Went West - Part 1
Posted: Sun Jun 21, 2020 9:46 pm
Went West - Part 1
(The story picks up immediately after the end of Westbound. Just the introduction so everyone can see where it's going - for now. This will certainly change. No sex as such, but some humiliation - sex comes in the next part.)
Remember when I said that there are a lot of bad things about being a slave but near the top of my list is the hours? Let me say for the record that the item at the very top of the list is the wardrobe.
By wardrobe, of course, I mean no actual wardrobe at all other than one’s birthday suit. I’m a free woman, and until very recently I have not spent any time at all wandering around naked in public.
But over the course of the past twelve hours I’ve spent every minute of it completely naked, my entire body on display to anyone who happens to walk by. Worse, I’ve spent it in a state called slave naked, meaning that I have no clothing at all - not even shoes - except for a metal collar worn around my neck.
It gets worse (when it comes to slavery, I’ve found, it always gets worse): up until about an hour ago I was being transported in the back of a large semi-truck, inside a cage, so that the only people who could see me were my fellow naked slaves and the transport personnel, who were used to female nudity (although not unappreciative of it, if you know what I mean). It’s really difficult; it’s hard to walk and try to cover myself at the same time, and when I’m restrained even that is impossible. And then there are the looks, the comments, and the roaming hands of the entitled handlers.
Now, I was out in public, where anyone and everyone could see me, riding a shuttle bus through the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico. The shame and dread are intense, I feel like I have a permanent blush burning my face.
Were there others on the bus? Of course there were. Aside from the driver (an employee who seemed to be a bit jaded about the exposed female flesh he transported) there were five other people on the bus, making three couples.
The first couple was the oddest pair I’d seen so far: a young, handsome white guy - looked like a college kid - and an attractive, fit white lady with reddish-brown hair who appeared to be literally twice his age. She seemed lost in thought, while he looked really uncomfortable and possibly even embarrassed as he sat on the plastic bus bench… though I did see him sneak a few looks at me. She knelt in front of him, as slave naked as I was - more so because she had all of her pubic hair removed - while he held her leash loosely in one hand.
The second couple were a couple only in the most literal sense: one was an HCI employee, a young white woman wearing the standard uniform of logo’d polo shirt and khaki pants, her attention given over entirely to her mobile phone. The other, slave naked and kneeling as expected, was a young dark-skinned black woman, staring at the empty bench across from her, completely checked out. She was very pretty, thin with small breasts but in good shape with long hair that (I suspected) had to be a wig; it’ll be interesting to see how that goes.
I let out a small sigh and glanced back at my own accompaniment, a very young college student named Amy who was acting as my assistant producer - called a “handler” in the journalism business, and yes I get the irony, thank you - for Central & Western News Service (a.k.a. CNS), a regional media company who provides a lot of “infotainment” pieces to various online subscription services. Amy had started out as my technician, providing me the camera recording glasses we were both wearing, for example. After I had gotten ensnared in my current assignment (see my previous story, Westbound, for the gory details), she had asked to step into a “real” journalism role. My editorial contact and chief producer Marla had agreed (probably because Amy would work very cheap) and here we were. She’s not a bad kid, as kids go, just way too enthusiastic, really gets into the spirit of the thing. She’s not unattractive either, light blonde hair, smooth white skin, a sweet almost cherubic face with rosy, dimpled cheeks, and a body type the opposite of mine, curvy almost to point of being chubby with large, pillowy breasts.
Lastly, I suppose I should describe myself: Francesca “Frankie” Ontkean, 29 years old, 5’ 7”, 124 lbs give or take, 34B bust, 34-inch hips, white, fair skin, brown hair cut in a short bob for ease of maintenance, brown eyes, no piercings, tattoos, scars or birthmarks. I keep myself in good shape with running and yoga, and watch what I eat, so physically I look a bit younger than almost thirty (or at least I like to think so).
My earlier story will tell you everything you need to know about me, so I’ll just refresh your memory on why I’m here: I’m acting as a sort of undercover reporter, doing a first-person experiential story on what it’s like to go through slave training, although not by choice. Through a series of unlikely events, I found myself railroaded into six months of “voluntary” indentured servitude, and the criminal assholes who did it to me made sure to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s - the fuckers - so I’m stuck with it. I didn’t even get a hearing before a judge, but he signed the order anyway; I’m sure that was a “favor” to Linda, the runaway slave who set me up. And my idiot employer went along! I still can’t believe Marla fell for it. I mean, come on: I was investigating an industry notorious for “disappearing” slaves and even free women, and out of the blue I decide to indenture myself, and she never even tried to get me on the phone to confirm it.
I sighed. When I get out of this I’m going to… well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I have six months to think about it.
Speaking of thinking about it, why did I go along with this instead of raising more hell?
I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer to that just yet.
The only stop was obedience school. Nothing special, this is the same Petsmart-grade school that HCI typically includes as part of the package deal for a “starter” slave. They’re not going to turn me into some sort of Tales of the Arabian Nights harem concubine, just teach me the basics. Besides, it’s only thirty days; I spent longer than that surviving in Bali during the huge tsunami a few years back, so I can do this without breaking a sweat.
In the meantime, I was completely naked, wearing a metal collar, and kneeling on the worn rubber matting of the floor of an airport shuttle bus, grinding along toward the former big-box store that now housed the obedience school.
I could really use a drink.
The bus eventually stopped, and we all filed out into the bright, blue New Mexico morning. Let me say now and for the record that I was kidding about the Petsmart thing: I didn’t figure I’d spend the next month of my life inside an actual former pet-supply store. For Christ’s sake, they had only put one lousy coat of paint over the big “PETSMART” logo on the side of the building and I could still read it. At least they had an HCI lighted sign bolted on the front, although it was painfully clear that it was much smaller than the original Petsmart sign - some of the older, unused attachment points were weeping trails of rust onto the wall behind the sign.
The black chick’s little worker-drone escort led her toward the front of the building without once looking up from her phone, and the rest of us followed her because what else were we going to do? Amy tugged on my leash and we went through the glass doors and into my cut-rate slavery bootcamp.
Inside looked exactly how you think it would: very high ceilings with iron trusses holding up an insulated metal roof, the inside echoed our footsteps slightly, an eight-foot-high wall with a door in it divided us from the other 90% of the building, and while clean enough the whole place looked like it could really use that missing second coat of paint.
A polo-shirted employee ushered us into area sectioned off with three-foot-tall wire fencing. Amy took a seat on a plastic chair, and I knelt beside her. She touched the glasses on her face, then murmured, “Can you focus on that sign at the far end of the building?”
“The one hanging from the ceiling that says DOGS?” I replied. “You better believe I can.”
“Great,” she said, and finished calibrating the camera glasses we each wore. I also had some communication gear hidden in my ear (it would easily pass for a hearing aid) so that we could communicate while I’m in here. The plan was for Amy to stay nearby, probably in a hotel within comms range, monitor what was happening through the glasses and share it regularly with Marla. At least I wouldn’t be as isolated as I was in the back of the truck.
The usher addressed the seated owners: “We’re waiting on the rest of your class to arrive, they should be here any minute, then we’ll begin orientation.”
Surely enough, a few minutes later a panel van pulled up out front, a pair of polos (I was beginning to call the regular rank-and-file HCI employees “polos” because they all wore the same cotton-blend polo shirts with the HCI logo stitched over the left breast) opened the rear door and led three slaves, connected to each other by a chain on their collars, out of the van and through the front doors.
