electro-pads—buyer can zap from an app. Compliance tool and party trick. And over here, the luxury pods: heated floors, ambient soundscapes—waves, chains clinking, soft auctioneer chants on loop. Calms the nervous ones."
A soft moan rippled through the hangar as several slaves hit synchronized edge peaks. Sophia's thighs pressed together involuntarily. She could smell them now—musk and faint citrus lube. Her mind supplied the details she hadn't asked for: the click of locks, the hum of vibrators, the casual way Buck would log her own vitals if she ever slipped inside one. Pulse 112, arousal index 92%, lubrication exceptional. Ship her premium.
Buck led her to a small observation platform overlooking the loading zone. From here the entire bay unfolded like a living spreadsheet: slaves cataloged, conditioned, prepared. One cage featured a blonde in full display mode—knees wide, back arched, a thin silver chain connecting nipple clamps to her collar ring. Every shallow breath tugged the chain, eliciting tiny gasps that the biometric sensors dutifully recorded.
"Watch this," Buck said, keying something into his tablet. The blonde's pod stimulator ramped up in a slow crescendo. Her hips bucked once, twice; a strangled whimper escaped before the device cut off, leaving her trembling at the brink. The LED above her collar flashed green: Edge Cycle Complete / Compliance 98%. "See? Data-driven. We fine-tune the algorithms daily. Reduces post-flight recovery time by twenty-three percent."
Sophia gripped the railing. The sight was clinical, yet obscene in its precision. She imagined her own body wired the same way—every twitch measured, every denial logged, her pleasure reduced to a quarterly report. The thought should have repelled her. Instead it settled deeper, a dark current pulling at her resolve.
They descended the platform and continued the circuit. Buck paused at a row of empty pods awaiting calibration. "These are the new modular units. Quick-swap interiors—pleasure, labor, transport configs in under ten minutes. Scalable. We’re piloting a subscription model for frequent buyers: lease the pod, lease the slave, full logistics included. Recurring revenue stream."
Sophia traced a finger along the cool aluminum frame of an open cage. The interior padding was soft, almost inviting. She could picture sliding inside, knees folding, wrists guided into cuffs, the door sealing with a soft pneumatic sigh. Just to test the ergonomics, she thought. Purely professional.
By the time they exited the bay, Sophia's panties were damp enough to cling uncomfortably. Buck escorted her to a conference room overlooking the tarmac, offered coffee she declined. "Any questions, Ms. Langford?"
"Plenty," she said. "But I'll need more context on the acquisition side. Grading protocols, auction integration. I think... a visit to one of the affiliated centers would help. Due diligence on end-to-end value chain."
Buck grinned. "Smart. Affiliated hub in Dallas does VIP investor tours. I can set it up—tomorrow?"
"Today if possible." Her voice was calm, executive. Inside, something reckless uncoiled. "I'd like to see the grading process firsthand. Understand what we're selling."
He raised an eyebrow but nodded. "I'll make the call. They do private demos for major stakeholders. Harmless walkthrough—strip scans, inspection stations, performance evals. All observational."
Sophia smiled thinly. "Observational. Perfect."
As the limo pulled away from the hangar, Sophia leaned back, legs crossing to press against the ache. Images replayed: cages, collars, badges, the crewman receiving his pre-flight perk with the same nonchalance Buck discussed KPIs. She slipped a hand under her skirt, fingers finding slick heat through silk. Slow circles, mirroring the redhead's. Shame burned deliciously.
Just research, she told herself. Understanding the product.
But the fantasy had teeth now. She imagined signing in at the auction center, handing over her ID, hearing the handler say, "Standard voluntary trial run, ma'am. Harmless. Just to feel the workflow." The pen in her hand. The collar mock-up on the table, cool against her fingertips.
The city blurred past the tinted windows. Sophia's breath hitched as she edged closer, denying release the way the cargo did. Tonight—she would walk into the grading room. Observe. Ask questions. Perhaps... step onto a platform. For educational purposes.
The decision hovered, sharp and inevitable.
As the driver announced arrival at the private airstrip for the connecting flight, Sophia withdrew her hand, licked her fingers clean with clinical detachment. She straightened her suit, smoothed her hair.
Fantasies were harmless.
Until they weren't.
Sophia Langford adjusted the lapels of her charcoal Armani suit as the private jet touched down on the auxiliary runway of Langford International's new subsidiary facility outside Houston. February 14, 2026—Valentine's Day, though the irony felt less romantic than surgical. The board had approved the acquisition of AeroServitude Logistics six months earlier, a boutique air-freight outfit specializing in "regulated human cargo." Profit projections were obscene: premium pleasure slaves fetched margins that made container shipping look like charity. Sophia had volunteered for the site visit. "Due diligence," she'd told the CFO with her trademark cool smile. Internally, the reason was simpler and far less defensible: curiosity that had metastasized into something hot and insistent.
