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ENSLAVEMENT PART ONE: THE PINK MILE
Angie’s Story…
“I’m scared,” Tina whispered.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be that bad,” Angie replied, in an equally soft voice, “I use to work here, for five years. There’s nothing to it.”
Angie hoped there was enough confidence in her voice to help settle the petite brunette’s anxiety. In truth, however, she was probably just as scared as Tina. She kept telling herself that she should not be this scared; she HAD worked here for five years, after all, and knew exactly what to expect. Unfortunately, she had never seen the process from THIS point of view, and that fact made it very difficult to remain calm.
“Really?” Tina asked, a small ray of hope lifting the tone of her voice.
“Absolutely,” Angie replied with a strained smile on her face.
“Shhh!” The sharp, hostile sound came from the other side of the cell, and it was way louder than the whispers Angie and Tina had been using. Looking up, Angie saw the cell’s only black occupant giving her the stare of death. That woman had serious anger issues, and she was not accepting her fate very well at all. That would certainly change though. The black woman would come to terms with her anger and fate, or she would be dead. It was that simple.
Angie returned the dirty look, and then closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the back wall. Who did that woman think she was, anyway? She was on the same side of the bars as the rest of them.
They were currently in holding cell 1, which had three walls of cinderblocks, and fronted by strong, steel bars. The cell was about eight feet long, and five feet in depth. It had no furniture, of course… slaves were generally never allowed on furniture, and that was exactly what they were destined to become.
The ten naked females were all sitting on the cold floor in various positions. Angie and Tina were leaning against one of the side walls, while the black bitch and “grandma” were leaning against the opposite one. “Grandma” was the name that Angie had given the older, gray haired woman. Angie was dying to know her story; it was rare to see women over fifty go through the enslavement process. But “soon to be slaves” were not allowed to speak without permission, and since the old lady was on the other side of the cell, Angie did not dare speak to her. Standing up and walking over to her was also out of the question… her leg irons would simply make too much noise.
In the distance, Angie heard the start of a mechanical whine, a high pitched whirring sound, and her intestines suddenly froze over with a new layer of icy fear. It was time!
Why did it have to be time? Fifteen more minutes would have been just fine to Angie. She was not ready to be enslaved!!!
Angie must have stiffened at the sound, because Tina looked up at her and asked in a whisper, “What’s wrong? What’s that sound?”
“It’s just the coffle-train, that’s all. Now keep quiet, they’ll be here for us soon.”
One look into the girl’s eyes told Angie that her attempts to sooth Tina’s nerves had failed. She looked like a doe in the headlights, to coin a phrase. Tina had just turned eighteen of course, and she had a look of pure innocence on her face, as if she had been sheltered most of her life.
Angie’s heart went out to the girl, and she longed to give her a reassuring hug, but she could not; her handcuffs prevented any such gesture. It was the same for all ten inmates. They were all completely naked except for the black steel leg irons and the handcuffs locking their hands behind their backs. Most of the prisoners were wearing black handcuffs, but Tina was one of them that had pink ones. The pink cuffs were smaller in diameter, and designed for much smaller wrists. Considering how petite the girl was, it did not surprise Angie that she would require those cuffs. Black ones fit most adult women, a fact that Angie knew well… during her five year stint as an employee of this facility, she had confined plenty of wrists in those black handcuffs.
The whirring noise grew louder and louder, until it stopped right outside the cell. The coffle-train had arrived. A few moments later, Angie heard the leather boots of two female warders: her former colleagues.
“Slave one, knee-walk to the door,” the first warder said as the pair reached the holding cell. The woman who had spoken was Jessica, a fact that Angie could discern from the voice. Stealing a glance upward, she looked through the bars and confirmed the fact. The other warder she did not recognize.
Slave one was a beautiful brunette with golden skin and full, ample tits. All ten of the the prisoners had been told their number when they entered the cell, and that they had better remember it.
The slave got to her knees, and walked across the cell floor to the small, barred gate. It was the only door to the cell, and it was about three feet in height, forcing inmates to crawl through the door. It was supposed to be psychological and symbolic: the females entering their new lives as slaves on their knees and with their head’s bowed.
Jessica opened the door to let number one crawl through. As she did, the other warder reached up with a long, black rod (called a coffle rod in the industry), and hooked the ring of the leather collar from the coffle-train’s first unit. The coffle-train was a series of ten little “boxes,” the color of blood, which ran along a track built into the ceiling. Each box, or “unit” as they were officially called, acted as a retractable leash. When the warder hooked the connected collar at the back end of the unit, she pulled the lead down. The lead was a sturdy wire, sheathed in black rubber.
Jessica’s hand shot downward aggressively when number one exited the cell. The hand gripped a handful of brown hair, and forced one’s head down a little lower. With well-practiced teamwork, Jessica held the brunette’s head down while the other warder fastened the leather collar around her neck with the ring at the front. Once done, both warders let go and took a step back.
