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Cargo of Desire – Part 2: Auction store visit

The private jet touched down at Dallas Executive Airport just after dusk on February 14, 2026. Sophia Langford stepped onto the tarmac in the same charcoal Armani suit she had worn that morning, though now it felt like borrowed armor—too crisp, too authoritative for the place she was about to enter. A black SUV waited, engine idling, driver silent. The air carried the faint metallic tang of jet fuel and something sweeter, almost floral, that she couldn’t place.

Evelyn Tate met her at the curb outside the discreet side entrance to the Prime Market Exchange. Mid-forties, tailored navy blazer over silk blouse, hair pulled into a low chignon that suggested control rather than vanity. Her smile was professional, practiced, the kind reserved for seven-figure clients.

“Ms. Langford, welcome to PME. I’m Evelyn Tate, senior acquisitions liaison. Buck Harlan spoke very highly of your visit this morning. Said you were particularly interested in end-to-end value chain integration.
”
Sophia returned the smile, cool and measured. “I like to see where the margins come from.”
Evelyn gestured toward the glass doors that slid open without a sound. “Then you’ve come to the right place. We move roughly five hundred units a day—auctions, direct placements, short-term rentals. Average daily revenue hovers around fifty million, depending on grade mix and international demand. Inventory turns over fast; we average three thousand in-house at any given time. Mix is roughly forty percent voluntary intakes—debts, lifestyle bets, thrill-seekers—thirty percent judicial conversions, twenty percent corporate transfers, and ten percent imports cleared through customs channels.”

They passed through a security vestibule lined with biometric scanners. Beyond it opened a vast atrium, softly lit, climate-controlled to the same 72 degrees Sophia had felt in the Houston hangar. Glass-walled corridors radiated outward like spokes. Through the nearest one she glimpsed rows of holding pens—open-barred, softly padded floors, women in various states of display. Some knelt in standard posture, others moved in slow, deliberate circles under handler supervision. The air hummed with low conversation, the occasional soft clink of chain, a muffled whimper quickly hushed.

“Volumes are steady,” Evelyn continued, leading her toward the central observation deck. “We process about two hundred new intakes daily, plus another three hundred in training or kenneling. Pleasure grades still dominate—sixty percent of sales—but pony girls are gaining traction, especially with Middle Eastern and European buyers. They fetch twenty to thirty percent premiums once harness-trained. Domestic service roles fill the rest; lower margins but reliable volume.”

Sophia’s gaze drifted to a pen where three women practiced high-step trots in matching leather bridles, knees lifted precisely, tails swaying from plugged bases. A handler clicked a remote; one girl arched harder, earning a murmured “Good form.” The casual praise landed like currency.

“Enslavement pathways are diversified,” Evelyn said, tapping a tablet to pull up a dashboard. “Voluntary conversions are our fastest-growing segment. We offer structured experiences—slave yoga retreats, weekend kenneling packages, full grading simulations. Actuarial models let us recognize deferred revenue on probabilistic outcomes. A woman books a ‘submission immersion’ week for ten thousand; we book an additional eight hundred on the eight percent historical conversion rate. GAAP-compliant, fully audited. It’s all about layering revenue streams.”

Sophia nodded, though her pulse had begun to tick upward. “Efficient.”
“Very.” Evelyn’s tone remained even, almost pedagogical. “The system rewards predictability. Buyers want certified provenance, consistent conditioning. We deliver both.”

They stepped onto the observation deck, a wide semicircle of tinted glass overlooking the main processing floor below. The space resembled a high-end distribution center crossed with a luxury spa—conveyor belts replaced by gentle ramps, overhead lighting soft but clinical, every station labeled with crisp signage: Intake, Biometric Eval, Role Orientation, Final Staging.
Sophia’s breath caught. The scale was industrial yet intimate; three parallel lines moved women through grading in near-silent efficiency. Naked bodies glided from station to station, handlers guiding with light touches rather than force. Collars already gleamed on most necks—black composite, LED bands pulsing blue or green.