“Frankie!” Tracy exclaimed. The three white middle-aged slaves were my travel companions from Houston, entrepreneurs-turned-debt-slaves Janet (tall, small breasts, wide hips, dirty blonde hair in braids, smart, dignified, having the hardest time adjusting to being an object), Rhonda (heroically large boobs, large posterior, “thicc” but not fat, brown hair worn up, brassy, a bit cynical), and Tracy (short, cute, average-sized boobs and hips, fleshy, light brown hair worn in a bob, loves to talk, not good at filtering).
Great news! I would at least go through training with people I knew and liked, and who knew how the slave business worked. But then there was the bad news…
A loud crack sounded just before Tracy jumped and yelped with pain, rubbing her curvy bottom. “Quiet,” said the low bass voice of Master Green, the supervisor who had accompanied us to Albuquerque after our transport truck had a blowout. He was a very tall black man, muscular like a former athlete but with traces of fat beginning to show, totally bald head, close-trimmed beard turning to salt-and-pepper confirming his creeping middle age, medium-dark skin, probably handsome but hard to say for sure since he always wore a stern, almost forbidding expression on his face. Unlike the polos, he wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with the stitched logo above a pocket.
With the flick of his wrist he recoiled the whip he’d used on Tracy’s bottom, a smooth motion indicating long familiarity. It was a four-foot-long single tailed leather whip, and while it hurt like hell when Green flicked it at you (I should know, he’d used it on me a few times already), so far he hadn’t broken anyone’s skin.
Green’s eyes ran over the others waiting inside the fenced area, settling on me for a moment. Not a trace of recognition on his face, just considering me like a heifer at a livestock auction. I immediately lowered my gaze.
I shivered, I couldn’t help it. I hoped he wasn’t staying.
Master Green had the three women kneel at the far end of the fenced area, and took his place behind them, preferring to stand.
The door leading into the back swung open and a pair of HCI employees joined us. A male and a female, they were HCI but they weren’t polos: instead they wore dark military-style cargo pants bloused into the tops of high-topped leather boots; unlike the safety boots worn by the polos, these were highly polished. Their long-sleeved, HCI-logo’d khaki shirts were tucked into the pants, exposing thick leather belts with various items hanging off them, most notably coiled whips like Green’s. It occurred to me that their color scheme was the reverse of the polos, who always wore dark (black or dark blue) shirts with khaki pants.
These must be the trainers, I thought, right out of central casting.
They introduced themselves: Master David was a redheaded white guy of medium height, not muscular but not skinny, good looking but nothing to write home about. Mistress Stefania was shorter, dark haired with lightly tanned skin (possibly Latina?), apparently in good shape though difficult to tell in her uniform, attractive but with the same stern expression on her face as Green’s.
Standing in the center of the fenced area, they gave us the welcome speech: they were here to teach obedience, which was the primary attribute of a slave, and the trainers would have complete control over the proceedings and over the trainee slaves. Sexual skills would not be taught at this school, but rather the willingness to perform sex acts on demand. Performing as expected was required, doing well would be rewarded, failure would be punished, blah, blah, blah.
Master David called roll just like in junior high school, and we learned that the older lady’s name was Vanessa, and the younger woman’s name was Ariel. After each woman responded “Here, Master,” Mistress Stefania scanned her ID chip to double-check their list, and ran a steel cable through the ring on her collar. When all six of us were accounted for and cabled together, Master David announced that the owners could now leave, they were welcome to come in each Friday for visitation, that the fourth Friday would be graduation, and any slaves remaining at the school after that Friday at 6pm would be considered property of HCI to dispose of as they saw fit.
Amy leaned forward, bracing a hand on my shoulder as she stood, and whispered, “Good luck, Frankie, I’ll be in touch.”
Mistress Stefania led our six-woman coffle through the inside door, and into the school itself.
-----------------------------------
The school was, unsurprisingly, a big cavernous space, with hanging fluorescent lights and polished concrete floors that still showed a few traces of the school’s previous life as a retailer. In the center were cages, identical to the ones on the transport truck, four groups of six cages arranged roughly in a square, and the areas around the cages covered in the sort of rubber matting you see in the weight rooms of gyms. Above each group of cages hung a sign, suspended from the ceiling, and clearly belonging to the former pet supplier: they read “DOGS,” “CATS,” “FISH,” and “BIRDS,” with stylized animal icons accompanying the words.
We were led to the cages underneath the “FISH” sign, unhooked from the cable, and ordered to kneel on the rubber in front of the cages. Ariel was to my right, Vanessa to my left and my three friends to her left.
I looked around and noticed that Master David had lagged behind because he was talking to Master Green, who had followed us inside the school. Green did most of the talking, David did a lot of nodding, and then Green pointed directly at me.
That doesn’t bode well, I thought.
The two males caught up with us, and Mistress Stefania pulled Ariel out of line and made her kneel in front of us before beginning a brief inspection: shining a light in her mouth, then in her eyes, had her get on all fours, turn around, and spread her cheeks for the light (she had to support her upper body on her chest by resting the side of her face on the ground) which they used on her vagina and her anus.
“Fours,” Mistress Stefania said, and Ariel got back on all fours.
Mistress Stefania looked us over for a moment before suddenly snatching the wig off of Ariel’s head, sending pins and bits of sticky gum along with it.
Ariel barely stifled a shriek, sat up and reached for her fuzzy scalp with both hands.
“Hey!“ I started to say. “What about—“
In a flash Stefania drew her whip from her belt and cracked it so that it gave a loud, sharp smack. I shut my mouth and gulped.
Mistress Stefania looked at all of us. “Let’s get some things straight right now,” she said. “You all are slaves. Slaves own nothing, not even themselves, much less a wig, even if your master gave it to you. Personal possessions are against the rules here. The life of a slave is about rules. The sooner you all understand that the better.”
She settled her gaze on me. “Slaves ask permission to speak before asking questions. Slaves ask permission before making requests. Slaves ask permission before doing anything. Is that clear?” In unison we all mumbled “Yes, ma’am.”
Mistress Stefania stood staring at me for a long minute, idly twisting the whip in her right hand. I waited for something bad to happen, my throat constricting and my breathing so shallow I may as well have been holding my breath, acutely conscious of all the naked skin I had exposed for the whip.
Finally Mistress Stefania slowly re-coiled the whip as she spoke: “I’m going to assume you were about to ask about your eyeglasses. Prosthetics necessary for carrying out your training are permitted: glasses, hearing aids, wooden legs, whatever. Nothing else.”
She looked back down at Ariel, who looked stunned but unsure of what to do. “Fours,” she said, a hard edge in her voice, and Ariel immediately dropped back down. Looking back at us, Mistress Stefania said, “Do not break position, ever. When your master tells you to do something, anything, you do it, and you continue doing it until he tells you otherwise.”
She looked up and down the line of slaves. “No. Matter. What.” she concluded.
“Sit up, turn around,” Mistress Stefania commanded, then took a fat purple marker and wrote “F1” in big letters on Ariel’s chest: I assumed “F” for “FISH” and “1” because she was the first slave in the coffle? Capping the marker, she spoke again: “Each of you will get a designation like this, it is your name for the duration of your time here. If I call for F1, I had better see this slave here-“ she nodded at Ariel “-come running.” Turning to Ariel, she said in a normal voice, “Stand up, walk to cage number 1, and kneel in front of it.”