Angie knew from experience that the force on the retractable lead was considerable, and what followed next was what always happened. The lead shot back into the unit, retracting itself, and jerking the soon-to-be-slave to a standing position. When it was done, the whimpering brunette was standing on the tips of her toes. The second warder grabbed the ring in the collar, and pulled it down a short distance, just enough that the prisoner could stand comfortably on her feet. She then reached back up with the coffle rod and hit a button on the unit’s side, which locked the lead in place.
“Slave two,” Jessica said sternly. Angie swallowed hard, and got to her knees, for she was number two.
Jessica knew her. They had even gone to the bar a few times together. She had to show Angie some mercy! The treatment of slaves was just so… rough.
Angie did not deserve to be treated so rough! Surly Jessica would say to her partner, “go easy on this one, she’s one of us.”
But she never heard those words. Once she had cleared the low door, a strong, firm hand thrust itself into her hair, gripping it tightly close to her scalp.
The action was rough, and inexplicably Angie felt a sudden heat from her sex.
In what seemed to be a very short period of time, the second warder had buckled the leather collar on her throat.
Angie, when she had worked here, had always been amused by the squeals and shrieks of the slaves as they were jerked onto their tip toes. It was just so humorous to watch! Never had she considered what it would be like for the slave.
That is until the moment the second warder was done buckling the collar. When it came, it came with a shock, and it forced a squeal from her vocal chords. It was awful!
Luckily, it only lasted for the briefest of seconds. The second warder was quick to create some slack in the lead before she locked it into place.
Angie could hear both women chuckling softly at her discomfort and surprise, and without thinking, she raised her eyes pleadingly to her friend.
For a split second, their eyes locked and Angie could see genuine sympathy in Jessica’s eyes. But that was quicker than the lead’s retraction. The warder’s face grew dark, and suddenly, without warning, she hauled her hand back and slapped the red-headed slave across the face.
“Lower your eyes, slave!” Jessica screamed.
Angie’s ears were ringing with the impact. It hurt! And it also sent a very clear message to her. Lowering her eyes in defeat, she realized that she was now a slave. A piece of owned property. Livestock. And no free person could have a slave for a friend. No, Jessica was no longer her friend, and Angie would receive no special treatment.
In utter defeat and humiliation, Angie stood there and waited with a wet pussy that kept getting wetter with every passing second. As the rest of the slaves were hooked up to the coffle-train, (starting with Tina, who was number three), Angie pulled against the cold steel that held her wrist’s captive, but the effort was futile: the steel was just too strong. She tried slipping her wrist’s out from their rigid embrace, but that effort failed as well. By the time the coffle-train whirred back to life, Angie had fully accepted her new role in life. She was also so hot between her legs that she was rubbing her thighs together in the hope that it would relieve her sexual need.
With the sound of ten ankle chains ricocheting off the green, cement walls, the coffle of slaves followed the coffle-train around the corner and down the long hall to the depilation chamber. The train’s guide rail followed a wide, pink stripe that was painted on the floor. This stripe showed the route the slaves would take as they were processed into slavery.
The employees always called the walk “the Pink Mile,” and now Angie herself was walking it. She knew that the walls were painted green for a reason. Psychologists believed that the color green had a calming effect on people, so the walls were that color to help pacify slaves. Now that she was one of the slaves, Angie could testify that the theory was all wrong. It did not soothe her one bit! Between the frost in her guts, and the heat between her legs, she was pretty worked up.
The coffle was about halfway down the hall when the train stopped. At first, Angie thought it had malfunctioned. Such things have happened in the past. Then she heard footsteps behind her.
Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw Jared walking confidently down the hall.
What timing!
Angie may now be a slave, but she could get an easier life with Jared!
The handsome young man with olive skin worked as a “merchandise acquiring agent” for the Westgate House, an auction house that sold only the most beautiful slaves to the world’s richest men.
Surely, he would see her and take her with him! Was she not beautiful?
While Angie had been employed at the facility, she had flirted non-stop with the man every time he came there to “acquire” new merchandise. And recently, after she had pestered him about going on a date for about a half a year, he had told her “maybe.”
That proved that he liked her! Her heart filling with joy, she waited as he thoroughly examined several slaves in the rear of the coffle, including the black bitch.
She heard his footsteps as they echoed off the walls. He drew closer to her. She could see the expensive Italian leather of his shoes shining in the stark glare of the over head lights. He stopped behind her and examined Tina.
Sorry girly, she thought, he’s going to choose me!
He then stood up, and continued down the line. With her eyes down cast, she waited for him to examine her. She could tell that he recognized her since he stopped right in front of her and just stood there, staring.
It was so thrilling! He was so handsome. And she was so vulnerable, with her nudity and bondage.
She waited for the first touch of his manicured hand. She waited for his examination to begin.
But he just stood there. Maybe he did not need to examine her, since they already knew each other. Hell, they were supposed to start dating soon. He had told her “maybe” after all.
And then, to her utter shock and dismay, he reached out and started examining the tanned beauty of number one.