Evelyn leaned on the railing beside her. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
They descended a short escalator to the intake floor. The first station was a raised platform ringed by privacy screens that could be retracted at will. A woman in her late twenties—former marketing executive, Sophia guessed from the posture—stood waiting, still clothed but visibly nervous. Two handlers flanked her, one male, one female, both in crisp white polos.

“Standard voluntary intake,” Evelyn explained. “She signed up for the ‘Graded Experience’ package—twenty-four-hour simulation, revocable consent. Most don’t revoke.”
The woman’s blouse came off first, folded neatly and placed in a labeled bin. Bra followed, then skirt, panties, shoes. Each item scanned and cataloged via wristband reader. Naked now, she stepped onto the platform’s central pad. Overhead lights brightened; a soft chime sounded.

“Biometric baseline,” Evelyn said. “Full-body scan for health markers, then arousal profiling.”
A technician adjusted padded restraints that rose from the floor—gentle cuffs at wrists and ankles, spreading her just enough for access. A slim probe extended from below, cool silicone tip brushing her inner thigh before sliding in with clinical precision. The woman gasped, then steadied. Numbers scrolled across a wall-mounted screen: heart rate 98, vaginal lubrication index rising, clitoral sensitivity peak at 7.2 newtons.

Sophia felt the echo in her own body—phantom pressure, unwelcome heat pooling low. She crossed her arms, nails digging into biceps.
“Endurance test next,” the technician announced. A second probe, thinner, pressed against her rear entrance. Dual stimulation began in slow waves. The woman’s knees trembled; her lips parted on a soft moan. The screen flashed: A- Pleasure Potential / B+ Endurance / Multi-orifice Viable.

“Solid mid-tier,” Evelyn noted. “She’ll orient toward pleasure with possible domestic crossover. We’ll badge her accordingly.”
The woman was released, legs shaky. A handler guided her to the next station: Role Orientation. There, under soft spotlights, she was walked through three poses—pleasure kneel (thighs wide, palms up), pony stance (high-step, hands clasped behind), domestic service bow (forehead to floor). Each held for thirty seconds while a handler scored compliance on a tablet.

Sophia watched the woman’s face cycle through embarrassment, concentration, then—unmistakably—a flicker of dark thrill when the pleasure kneel earned a murmured “Excellent arch.” The same flicker Sophia felt now, watching, imagining the cool floor under her own knees, the weight of appraisal.

“They adapt faster than you’d expect,” Evelyn said quietly. “The body learns before the mind catches up.”
Sophia swallowed. “And if she decides to stay?”
“Consent renewal at twenty-four hours. About twelve percent do. We book the rest as phantom revenue until then.”
They moved on. Another line processed a judicial intake—younger, defiant posture quickly corrected by a handler’s calm hand on her shoulder. A corporate transfer followed: mid-thirties, former VP, eyes down already. Each woman stripped, scanned, probed, posed, badged. Collars clicked into place; LEDs blinked to life with provisional grades.

Sophia’s suit felt suddenly constricting. Sweat gathered at the small of her back. She pictured her own profile scrolling across that wall screen—Sophia Langford: A+ / High-Yield Fantasy / Investor-Grade. The fantasy curled tighter, darker, more insistent.
Evelyn glanced at her. “Ready for the app demo? It’s where the real-time decisions happen.”
Sophia nodded once, voice steady despite the tremor in her thighs. “Show me.”

Evelyn led Sophia into a sleek conference room adjacent to the observation deck, the door hissing shut behind them with the soft finality of a vault. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the grading floor below, where the conveyor of naked vulnerability continued its inexorable churn. A polished mahogany table dominated the space, flanked by ergonomic chairs that screamed executive retreat. Evelyn motioned for Sophia to sit, then tapped her tablet to dim the lights and project a holographic dashboard onto the glass tabletop.

“Before we dive into the app, let’s talk numbers,” Evelyn said, her voice shifting into the smooth cadence of a quarterly earnings call. “At PME, we don’t just process bodies—we monetize potential. Our financial model is built on layered revenue recognition, blending tangible sales with probabilistic accruals. It’s all about turning curiosity into capital.”