I was up next. Same deal, I was on all fours with my butt towards the group and got a flashlight shined down my throat and up my wazoo. Of course I was thrilled to have a stranger examine my most intimate parts in public, but I gritted my teeth as hard as I could and stayed silent.
Christ, this was humiliating. Every little cough and shuffling noise in the room echoed in my mind like thunder.
Master David, who was standing to the side watching, muttered “Hygiene” to Stefania; she pulled out a whistle and blew it.
We were joined by a short, middle-aged Latina with a long braided pigtail running down her strong-but-not-overly-muscled back, small but floppy breasts with large dark aureolas, and a sweet face lined from years of both toil and smiling. She was the house slave, as naked as we were but with a bright green tag on her collar (the color denoting her “trustee” status, I later learned) that gave her name as “Marta.” Mistress Stefania spoke a few words to her in Spanish, telling Marta that I needed to be shaved.
Fuck you, bitch, I thought, I can speak Spanish too.
Then I froze up: What does she mean, shaved?
Marta nodded and ran to get her supplies. Mistress Stefania told me to spread my ass cheeks, but when I tried I couldn’t keep my balance and fell over; suddenly Stefania shifted into “coach” mode and showed me how to spread my knees and get my balance on my head first before supporting myself on my chest and reaching backwards with my hands. When I accomplished it, she quietly said “Very good.”
Marta reappeared with a tote full of grooming tools and a plastic bucket of water. My face turned bright red as she ran her fingers over my crotch, checking the length and thickness of my pubic hair.
For what it’s worth, I never followed the fashion of keeping myself shaved like a slave. On the contrary I was pretty happy with my “lady garden”: it was a lighter shade of brown than my head hair, and not coarse or wiry but rather soft. I kept it neat and trimmed and never had any complaints. It made me feel like a woman rather than a girl, and a free woman at that.
Marta told Mistress Stefania that I wouldn’t need to be clipped beforehand, so the next thing I know I’m being lathered up with an old-fashioned brush, not just between my legs but all the way up to my sphincter. Marta proceeded to gently shave my vagina with a plastic razor. What would have been an intimate experience in any other setting was made into an extremely uncomfortable and, yes, humiliating experience.
I was shorn like a sheep of pubic hair I’d had since I was a teenager, and I had to lie there and take it. And not just my pubic hair, but Marta slowly and carefully shaved off the tiny fine hairs in the cleft between my cheeks and around my butthole while seven other people looked on and listened to the quiet scraping noises made by the blade.
Marta rinsed me off, then looked over at me and whispered “Lo siento” (“I’m sorry”) before spraying a green liquid on my crotch. I groaned, clamped my knees together and nearly fell over - it stung like crazy.
Mistress Stefania tsk-tsk’d, and I heard a deep chuckle from Master David’s direction; I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw that Master Green was still with him, and was laughing at my situation! I was so embarrassed I had to be breaking out in hives, I just knew it.
Master David moved next to me, bending over to examine my most intimate areas. “Marta does excellent work, Deion,” he said to Master Green, “you should check this out.”
Master Green stood next to him, and placed a large, calloused hand on left butt cheek. “That did turn out nice,” he said in his deep voice. “I wonder how close she got it?”
“Don’t touch it with your bare hands,” Master David said. “You don’t want that on your skin. Here,” and he handed Master Green something from his pocket.
I hear some squeaking and a snap, then I feel a large hand running over the mound of my anus. The hand is slick and smooth - he must be wearing a latex glove. I had never felt like such a piece of meat.
“Very nice indeed,” Master Green said. “Now to check the front lawn.” His gloved hand traced slowly down my skin from my sphincter to my vulva, then carefully felt along my labia as it tested for stray hairs. For a big man with big hands, he was surprisingly nimble. Gentle, too.
I raised my hips slightly and dropped my belly a little so he could have better access—
Then I brought myself up short: I’m kneeling slave naked on the ground, my face at the level of their boots, holding my own ass cheeks open for the entire room to see, having just been publicly shaved like livestock, with a virtual stranger running his hands over areas only a few men have ever seen let alone touched, and I’m not only making it easier for him, but all I can think about is how gentle he is.
Pull yourself together, Frankie, I thought.
“Haven’t heard a single rasp of stubble, have you?” Master David asked him. Green didn’t answer (maybe he shook his head? I couldn’t see), but ran his hand to the top of my vulva, toward my clitoral hood.
I could feel myself tense.
Green ran his finger lightly across the top of my hood a few times, ostensibly checking for hair.
I could feel my skin starting to grow warm.
What the fuck?, I thought.
“Perfect,” Master Green said. “Your Marta is a treasure. This ain’t so bad either,” and he moved his hand back to my asshole and tapped it with a finger. “Tight as a dime, and ready to prime.”
Now I was starting to develop goosebumps, and my breathing was picking up.
“Oh yeah,” Master David replied, “I can’t wait to break that in. If you’re here, you’re welcome to have a go.”
“You’d better call me before you do a goddamned thing!” They both laughed as Green slapped me hard on one ass cheek and straightened up.
“Up,” Mistress Stefania ordered, and I sat back up, my face flushed, as Green and David chuckled. She gave my chest its purple “F2” and sent me to take my place in front of my home for the next four weeks.
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The rest of the morning was orientation: going over rules, the daily schedule, what we could expect over the course of the next four weeks, stuff like that — I honestly wasn’t paying attention; I had a lot on my mind.
The trainers showed us how we should stand and walk as a group (line up by cage number - that’s what the number on our chest was - with your hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of you and your arm fully extended), then gave us a quick tour of the school.
Not much to it: in each of the two far corners was a tiled shower with exactly two shower heads, some plastic stools, some square mirrors over some taps, and a series of porcelain holes that I recognized from my trips overseas as squat toilets. Over one shower area was a sign reading “Pet Grooming,” and over the other “Exotic Pets.” Two sets of double doors led outside to a fenced-in yard, and a series of doors on the south wall were labeled for us: “Staff Only,” “Custodian,” “Supplies,” “Veterinarian,” etc.
Of course, I noted the presence of the standard HCI video surveillance cameras everywhere.
Lunch was slave kibble, in bowls on the floor. We weren’t allowed to pick them up: the trainers warned us that if we used anything other than our mouths to eat we would be punished. So my first meal at the school was eaten in front of my cage, on all fours, my face buried in a metal bowl and my (very) bare ass sticking up in the air.
Oh yeah, and no water bottles, just one big water bowl (actually a galvanized metal washtub) set in the center, and we had to crawl to it to drink, all of us circled around it with our heads together, like cattle at a watering hole. At one point I brought my head up from the water and looked across the trough at Tracy, who looked back at me and whispered “Mooo” before Rhonda hip-checked her.
We spent the afternoon practicing slave commands like fours and present and back hands, slowly step-by-step until we got them right. Two hours in we got a bathroom break; we all did the baby-elephant walk to “Pet Grooming” and learned to squat over the holes in the floor. Ariel seemed unsure, Vanessa confused, and Janet was mortified, but I talked everyone through it and we managed to finish without covering each other in pee, so, hooray for us I guess.
After a few more hours of slave command practice (which doubled as pretty decent calisthenics), we were done with training for the day and got introduced to our work assignments, mostly cleaning — I got a huge dust mop on a stick and pushed it around the floor of the school for an hour or so.