The operations manager waiting on the tarmac was a broad-shouldered man in khakis and a polo embroidered with the Langford logo over a stylized collar motif. "Ms. Langford? Buck Harlan, ops director. Welcome to the sharp end of the supply chain." His drawl was pure West Texas, friendly but edged with the casual authority of someone who weighed naked women like freight tonnage.
They walked through climate-controlled corridors that smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm skin. Buck gestured like a tour guide at a luxury car plant. "Air only, per international regs. No ocean crossings—too many variables. Humidity fluctuations, piracy risks, motion sickness complaints. FAA mandates full environmental control: 72 degrees, 45% humidity, HEPA filtration so the merchandise arrives showroom-fresh. We run Boeing 767 freighters retrofitted with modular slave pods. Think premium economy, but with better restraints."
They entered the main hangar bay. Rows of individual transport cages lined the walls—polished aluminum frames, transparent Lexan fronts, each unit the size of a generous dog crate but contoured for human occupancy. Inside, thirty-two top-graded pleasure slaves waited for loading. All naked, all collared with slim black bands that pulsed soft blue LEDs displaying vital stats and certification codes. Some knelt in the standard display posture: knees apart, hands behind backs, eyes down. Others, under edging protocol, rocked subtly against built-in silicone stimulators, soft whimpers echoing off metal.
Sophia stopped before the first cage. The occupant was a lithe brunette, mid-twenties, skin glistening under LED spotlights. Her grade badge—projected holographically above the collar—read A++ Pleasure Prime / Endurance Certified / Multi-orifice Trained. She met Sophia's gaze for a split second before dropping it, thighs trembling as the embedded vibe cycled low.
"See here," Buck said, tapping a tablet. "Each pod's got biometric monitoring: heart rate, arousal index, lubrication levels. We keep 'em at 85% edge threshold for transit—prevents desensitization, maintains product freshness. Auto-feeders dispense nutrient gel; waste systems are self-cleaning. Like shipping live lobster, but with better compliance metrics."
Sophia felt heat crawl up her neck. She crossed her arms tighter, hoping to hide the way her nipples had tightened against silk. "And the... performance during flight?"
"Conditioned response," Buck replied without missing a beat. "Pleasure grades are pre-programmed for low-stimulus arousal. Long-haul flights—say, Houston to Dubai—run eight to twelve hours. We cycle the vibes on randomized patterns. Keeps the cargo pliant, eager on arrival. Buyers love that 'fresh off the plane' glow. Cost-effective too: no need for in-flight attendants beyond basic checks. Drones handle most servicing."
A few cages down, movement caught her eye. One pod door stood ajar—maintenance access, apparently—and a uniformed crewman, mid-thirties, lean and quietly confident, had stepped inside. A petite Asian slave, A+ High-Yield Orgasmic / Service Certified, knelt before him on the contoured floor. Her hands were cuffed behind her back in the transit position, but her mouth worked steadily, lips sealed around him with practiced rhythm. The crewman leaned against the pod wall, one hand resting lightly on her head, eyes half-closed in professional appreciation. Soft, wet sounds carried clearly across the bay.
Buck noticed Sophia's fixed stare and gave a low chuckle. "Employee satisfaction scores in this division are through the roof, Ms. Langford. Part of the perks package—select inventory gets cleared for short-term use before shipment. Nothing permanent, nothing that affects grading or resale value. Just a quick morale booster. Keeps turnover low and productivity high. HR calls it 'inventory utilization incentive.' Board approved it last quarter—said it improved on-time performance by eleven percent. Pilots, loaders, even the drone techs get to pick once per shift. Builds loyalty. You know how it is: happy crew, happy cargo."
The slave's head bobbed smoothly, no hesitation, no reluctance; her collar LED flickered in sync with her breathing. The crewman murmured something low—praise, perhaps—and she hummed in response, the vibration visible in the way his thighs tensed. Sophia's mouth went dry. She could almost feel the phantom stretch of her own lips, the weight of a hand guiding her, the casual indifference of being used like equipment before being crated and shipped. The scene unfolded with the same bureaucratic calm Buck used to discuss fuel burn rates: efficient, sanctioned, utterly normalized.
Buck continued as if nothing extraordinary were happening. "We badge 'em post-grading—standard corporate protocol. Logo here," he pointed to a faint tattoo outline on the brunette's hip in the next cage, "confirms provenance. Like a VIN number on a Rolls-Royce. Buyers pay extra for certified chains of custody. No knock-offs, no gray-market defects."
Sophia forced a nod. "Efficient. And the cages... ergonomic?"
"Human-factors engineered. Contoured backrest reduces pressure points, adjustable restraints for limb positioning. We can configure for pony posture, spread-eagle display, even fetal curl for nervous cargo. Safety first—can't have bruising on premium assets." He chuckled dryly. "Though some buyers request 'travel wear'—light bruising adds character, they say. Market segmentation."
The irony landed like a slap: her family's tankers carried crude oil; this division carried living desire, shrink-wrapped and certified. Sophia stepped closer to a cage holding a redhead whose fingers—permitted under protocol—teased slow circles over her clit, eyes glassy with denied release. The woman's collar display flashed: A+ / High-Yield Orgasmic / Edging Compliant. Sophia's own core clenched in sympathy—or envy.