Sophia leaned forward, elbows on the table, feigning analytical detachment. Internally, the scenes from the grading line replayed like a forbidden reel: probes gliding in, bodies arching, grades flashing like stock tickers. Her thighs pressed together under the table, a subtle friction she hoped Evelyn didn’t notice.

“Core revenue comes from auctions and direct sales,” Evelyn continued, swiping to a pie chart that bloomed in mid-air. “Five hundred units moved daily—pleasure primes averaging one-fifty K, ponies pushing two hundred with add-ons like custom harnesses or endurance certs. But that’s the low-hanging fruit. The real ingenuity is in our experiential programs. Slave yoga, grading simulations, vacation kenneling—these are entry points, not endpoints.”

A bar graph materialized: Slave Yoga Sessions (blue bars towering), Grading Experiences (green spikes), Vacation Packages (red plateaus). “Take a free woman booking a yoga retreat: five hundred per session. She bends, submits, edges under instructor command. Feels the thrill without the commitment. But our data shows twenty percent return for deeper immersion within six months, and five percent convert fully. We recognize deferred revenue on that probability—actuarial tables from our reinsurers peg it at two K extra per participant. It’s phantom profit, but fully GAAP-compliant. Human capital as an intangible asset, vesting on submission.”

Sophia almost smirked. Cooking the books with collared cooks. “And the vacation experiences?”
Evelyn’s eyes gleamed. “Week in the kennels: ten K upfront. Luxury pods, scheduled edging, roleplay orientations. Eight percent historical conversion rate—we book eight hundred in probabilistic revenue day one. If she walks out free? Fine, we’ve got her data for retargeting. If she stays? Jackpot: full auction value realized, minus experiential credits. It’s a funnel—curiosity in, commitment out.”

Line items scrolled: Churn Rates (escapes vs. permanents at 3:97), Acquisition Costs (marketing to thrill-seekers via discreet apps), ROI on Judicial Intakes (plea deals yielding 40% margins). “Corporate transfers are pure gold,” Evelyn added. “Failed execs as assets—write-offs for the sender, fresh inventory for us. We even have syndication deals: bundle low-grade domestics for bulk buyers, like shipping containers of desire.”

The irony twisted deeper in Sophia’s gut. Her family’s empire dealt in steel hulls and oil drums; this was flesh commodified, desires distilled into dollars. She imagined her own ledger entry: Sophia Langford: Deferred Revenue Potential – High. Conversion Probability: Rising. The thought sent a shiver through her, dark and electric.
“Risk management?” Sophia asked, voice steady.

“Insured against revocations—policies cover ninety percent of projected value. And our models are predictive: biometric data from grading predicts stickiness. High arousal index? Eighty percent retention bump.” Evelyn closed the holo with a flick. “It’s not slavery; it’s sustainable business.”
Sophia nodded, the room’s cool air doing nothing to quell the heat between her legs. Sustainable—until the fantasy consumes the financier.

Evelyn slid the tablet across the table to Sophia. “Now, the fun part: our proprietary inventory app. Real-time tracking, decision-making at your fingertips. As a potential investor, you get full access—search, filter, even designate roles for demo purposes.”

The screen lit up under Sophia’s touch, a clean interface with tabs: Inventory Overview, Search Filters, Metrics Dashboard, Role Assignment. Icons pulsed softly—collars, chains, badges stylized into corporate logos. She tapped Inventory Overview: a grid bloomed, thumbnails of women scrolling in endless rows. Each card showed a nude grading photo—front, side, rear—overlaid with stats: Grade A-, Pleasure Oriented, Compliance 92%. Bios peeked below: Pre-enslavement: Accountant, 28. Thrill Enrollment: Voluntary Grading Sim.
Sophia’s finger hovered, then swiped. The app was exhaustive: filters for status (Permanent Slave, Free Enrollee, Kenneled Private, Trainee), role (Pleasure, Pony, Domestic, Specialty), even origin (Voluntary, Judicial, Corporate). “We track everything,” Evelyn said, leaning in. “Photos update daily—progress shots during training. Metrics log arousal cycles, compliance scores, even buyer interest via views.”
Sophia searched “Free Women – Yoga Program.” Dozens appeared: women in mid-pose, naked on mats, bodies glistening, eyes distant with edged focus. One caught her eye—a brunette, early thirties, bio reading Marketing VP, Thrill-Seeker. Enrolled for Weekend Retreat. Arousal Index: Peak 88%. Grading photos showed her in pleasure kneel, thighs parted, a faint sheen between them.