Then it was time for bed, and we climbed wearily into our cages before Mistress Stefania came through and closed the cage doors, locking them electronically with her data pad.
I grabbed the bars of my cage and looked up at her. “Mistress, may I ask a question?” I said.
She stopped and nodded, still fiddling with her pad.
“Aren’t we going to get blankets, Mistress?”
Stefania shook her head. “Blankets are earned. Do better tomorrow, and maybe you will.” She looked up and down the row of cages: “Remember that a blanket or anything else is entirely at the discretion of your master, who can withhold it for any reason or no reason. Do yourselves a favor, learn not to expect anything.”
With that, she left, and the lights turned from evening yellow to night time red.
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It was very, very quiet in the school. Other than the low rumble of the air conditioner, the only things making noise in the cavernous space were the six of us.
This was the part I’d been waiting for: the chance to talk to my sister slaves without the trainers around.
I figured the smart thing was to start with the three women I already knew — hearing us interact would help establish some trust with the other two.
“Tracy!” I said. “Janet! Rhonda!” They replied warmly, even grumpy Rhonda, and moved to the backs of their cages and reached out for my hands. “I’m so happy to see you guys. I didn’t know you were coming here, what happened?”
“My guess?” Janet replied, “The market shifted while we were on the road. Our owner’s agents must be monitoring the prices in Albuquerque versus Houston, and saw that “pre-certified” slaves were going for higher prices, so instead of going straight to the block, here we are.”
Before I could ask, Rhonda said, “Pre-certified meaning that the seller warranties certain things like our health, our skills, and our docility. One way to demonstrate that is to have us pass through the biscuit factory and get our certificate of completion.”
“Biscuit factory?” I asked.
“Slave term for obedience school, one of many,” Janet said. “Maybe because the schools are run like ones for dogs, maybe because the trainers hand out little slave biscuits like treats when you do something right. Who knows,” she shrugged.
“Wait,” Tracy interjected. “We get treats?”
“If you can call them that,” Rhonda said, shaking her head. “I’ve taste-tested a few, and they’re all really bland. The cheapest ones are like eating rice cakes or unsalted crackers with a little sugar in them, the better ones have a bit of flavoring. I think the theory is that after eating nothing but slave kibble, a change is a treat even if it doesn’t taste especially good.”
“All I know is that after that workout today, I’m down to eat anything,” said the black woman in the cage next to me. “Are we only getting the one meal a day?”
“I know, right?” I said, turning toward her and introducing myself and the three entrepreneurs. “Ariel,” she said, and we shook hands through the bars.
Long story short, she’s a first-year college student who failed to qualify for government student loans in order to finish her degree, so she was on the verge of dropping out. One of her professors offered her a lifeline: a 1:1 indenture, one year of slavery for one year of education. She would be a student several days a week, but whenever she wasn’t in class she would be his personal servant—for three years. But when her indenture expired, she would be a free woman with no debt and a college diploma.
“Not such a bad deal, right?” Ariel said. “My cousin got something similar in the army, but he had to risk getting killed, at least I don’t have to do that.”
“What about private loans?” I asked.
“Worse,” she replied, “If you default, you get to be a no-restrictions indentured slave for ten years.” Ariel shivered, and frankly so did I.
Coming from a poor family, Ariel had no other option if she wanted to get a degree, so she signed on the dotted line. Part of the contract stipulates that she be trained, so here she was.
“Professor Walters is a white guy older than my dad. I had him for Lit 101, so I knew him a little bit, he seemed okay, not a dick or anything. I’ve already had to suck him, and he told me up front that he wants me because of my skin color, to show me off at faculty parties, so I feel like he’s being honest. What worries me,” Ariel looked out into the darkness of the school, “Is that I won’t remain his for the whole three years. The faculty trades among themselves, so if he gets tired of me I could be a slave to another professor or an administrator or a coach or, or anyone, really. Who knows what they’ll be like? I heard about this one professor lady in the psychology department who’s a straight up sadist, whips and branding irons and everything. So I gotta figure out how to keep him interested in me for three whole years.” Ariel drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees; I put my hand on top of hers.
We all talked a bit about how indentures work, the various limitations, and what college was like before slavery became commonplace, when the older lady, Vanessa, spoke up.
“I never went to college, but I could see myself ending up like you, Ariel; when I was your age, the only option was full chattel slavery, and no one was going to trade a diploma for spending the rest of their life as a slave.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “The other five of us are college graduates, or soon will be. Why didn’t you go?”
Vanessa laughed. “Because I married my high school sweetheart after I got pregnant on prom night! How’s that for a cliché?” She laughed again. “Once the kids were grown I wanted to go to school but we didn’t really have the money, and there was no way Sam was going to let me do something like Ariel did. But it seems to me like indentured service has been a fairly good thing, trading a few years of your life for something really important.”
“So what brings you here?” Ariel asked.
Vanessa shrugged. “Retirement,” she said.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Janet and Rhonda exchange looks.
“Retirement?” I said. “Okay, you have to explain that.”
Before she could answer, Tracy butted in: “Are you a Fifty-Niner?”
“For fuck’s sake, Tracy,” Rhonda hissed at her.
“No, it’s okay,” Vanessa said, smiling slightly. She shifted her legs underneath her so that she was leaning against the side of the cage; in the dim light, she looked much younger than she had on the shuttle bus, in excellent shape with toned legs and large firm breasts, and I realized that despite her age she was a very attractive woman.
(That’s just an observation, everyone. Settle down.)
“I actually got the idea from a news story about Fifty-Niners, so yes, I must be one. I’m selling myself off as a full slave in order to have a decent retirement.” She let out a snort. “Not to mention all the sex I missed out on when I was younger.”
Rather than repeat all of the back-and-forth (plus all the shushing of Tracy by Janet and Rhonda - apparently in some circles the term “Fifty-Niner” is similar to “Gold-digger”) I’m just going to tell you what I learned: there actually is an age limit for slavery in the United States, it’s sixty. So if someone needs (or wants) to become a slave, they have to do it before their sixtieth birthday - up to fifty-nine, hence the expression.
For reasons I’ll go into later, older women selling themselves as life slaves have become a desirable status object. Vanessa can sell herself as an indentured servant with a life term, which allows her to have an enforceable contract unlike true slaves (“An end-run around the law,” as Janet put it), and be taken care of for the rest of her life. Most likely she’ll live much better than she did when she was young, as a prized possession of a wealthy individual or family.
I realize now that I’d seen so-called “Fifty-Niners” in videos at red carpet events, and PR pieces from billionaire business tyrants trying to make themselves look more like human beings. Still, it was unusual to actually meet one, even just a hopeful like Vanessa.
“That’s why I’m here,” Vanessa said. “I’m improving my value on the market. If I complete obedience school with a top score, that will improve my slave grade as well as give me another point of leverage for negotiating terms.”
“If you don't mind me asking," I said, “Why did you get divorced?”
Vanessa’s expression fluttered briefly, like a cloud passing over the sun. “Because after I’d raised his children and worked myself half to death keeping his home, supporting his career and keeping myself in good shape for him, the sonofabitch brought home a slave girl. I told him it was her or me, and…” she trailed off.
Recovering her good humor, she continued: “So I decided it was time for me to live for myself. I’m actually looking forward to it, believe it or not.”