"Why edging specifically?" she asked, voice steady despite the pulse between her legs.
"Quality control," Buck said. "Orgasm on arrival spikes resale value—shows the conditioning held. We log every near-miss; data feeds back to training farms. Think predictive analytics for pussy performance."
Sophia almost laughed—almost. The corporate jargon wrapped around raw objectification like gift paper on a whip. She pictured herself in that cage: suit stripped away, body scanned, graded, badged. Langford International heiress reduced to inventory. A+ cunt, premium shipping fee included. The fantasy uncoiled low in her belly, dark and slick.
They moved down the row. Buck pointed out features with salesman pride: "This one's got the new remote electro-pads—buyer can zap from an app. Compliance tool and party trick. And over here, the luxury pods: heated floors, ambient soundscapes—waves, chains clinking, soft auctioneer chants on loop. Calms the nervous ones."
A soft moan rippled through the hangar as several slaves hit synchronized edge peaks. Sophia's thighs pressed together involuntarily. She could smell them now—musk and faint citrus lube. Her mind supplied the details she hadn't asked for: the click of locks, the hum of vibrators, the casual way Buck would log her own vitals if she ever slipped inside one. Pulse 112, arousal index 92%, lubrication exceptional. Ship her premium.
Buck led her to a small observation platform overlooking the loading zone. From here the entire bay unfolded like a living spreadsheet: slaves cataloged, conditioned, prepared. One cage featured a blonde in full display mode—knees wide, back arched, a thin silver chain connecting nipple clamps to her collar ring. Every shallow breath tugged the chain, eliciting tiny gasps that the biometric sensors dutifully recorded.
"Watch this," Buck said, keying something into his tablet. The blonde's pod stimulator ramped up in a slow crescendo. Her hips bucked once, twice; a strangled whimper escaped before the device cut off, leaving her trembling at the brink. The LED above her collar flashed green: Edge Cycle Complete / Compliance 98%. "See? Data-driven. We fine-tune the algorithms daily. Reduces post-flight recovery time by twenty-three percent."
Sophia gripped the railing. The sight was clinical, yet obscene in its precision. She imagined her own body wired the same way—every twitch measured, every denial logged, her pleasure reduced to a quarterly report. The thought should have repelled her. Instead it settled deeper, a dark current pulling at her resolve.
They descended the platform and continued the circuit. Buck paused at a row of empty pods awaiting calibration. "These are the new modular units. Quick-swap interiors—pleasure, labor, transport configs in under ten minutes. Scalable. We’re piloting a subscription model for frequent buyers: lease the pod, lease the slave, full logistics included. Recurring revenue stream."
Sophia traced a finger along the cool aluminum frame of an open cage. The interior padding was soft, almost inviting. She could picture sliding inside, knees folding, wrists guided into cuffs, the door sealing with a soft pneumatic sigh. Just to test the ergonomics, she thought. Purely professional.
By the time they exited the bay, Sophia's panties were damp enough to cling uncomfortably. Buck escorted her to a conference room overlooking the tarmac, offered coffee she declined. "Any questions, Ms. Langford?"
"Plenty," she said. "But I'll need more context on the acquisition side. Grading protocols, auction integration. I think... a visit to one of the affiliated centers would help. Due diligence on end-to-end value chain."
Buck grinned. "Smart. Affiliated hub in Dallas does VIP investor tours. I can set it up—tomorrow?"
"Today if possible." Her voice was calm, executive. Inside, something reckless uncoiled. "I'd like to see the grading process firsthand. Understand what we're selling."
He raised an eyebrow but nodded. "I'll make the call. They do private demos for major stakeholders. Harmless walkthrough—strip scans, inspection stations, performance evals. All observational."
Sophia smiled thinly. "Observational. Perfect."
As the limo pulled away from the hangar, Sophia leaned back, legs crossing to press against the ache. Images replayed: cages, collars, badges, the crewman receiving his pre-flight perk with the same nonchalance Buck discussed KPIs. She slipped a hand under her skirt, fingers finding slick heat through silk. Slow circles, mirroring the redhead's. Shame burned deliciously.
Just research, she told herself. Understanding the product.
But the fantasy had teeth now. She imagined signing in at the auction center, handing over her ID, hearing the handler say, "Standard voluntary trial run, ma'am. Harmless. Just to feel the workflow." The pen in her hand. The collar mock-up on the table, cool against her fingertips.
The city blurred past the tinted windows. Sophia's breath hitched as she edged closer, denying release the way the cargo did. Tonight—she would walk into the grading room. Observe. Ask questions. Perhaps... step onto a platform. For educational purposes.
The decision hovered, sharp and inevitable.
As the driver announced arrival at the private airstrip for the connecting flight, Sophia withdrew her hand, licked her fingers clean with clinical detachment. She straightened her suit, smoothed her hair.
Fantasies were harmless.
Until they weren't.