“These are revocable?” Sophia asked, voice a touch huskier than intended.
“Until they’re not,” Evelyn replied with a wry smile. “App lets handlers monitor conversions in real-time. See the green border? Free status. Turns red on commitment.”
Sophia filtered to “Kenneled Privates”—owned slaves dropped off for boarding. Photos of caged women, some edging idly, others resting in fetal curls. Bios included owner notes: Return in 7 days. Maintain edging protocol. She imagined her own profile there, kenneled by whim, her executive suite traded for padded bars.

The power hummed under her skin. Evelyn tapped Role Assignment. “Investor perk: designate one unit’s future role. Demo only—triggers a reorientation session. Pick anyone; app pulls them for adjustment.”
Sophia’s heart thudded. She scrolled back to permanents, landing on a mid-twenties blonde: Former Accountant, 25. Judicial Intake: Debt Conversion. Current Grade: B+ Domestic. Grading photos captured her stripped vulnerability—pert breasts, smooth curves, eyes wide with fresh shock. Bio: Aptitude: High Sensitivity, Moderate Endurance. Suggested: Pleasure Upgrade.
She looks like me, Sophia thought, the resemblance uncanny—same sharp jaw, same height. In a bad merger. Her finger trembled as she selected. Options popped: Pleasure Prime, Pony Girl, Domestic Service, Labor Utility. Each with sub-menus: Endurance Training, Multi-Orifice Cert, Harness Fitting.

Sophia chose “Pleasure Prime.” A confirmation prompt: Designate Reorientation? Y/N. She tapped Y. The app chimed; an alert flashed: Unit 4729 Pulled for Adjustment. Live Feed Available.
Evelyn nodded approvingly. “Good choice. Watch.”
A video window opened: the blonde extracted from a holding pen, led to a private orientation room. Naked, collared, she knelt on a padded mat as a handler entered—male, mid-forties, clinical in white coat. “Reassignment: Pleasure Prime. Assume position.”
The girl hesitated, then spread her knees wide, hands behind back, chest thrust forward. The handler attached slim vibes—clitoral, internal—via remote clips. “Conditioning cycle: Edge and hold. Compliance earns badge upgrade.”

The devices hummed to life. The blonde’s lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as her hips rocked involuntarily. Metrics overlaid the feed: Heart Rate 110, Lubrication Rising, Edge Threshold 85%. She bit her lip, fighting the build, but her body betrayed her—nipples peaking, thighs quivering.

Sophia watched, transfixed. The power was intoxicating: one tap, and this woman’s fate shifted from drudgery to desire. Yet envy twisted in—What if I tapped my own name? She imagined the app pulling her profile: Sophia Langford, 25. Investor Status: Free. But for how long? Probes gliding in, handlers scoring her moans, her grade flashing A+.
Her free hand slipped under the table, pressing against her skirt’s seam. Damp heat met her palm; she stifled a breath. Evelyn pretended not to notice, but her eyes flicked knowingly.

“Feel free to explore more,” Evelyn said. “Search yourself—hypothetically, of course.”

Sophia typed her own name on impulse. No results, but the app suggested: Simulate Profile? Enter Biometrics for Projection. Fields appeared: Height, Weight, Sensitivity Estimate. She filled them mentally—5’8”, 130lbs, sensitivity off the charts right now—and hit enter in her mind. The fantasy bloomed: her own nude photos projected, grade pulsing A++ Heiress Prime / Fantasy Compliant / Auction-Ready.
The blonde on screen arched, a strangled “Please...” escaping before the vibes cut off. Denied. Reoriented.
Sophia’s fingers circled subtly, mirroring the denial. Shame burned, but so did the thrill. One tap away. The app’s power flipped inward—designating her own descent.
Evelyn cleared her throat. “Impressive, isn’t it? Care to try a personal demo?”
Sophia withdrew her hand, cheeks flushing. The question hung, sharp as a collar’s click.