(The story picks up immediately after the end of Westbound. Just the introduction so everyone can see where it's going - for now. This will certainly change. No sex as such, but some humiliation - sex comes in the next part.)
Remember when I said that there are a lot of bad things about being a slave but near the top of my list is the hours? Let me say for the record that the item at the very top of the list is the wardrobe.
By wardrobe, of course, I mean no actual wardrobe at all other than one’s birthday suit. I’m a free woman, and until very recently I have not spent any time at all wandering around naked in public.
But over the course of the past twelve hours I’ve spent every minute of it completely naked, my entire body on display to anyone who happens to walk by. Worse, I’ve spent it in a state called slave naked, meaning that I have no clothing at all - not even shoes - except for a metal collar worn around my neck.
It gets worse (when it comes to slavery, I’ve found, it always gets worse): up until about an hour ago I was being transported in the back of a large semi-truck, inside a cage, so that the only people who could see me were my fellow naked slaves and the transport personnel, who were used to female nudity (although not unappreciative of it, if you know what I mean). It’s really difficult; it’s hard to walk and try to cover myself at the same time, and when I’m restrained even that is impossible. And then there are the looks, the comments, and the roaming hands of the entitled handlers.
Now, I was out in public, where anyone and everyone could see me, riding a shuttle bus through the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico. The shame and dread are intense, I feel like I have a permanent blush burning my face.
Were there others on the bus? Of course there were. Aside from the driver (an employee who seemed to be a bit jaded about the exposed female flesh he transported) there were five other people on the bus, making three couples.
The first couple was the oddest pair I’d seen so far: a young, handsome white guy - looked like a college kid - and an attractive, fit white lady with reddish-brown hair who appeared to be literally twice his age. She seemed lost in thought, while he looked really uncomfortable and possibly even embarrassed as he sat on the plastic bus bench… though I did see him sneak a few looks at me. She knelt in front of him, as slave naked as I was - more so because she had all of her pubic hair removed - while he held her leash loosely in one hand.
The second couple were a couple only in the most literal sense: one was an HCI employee, a young white woman wearing the standard uniform of logo’d polo shirt and khaki pants, her attention given over entirely to her mobile phone. The other, slave naked and kneeling as expected, was a young dark-skinned black woman, staring at the empty bench across from her, completely checked out. She was very pretty, thin with small breasts but in good shape with long hair that (I suspected) had to be a wig; it’ll be interesting to see how that goes.
I let out a small sigh and glanced back at my own accompaniment, a very young college student named Amy who was acting as my assistant producer - called a “handler” in the journalism business, and yes I get the irony, thank you - for Central & Western News Service (a.k.a. CNS), a regional media company who provides a lot of “infotainment” pieces to various online subscription services. Amy had started out as my technician, providing me the camera recording glasses we were both wearing, for example. After I had gotten ensnared in my current assignment (see my previous story, Westbound, for the gory details), she had asked to step into a “real” journalism role. My editorial contact and chief producer Marla had agreed (probably because Amy would work very cheap) and here we were. She’s not a bad kid, as kids go, just way too enthusiastic, really gets into the spirit of the thing. She’s not unattractive either, light blonde hair, smooth white skin, a sweet almost cherubic face with rosy, dimpled cheeks, and a body type the opposite of mine, curvy almost to point of being chubby with large, pillowy breasts.
Lastly, I suppose I should describe myself: Francesca “Frankie” Ontkean, 29 years old, 5’ 7”, 124 lbs give or take, 34B bust, 34-inch hips, white, fair skin, brown hair cut in a short bob for ease of maintenance, brown eyes, no piercings, tattoos, scars or birthmarks. I keep myself in good shape with running and yoga, and watch what I eat, so physically I look a bit younger than almost thirty (or at least I like to think so).
My earlier story will tell you everything you need to know about me, so I’ll just refresh your memory on why I’m here: I’m acting as a sort of undercover reporter, doing a first-person experiential story on what it’s like to go through slave training, although not by choice. Through a series of unlikely events, I found myself railroaded into six months of “voluntary” indentured servitude, and the criminal assholes who did it to me made sure to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s - the fuckers - so I’m stuck with it. I didn’t even get a hearing before a judge, but he signed the order anyway; I’m sure that was a “favor” to Linda, the runaway slave who set me up. And my idiot employer went along! I still can’t believe Marla fell for it. I mean, come on: I was investigating an industry notorious for “disappearing” slaves and even free women, and out of the blue I decide to indenture myself, and she never even tried to get me on the phone to confirm it.
I sighed. When I get out of this I’m going to… well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I have six months to think about it.
Speaking of thinking about it, why did I go along with this instead of raising more hell?
I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer to that just yet.
The only stop was obedience school. Nothing special, this is the same Petsmart-grade school that HCI typically includes as part of the package deal for a “starter” slave. They’re not going to turn me into some sort of Tales of the Arabian Nights harem concubine, just teach me the basics. Besides, it’s only thirty days; I spent longer than that surviving in Bali during the huge tsunami a few years back, so I can do this without breaking a sweat.
In the meantime, I was completely naked, wearing a metal collar, and kneeling on the worn rubber matting of the floor of an airport shuttle bus, grinding along toward the former big-box store that now housed the obedience school.
I could really use a drink.
The bus eventually stopped, and we all filed out into the bright, blue New Mexico morning. Let me say now and for the record that I was kidding about the Petsmart thing: I didn’t figure I’d spend the next month of my life inside an actual former pet-supply store. For Christ’s sake, they had only put one lousy coat of paint over the big “PETSMART” logo on the side of the building and I could still read it. At least they had an HCI lighted sign bolted on the front, although it was painfully clear that it was much smaller than the original Petsmart sign - some of the older, unused attachment points were weeping trails of rust onto the wall behind the sign.
The black chick’s little worker-drone escort led her toward the front of the building without once looking up from her phone, and the rest of us followed her because what else were we going to do? Amy tugged on my leash and we went through the glass doors and into my cut-rate slavery bootcamp.
Inside looked exactly how you think it would: very high ceilings with iron trusses holding up an insulated metal roof, the inside echoed our footsteps slightly, an eight-foot-high wall with a door in it divided us from the other 90% of the building, and while clean enough the whole place looked like it could really use that missing second coat of paint.
A polo-shirted employee ushered us into area sectioned off with three-foot-tall wire fencing. Amy took a seat on a plastic chair, and I knelt beside her. She touched the glasses on her face, then murmured, “Can you focus on that sign at the far end of the building?”
“The one hanging from the ceiling that says DOGS?” I replied. “You better believe I can.”
“Great,” she said, and finished calibrating the camera glasses we each wore. I also had some communication gear hidden in my ear (it would easily pass for a hearing aid) so that we could communicate while I’m in here. The plan was for Amy to stay nearby, probably in a hotel within comms range, monitor what was happening through the glasses and share it regularly with Marla. At least I wouldn’t be as isolated as I was in the back of the truck.
The usher addressed the seated owners: “We’re waiting on the rest of your class to arrive, they should be here any minute, then we’ll begin orientation.”
Surely enough, a few minutes later a panel van pulled up out front, a pair of polos (I was beginning to call the regular rank-and-file HCI employees “polos” because they all wore the same cotton-blend polo shirts with the HCI logo stitched over the left breast) opened the rear door and led three slaves, connected to each other by a chain on their collars, out of the van and through the front doors.
“Frankie!” Tracy exclaimed. The three white middle-aged slaves were my travel companions from Houston, entrepreneurs-turned-debt-slaves Janet (tall, small breasts, wide hips, dirty blonde hair in braids, smart, dignified, having the hardest time adjusting to being an object), Rhonda (heroically large boobs, large posterior, “thicc” but not fat, brown hair worn up, brassy, a bit cynical), and Tracy (short, cute, average-sized boobs and hips, fleshy, light brown hair worn in a bob, loves to talk, not good at filtering).
Great news! I would at least go through training with people I knew and liked, and who knew how the slave business worked. But then there was the bad news…
A loud crack sounded just before Tracy jumped and yelped with pain, rubbing her curvy bottom. “Quiet,” said the low bass voice of Master Green, the supervisor who had accompanied us to Albuquerque after our transport truck had a blowout. He was a very tall black man, muscular like a former athlete but with traces of fat beginning to show, totally bald head, close-trimmed beard turning to salt-and-pepper confirming his creeping middle age, medium-dark skin, probably handsome but hard to say for sure since he always wore a stern, almost forbidding expression on his face. Unlike the polos, he wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with the stitched logo above a pocket.
With the flick of his wrist he recoiled the whip he’d used on Tracy’s bottom, a smooth motion indicating long familiarity. It was a four-foot-long single tailed leather whip, and while it hurt like hell when Green flicked it at you (I should know, he’d used it on me a few times already), so far he hadn’t broken anyone’s skin.
Green’s eyes ran over the others waiting inside the fenced area, settling on me for a moment. Not a trace of recognition on his face, just considering me like a heifer at a livestock auction. I immediately lowered my gaze.
I shivered, I couldn’t help it. I hoped he wasn’t staying.
Master Green had the three women kneel at the far end of the fenced area, and took his place behind them, preferring to stand.
The door leading into the back swung open and a pair of HCI employees joined us. A male and a female, they were HCI but they weren’t polos: instead they wore dark military-style cargo pants bloused into the tops of high-topped leather boots; unlike the safety boots worn by the polos, these were highly polished. Their long-sleeved, HCI-logo’d khaki shirts were tucked into the pants, exposing thick leather belts with various items hanging off them, most notably coiled whips like Green’s. It occurred to me that their color scheme was the reverse of the polos, who always wore dark (black or dark blue) shirts with khaki pants.
These must be the trainers, I thought, right out of central casting.
They introduced themselves: Master David was a redheaded white guy of medium height, not muscular but not skinny, good looking but nothing to write home about. Mistress Stefania was shorter, dark haired with lightly tanned skin (possibly Latina?), apparently in good shape though difficult to tell in her uniform, attractive but with the same stern expression on her face as Green’s.
Standing in the center of the fenced area, they gave us the welcome speech: they were here to teach obedience, which was the primary attribute of a slave, and the trainers would have complete control over the proceedings and over the trainee slaves. Sexual skills would not be taught at this school, but rather the willingness to perform sex acts on demand. Performing as expected was required, doing well would be rewarded, failure would be punished, blah, blah, blah.
Master David called roll just like in junior high school, and we learned that the older lady’s name was Vanessa, and the younger woman’s name was Ariel. After each woman responded “Here, Master,” Mistress Stefania scanned her ID chip to double-check their list, and ran a steel cable through the ring on her collar. When all six of us were accounted for and cabled together, Master David announced that the owners could now leave, they were welcome to come in each Friday for visitation, that the fourth Friday would be graduation, and any slaves remaining at the school after that Friday at 6pm would be considered property of HCI to dispose of as they saw fit.
Amy leaned forward, bracing a hand on my shoulder as she stood, and whispered, “Good luck, Frankie, I’ll be in touch.”
Mistress Stefania led our six-woman coffle through the inside door, and into the school itself.
-----------------------------------
The school was, unsurprisingly, a big cavernous space, with hanging fluorescent lights and polished concrete floors that still showed a few traces of the school’s previous life as a retailer. In the center were cages, identical to the ones on the transport truck, four groups of six cages arranged roughly in a square, and the areas around the cages covered in the sort of rubber matting you see in the weight rooms of gyms. Above each group of cages hung a sign, suspended from the ceiling, and clearly belonging to the former pet supplier: they read “DOGS,” “CATS,” “FISH,” and “BIRDS,” with stylized animal icons accompanying the words.
We were led to the cages underneath the “FISH” sign, unhooked from the cable, and ordered to kneel on the rubber in front of the cages. Ariel was to my right, Vanessa to my left and my three friends to her left.
I looked around and noticed that Master David had lagged behind because he was talking to Master Green, who had followed us inside the school. Green did most of the talking, David did a lot of nodding, and then Green pointed directly at me.
That doesn’t bode well, I thought.
The two males caught up with us, and Mistress Stefania pulled Ariel out of line and made her kneel in front of us before beginning a brief inspection: shining a light in her mouth, then in her eyes, had her get on all fours, turn around, and spread her cheeks for the light (she had to support her upper body on her chest by resting the side of her face on the ground) which they used on her vagina and her anus.
“Fours,” Mistress Stefania said, and Ariel got back on all fours.
Mistress Stefania looked us over for a moment before suddenly snatching the wig off of Ariel’s head, sending pins and bits of sticky gum along with it.
Ariel barely stifled a shriek, sat up and reached for her fuzzy scalp with both hands.
“Hey!“ I started to say. “What about—“
In a flash Stefania drew her whip from her belt and cracked it so that it gave a loud, sharp smack. I shut my mouth and gulped.
Mistress Stefania looked at all of us. “Let’s get some things straight right now,” she said. “You all are slaves. Slaves own nothing, not even themselves, much less a wig, even if your master gave it to you. Personal possessions are against the rules here. The life of a slave is about rules. The sooner you all understand that the better.”
She settled her gaze on me. “Slaves ask permission to speak before asking questions. Slaves ask permission before making requests. Slaves ask permission before doing anything. Is that clear?” In unison we all mumbled “Yes, ma’am.”
Mistress Stefania stood staring at me for a long minute, idly twisting the whip in her right hand. I waited for something bad to happen, my throat constricting and my breathing so shallow I may as well have been holding my breath, acutely conscious of all the naked skin I had exposed for the whip.
Finally Mistress Stefania slowly re-coiled the whip as she spoke: “I’m going to assume you were about to ask about your eyeglasses. Prosthetics necessary for carrying out your training are permitted: glasses, hearing aids, wooden legs, whatever. Nothing else.”
She looked back down at Ariel, who looked stunned but unsure of what to do. “Fours,” she said, a hard edge in her voice, and Ariel immediately dropped back down. Looking back at us, Mistress Stefania said, “Do not break position, ever. When your master tells you to do something, anything, you do it, and you continue doing it until he tells you otherwise.”
She looked up and down the line of slaves. “No. Matter. What.” she concluded.
“Sit up, turn around,” Mistress Stefania commanded, then took a fat purple marker and wrote “F1” in big letters on Ariel’s chest: I assumed “F” for “FISH” and “1” because she was the first slave in the coffle? Capping the marker, she spoke again: “Each of you will get a designation like this, it is your name for the duration of your time here. If I call for F1, I had better see this slave here-“ she nodded at Ariel “-come running.” Turning to Ariel, she said in a normal voice, “Stand up, walk to cage number 1, and kneel in front of it.”