The conference room lights brightened automatically as Evelyn stood, smoothing her blazer with the same unhurried precision she applied to every explanation. “That concludes the standard investor walkthrough,” she said, voice warm yet edged with invitation. “But since you’re here in person—and clearly invested—I can arrange a personalized demo. Nothing binding. Just a voluntary grading simulation. Full intake protocol: strip scan, biometric profiling, role orientation preview. You’ll feel the workflow firsthand. Purely educational.”

Sophia remained seated, the tablet still warm under her palm. The live feed of Unit 4729 had ended minutes earlier—the blonde now re-badged Pleasure Prime, LED collar pulsing a satisfied green as handlers led her toward staging. Sophia’s own pulse echoed it, a steady throb that had migrated from her chest to the insistent ache between her thighs. She hadn’t touched herself again, not openly, but the pressure of her crossed legs had become its own slow torment.

“Educational,” Sophia repeated, tasting the word. It sounded reasonable. Professional. The same way boardroom decisions sounded reasonable until the ink dried and the consequences arrived.

Evelyn tilted her head, studying her. “Most investors who reach this point decline. A few accept. The ones who accept usually leave with sharper questions—and, occasionally, a revised business plan.” A small, knowing smile. “We have a private suite upstairs. Discreet entrance, revocable consent at every step. You can stop at any moment. Or not.”

Sophia’s gaze drifted to the window. Below, the grading lines continued their quiet ballet: another woman stepping onto the platform, clothes folding away like shed certainties. The overhead lights caught the faint sheen of sweat on skin, the subtle tremor of anticipation. Sophia imagined herself there—Armani suit surrendered to a labeled bin, heels clicking across the pad, restraints rising with mechanical courtesy. The probe’s first cool touch. The screen flashing her metrics for strangers to read. Arousal index: exceptional. Conversion probability: climbing.
Her mouth felt dry. She set the tablet down carefully, as if it might bite. “And if I say yes?”

“You sign a short waiver—standard language. Then we begin. Intake in ten minutes. You’ll be back in your car within the hour, unless…” Evelyn let the sentence trail, light as a collar chain.
Sophia stood. The movement sent a fresh pulse of heat through her core; her panties clung uncomfortably, evidence she could no longer pretend was merely professional curiosity. She smoothed her skirt, straightened her spine, the gestures automatic. Executive posture. Control.

But control felt thinner now, a membrane stretched tight over something darker, hungrier.
She met Evelyn’s eyes. “Show me the suite.”
Evelyn nodded once, no triumph in the gesture, only quiet efficiency. “This way.”
They left the conference room together, footsteps soft on the carpeted corridor. Sophia’s hand brushed the railing as they ascended the private stairwell. The metal was cool against her palm, grounding. She pictured that same hand cuffed behind her back, the same coolness replaced by leather and restraint.

At the top, a plain door waited—unmarked, biometric lock. Evelyn pressed her thumb to the pad; it clicked open.
Inside: a smaller version of the grading platform, softly lit, restraints retracted into the floor like polite secrets. A wall screen stood dark but ready. A single collar rested on a side table—black composite, LED dormant, waiting.
Sophia stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind her with a soft pneumatic sigh.
She turned to Evelyn. “Just to understand the metrics.”

“Of course,” Evelyn replied, already keying something into her tablet. “We’ll start with the basics. Clothing bin is to your left.”
Sophia’s fingers found the top button of her blouse. She hesitated, not from doubt, but from the sudden, electric awareness of how deliberate the act would be. One button. Then another. Silk parting like a promise kept too long.

The fantasy had followed her here, patient, inevitable.
Now it was no longer just a fantasy.
It was procedure.