I was up next. Same deal, I was on all fours with my butt towards the group and got a flashlight shined down my throat and up my wazoo. Of course I was thrilled to have a stranger examine my most intimate parts in public, but I gritted my teeth as hard as I could and stayed silent.
Christ, this was humiliating. Every little cough and shuffling noise in the room echoed in my mind like thunder.
Master David, who was standing to the side watching, muttered “Hygiene” to Stefania; she pulled out a whistle and blew it.
We were joined by a short, middle-aged Latina with a long braided pigtail running down her strong-but-not-overly-muscled back, small but floppy breasts with large dark aureolas, and a sweet face lined from years of both toil and smiling. She was the house slave, as naked as we were but with a bright green tag on her collar (the color denoting her “trustee” status, I later learned) that gave her name as “Marta.” Mistress Stefania spoke a few words to her in Spanish, telling Marta that I needed to be shaved.
Fuck you, bitch, I thought, I can speak Spanish too.
Then I froze up: What does she mean, shaved?
Marta nodded and ran to get her supplies. Mistress Stefania told me to spread my ass cheeks, but when I tried I couldn’t keep my balance and fell over; suddenly Stefania shifted into “coach” mode and showed me how to spread my knees and get my balance on my head first before supporting myself on my chest and reaching backwards with my hands. When I accomplished it, she quietly said “Very good.”
Marta reappeared with a tote full of grooming tools and a plastic bucket of water. My face turned bright red as she ran her fingers over my crotch, checking the length and thickness of my pubic hair.
For what it’s worth, I never followed the fashion of keeping myself shaved like a slave. On the contrary I was pretty happy with my “lady garden”: it was a lighter shade of brown than my head hair, and not coarse or wiry but rather soft. I kept it neat and trimmed and never had any complaints. It made me feel like a woman rather than a girl, and a free woman at that.
Marta told Mistress Stefania that I wouldn’t need to be clipped beforehand, so the next thing I know I’m being lathered up with an old-fashioned brush, not just between my legs but all the way up to my sphincter. Marta proceeded to gently shave my vagina with a plastic razor. What would have been an intimate experience in any other setting was made into an extremely uncomfortable and, yes, humiliating experience.
I was shorn like a sheep of pubic hair I’d had since I was a teenager, and I had to lie there and take it. And not just my pubic hair, but Marta slowly and carefully shaved off the tiny fine hairs in the cleft between my cheeks and around my butthole while seven other people looked on and listened to the quiet scraping noises made by the blade.
Marta rinsed me off, then looked over at me and whispered “Lo siento” (“I’m sorry”) before spraying a green liquid on my crotch. I groaned, clamped my knees together and nearly fell over - it stung like crazy.
Mistress Stefania tsk-tsk’d, and I heard a deep chuckle from Master David’s direction; I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw that Master Green was still with him, and was laughing at my situation! I was so embarrassed I had to be breaking out in hives, I just knew it.
Master David moved next to me, bending over to examine my most intimate areas. “Marta does excellent work, Deion,” he said to Master Green, “you should check this out.”
Master Green stood next to him, and placed a large, calloused hand on left butt cheek. “That did turn out nice,” he said in his deep voice. “I wonder how close she got it?”
“Don’t touch it with your bare hands,” Master David said. “You don’t want that on your skin. Here,” and he handed Master Green something from his pocket.
I hear some squeaking and a snap, then I feel a large hand running over the mound of my anus. The hand is slick and smooth - he must be wearing a latex glove. I had never felt like such a piece of meat.
“Very nice indeed,” Master Green said. “Now to check the front lawn.” His gloved hand traced slowly down my skin from my sphincter to my vulva, then carefully felt along my labia as it tested for stray hairs. For a big man with big hands, he was surprisingly nimble. Gentle, too.
I raised my hips slightly and dropped my belly a little so he could have better access—
Then I brought myself up short: I’m kneeling slave naked on the ground, my face at the level of their boots, holding my own ass cheeks open for the entire room to see, having just been publicly shaved like livestock, with a virtual stranger running his hands over areas only a few men have ever seen let alone touched, and I’m not only making it easier for him, but all I can think about is how gentle he is.
Pull yourself together, Frankie, I thought.
“Haven’t heard a single rasp of stubble, have you?” Master David asked him. Green didn’t answer (maybe he shook his head? I couldn’t see), but ran his hand to the top of my vulva, toward my clitoral hood.
I could feel myself tense.
Green ran his finger lightly across the top of my hood a few times, ostensibly checking for hair.
I could feel my skin starting to grow warm.
What the fuck?, I thought.
“Perfect,” Master Green said. “Your Marta is a treasure. This ain’t so bad either,” and he moved his hand back to my asshole and tapped it with a finger. “Tight as a dime, and ready to prime.”
Now I was starting to develop goosebumps, and my breathing was picking up.
“Oh yeah,” Master David replied, “I can’t wait to break that in. If you’re here, you’re welcome to have a go.”
“You’d better call me before you do a goddamned thing!” They both laughed as Green slapped me hard on one ass cheek and straightened up.
“Up,” Mistress Stefania ordered, and I sat back up, my face flushed, as Green and David chuckled. She gave my chest its purple “F2” and sent me to take my place in front of my home for the next four weeks.
-----------------------------------
The rest of the morning was orientation: going over rules, the daily schedule, what we could expect over the course of the next four weeks, stuff like that — I honestly wasn’t paying attention; I had a lot on my mind.
The trainers showed us how we should stand and walk as a group (line up by cage number - that’s what the number on our chest was - with your hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of you and your arm fully extended), then gave us a quick tour of the school.
Not much to it: in each of the two far corners was a tiled shower with exactly two shower heads, some plastic stools, some square mirrors over some taps, and a series of porcelain holes that I recognized from my trips overseas as squat toilets. Over one shower area was a sign reading “Pet Grooming,” and over the other “Exotic Pets.” Two sets of double doors led outside to a fenced-in yard, and a series of doors on the south wall were labeled for us: “Staff Only,” “Custodian,” “Supplies,” “Veterinarian,” etc.
Of course, I noted the presence of the standard HCI video surveillance cameras everywhere.
Lunch was slave kibble, in bowls on the floor. We weren’t allowed to pick them up: the trainers warned us that if we used anything other than our mouths to eat we would be punished. So my first meal at the school was eaten in front of my cage, on all fours, my face buried in a metal bowl and my (very) bare ass sticking up in the air.
Oh yeah, and no water bottles, just one big water bowl (actually a galvanized metal washtub) set in the center, and we had to crawl to it to drink, all of us circled around it with our heads together, like cattle at a watering hole. At one point I brought my head up from the water and looked across the trough at Tracy, who looked back at me and whispered “Mooo” before Rhonda hip-checked her.
We spent the afternoon practicing slave commands like fours and present and back hands, slowly step-by-step until we got them right. Two hours in we got a bathroom break; we all did the baby-elephant walk to “Pet Grooming” and learned to squat over the holes in the floor. Ariel seemed unsure, Vanessa confused, and Janet was mortified, but I talked everyone through it and we managed to finish without covering each other in pee, so, hooray for us I guess.
After a few more hours of slave command practice (which doubled as pretty decent calisthenics), we were done with training for the day and got introduced to our work assignments, mostly cleaning — I got a huge dust mop on a stick and pushed it around the floor of the school for an hour or so.
Then it was time for bed, and we climbed wearily into our cages before Mistress Stefania came through and closed the cage doors, locking them electronically with her data pad.
I grabbed the bars of my cage and looked up at her. “Mistress, may I ask a question?” I said.
She stopped and nodded, still fiddling with her pad.
“Aren’t we going to get blankets, Mistress?”
Stefania shook her head. “Blankets are earned. Do better tomorrow, and maybe you will.” She looked up and down the row of cages: “Remember that a blanket or anything else is entirely at the discretion of your master, who can withhold it for any reason or no reason. Do yourselves a favor, learn not to expect anything.”
With that, she left, and the lights turned from evening yellow to night time red.
-----------------------------------
It was very, very quiet in the school. Other than the low rumble of the air conditioner, the only things making noise in the cavernous space were the six of us.
This was the part I’d been waiting for: the chance to talk to my sister slaves without the trainers around.
I figured the smart thing was to start with the three women I already knew — hearing us interact would help establish some trust with the other two.
“Tracy!” I said. “Janet! Rhonda!” They replied warmly, even grumpy Rhonda, and moved to the backs of their cages and reached out for my hands. “I’m so happy to see you guys. I didn’t know you were coming here, what happened?”
“My guess?” Janet replied, “The market shifted while we were on the road. Our owner’s agents must be monitoring the prices in Albuquerque versus Houston, and saw that “pre-certified” slaves were going for higher prices, so instead of going straight to the block, here we are.”
Before I could ask, Rhonda said, “Pre-certified meaning that the seller warranties certain things like our health, our skills, and our docility. One way to demonstrate that is to have us pass through the biscuit factory and get our certificate of completion.”
“Biscuit factory?” I asked.
“Slave term for obedience school, one of many,” Janet said. “Maybe because the schools are run like ones for dogs, maybe because the trainers hand out little slave biscuits like treats when you do something right. Who knows,” she shrugged.
“Wait,” Tracy interjected. “We get treats?”
“If you can call them that,” Rhonda said, shaking her head. “I’ve taste-tested a few, and they’re all really bland. The cheapest ones are like eating rice cakes or unsalted crackers with a little sugar in them, the better ones have a bit of flavoring. I think the theory is that after eating nothing but slave kibble, a change is a treat even if it doesn’t taste especially good.”
“All I know is that after that workout today, I’m down to eat anything,” said the black woman in the cage next to me. “Are we only getting the one meal a day?”
“I know, right?” I said, turning toward her and introducing myself and the three entrepreneurs. “Ariel,” she said, and we shook hands through the bars.
Long story short, she’s a first-year college student who failed to qualify for government student loans in order to finish her degree, so she was on the verge of dropping out. One of her professors offered her a lifeline: a 1:1 indenture, one year of slavery for one year of education. She would be a student several days a week, but whenever she wasn’t in class she would be his personal servant—for three years. But when her indenture expired, she would be a free woman with no debt and a college diploma.
“Not such a bad deal, right?” Ariel said. “My cousin got something similar in the army, but he had to risk getting killed, at least I don’t have to do that.”
“What about private loans?” I asked.
“Worse,” she replied, “If you default, you get to be a no-restrictions indentured slave for ten years.” Ariel shivered, and frankly so did I.
Coming from a poor family, Ariel had no other option if she wanted to get a degree, so she signed on the dotted line. Part of the contract stipulates that she be trained, so here she was.
“Professor Walters is a white guy older than my dad. I had him for Lit 101, so I knew him a little bit, he seemed okay, not a dick or anything. I’ve already had to suck him, and he told me up front that he wants me because of my skin color, to show me off at faculty parties, so I feel like he’s being honest. What worries me,” Ariel looked out into the darkness of the school, “Is that I won’t remain his for the whole three years. The faculty trades among themselves, so if he gets tired of me I could be a slave to another professor or an administrator or a coach or, or anyone, really. Who knows what they’ll be like? I heard about this one professor lady in the psychology department who’s a straight up sadist, whips and branding irons and everything. So I gotta figure out how to keep him interested in me for three whole years.” Ariel drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees; I put my hand on top of hers.
We all talked a bit about how indentures work, the various limitations, and what college was like before slavery became commonplace, when the older lady, Vanessa, spoke up.
“I never went to college, but I could see myself ending up like you, Ariel; when I was your age, the only option was full chattel slavery, and no one was going to trade a diploma for spending the rest of their life as a slave.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “The other five of us are college graduates, or soon will be. Why didn’t you go?”
Vanessa laughed. “Because I married my high school sweetheart after I got pregnant on prom night! How’s that for a cliché?” She laughed again. “Once the kids were grown I wanted to go to school but we didn’t really have the money, and there was no way Sam was going to let me do something like Ariel did. But it seems to me like indentured service has been a fairly good thing, trading a few years of your life for something really important.”
“So what brings you here?” Ariel asked.
Vanessa shrugged. “Retirement,” she said.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Janet and Rhonda exchange looks.
“Retirement?” I said. “Okay, you have to explain that.”
Before she could answer, Tracy butted in: “Are you a Fifty-Niner?”
“For fuck’s sake, Tracy,” Rhonda hissed at her.
“No, it’s okay,” Vanessa said, smiling slightly. She shifted her legs underneath her so that she was leaning against the side of the cage; in the dim light, she looked much younger than she had on the shuttle bus, in excellent shape with toned legs and large firm breasts, and I realized that despite her age she was a very attractive woman.
(That’s just an observation, everyone. Settle down.)
“I actually got the idea from a news story about Fifty-Niners, so yes, I must be one. I’m selling myself off as a full slave in order to have a decent retirement.” She let out a snort. “Not to mention all the sex I missed out on when I was younger.”
Rather than repeat all of the back-and-forth (plus all the shushing of Tracy by Janet and Rhonda - apparently in some circles the term “Fifty-Niner” is similar to “Gold-digger”) I’m just going to tell you what I learned: there actually is an age limit for slavery in the United States, it’s sixty. So if someone needs (or wants) to become a slave, they have to do it before their sixtieth birthday - up to fifty-nine, hence the expression.
For reasons I’ll go into later, older women selling themselves as life slaves have become a desirable status object. Vanessa can sell herself as an indentured servant with a life term, which allows her to have an enforceable contract unlike true slaves (“An end-run around the law,” as Janet put it), and be taken care of for the rest of her life. Most likely she’ll live much better than she did when she was young, as a prized possession of a wealthy individual or family.
I realize now that I’d seen so-called “Fifty-Niners” in videos at red carpet events, and PR pieces from billionaire business tyrants trying to make themselves look more like human beings. Still, it was unusual to actually meet one, even just a hopeful like Vanessa.
“That’s why I’m here,” Vanessa said. “I’m improving my value on the market. If I complete obedience school with a top score, that will improve my slave grade as well as give me another point of leverage for negotiating terms.”
“If you don't mind me asking," I said, “Why did you get divorced?”
Vanessa’s expression fluttered briefly, like a cloud passing over the sun. “Because after I’d raised his children and worked myself half to death keeping his home, supporting his career and keeping myself in good shape for him, the sonofabitch brought home a slave girl. I told him it was her or me, and…” she trailed off.
Recovering her good humor, she continued: “So I decided it was time for me to live for myself. I’m actually looking forward to it, believe it or not.”