She tried to tell herself that he simply had to be thorough, examining number one before choosing Angie, but somehow, she knew that was not the case. He did not find her beautiful enough to even examine.
When he told Jessica that he would take numbers one and six, tears were already streaming down Angie’s face. Yes, she was now a slave. An average, ordinary slave, and she did not even warrant the special treatment of the Westgate House.
Jessica and her partner released one and six from the coffle-train, and a few minutes later, after Jared had left with his two acquisitions, the whirring motor started once again. Feeling the sharp pull from her lead, Angie continued walking the pink mile.
ENSLAVEMENT PART TWO: THE DEPILATION CHAMBER
Legally speaking, a female becomes a slave at the exact instant the judge or federally licensed slaver signs the enslavement papers, but it often takes a while for the reality of slavery to sink in. For some, it takes walking the entire pink mile before they realize that they are now and forever slaves. Angie, however, had learned this lesson before she even reached the “depilation chamber.”
With a surge of despair filling her heart, Angie, led by the coffle-train, shuffled into the long, narrow room that was officially known as the depilation chamber. (At this moment in time, the slave still thought of herself as “Angie,” even though she ceased being that the moment her enslavement papers were signed). The clinking and clanging of the slaves’ ankle chains filled the room as the coffle of females made their way across the tiled floor.
Suddenly, the pre-programmed, coffle-train came to a sharp halt.
“Slaves!” said an authoritative voice from the front of the room. Angie looked up and saw Cathy Banes standing a few yards in front of her. Not wanting to be slapped again, she quickly lowered her eyes.
Cathy Banes was a chubby, fifty-three year old woman who had been the depilation chamber’s manager for decades. Every new recruit to the facility’s warder division started in this room, and Angie, when she had been a free woman, was no exception, so she knew from experience that Cathy was a fair, but no-nonsense kind of woman.
But in her naked and chained state, Angie found herself trembling with fear in the presence of her former boss.
“Look down at your feet,” Cathy continued in the loud voice she used when addressing a line of slaves, “You will see a pair of blue footprints painted on the floor. Stand on them.”
Angie looked down, and to her surprise, she was already standing on them. With her emotions running rampant, she had forgotten the normal operating procedures, but her subconscious mind must have remembered.
Angie heard the sound of the five warders currently under Cathy’s direction walk up the line of slaves. They were checking to make sure the slaves had complied with Cathy’s order. The depilation chamber was equipped to handle ten slaves at once, but since Jared had taken slaves one and six, there were two spots left open, including the one right in front of Angie.
“Clear!” said one of the warders, and then immediately repeated four more times by the other women. Angie was keeping her eyes downcast, so she could not see the five warders, but she knew they were currently dressed in the yellow Hazmat suits required of the position.
There was a loud click as Cathy walked over to a control panel and engaged a switch. A split second later, the stocks clamped shut around Angie’s ankles. The speed with which her ankles were captured was so fast that Angie jumped and squealed, even though she knew what to expect.
The stocks were metal, and when not engaged, the two halves were flush with the floor: one half in front of, and the other behind the painted footprints. As long as the slave kept her feet on the marks, she would be fine. The two halves of the stocks, when activated, would lift up and clamp together. If the slave was not on the mark, however, her legs would not be lined up with the holes in the stocks, and her lower leg bones would be crushed.
But standard operating procedure required the warders to walk up the line of slaves to make sure they had all obeyed the direction. To the best of Angie’s knowledge, no slave had ever had her legs crushed in this facility.
“Alright ladies,” Cathy said after the slaves had been locked in the stocks. She was talking to the warders, since slaves were never addressed as “ladies.” “Slime ‘em.”
Oh shit! Angie was not looking forward to this part.
Since a normal coffle of slaves had ten, and there were five warders, each warder would handle one slave, and then the one directly behind.
Angie heard a “snip, snip” behind her, and she knew the warder was cutting the hair tie from Tina’s pigtails. The woman then grabbed a pail of Depi-pro from the side, and approached Angie.
Depi-pro, unofficially known as “green slime” in the industry, was the hair removing agent. All it took was one use, and the slave would be permanently void of hair below the neck. The five warders who were tending to the slaves were all dressed from head to foot in the Hazmat suits to ensure their safety. As long as the slime was applied below the neck, it was perfectly safe for the one time use. Repeated exposure to it, however, could be bad to one’s health, which is why the Hazmat suits were required. At one time, green slime was used to remove the head hair from the “incorrigibles,” but that practice was eliminated when an incorrigible went insane. As a precaution, the government forbade the use of green slime above the neck, even though most people thought the slave was already insane before the stuff was even applied.
Now, incorrigibles undergo electrolysis or laser hair removal to have their head hair permanently removed; a process that takes months and repeated treatments before the hair will stop growing. (As an interesting aside, it is worth mentioning that most owners of a first time slave will have laser treatments done on her to remove any lip or unsightly facial hair).
With a gloved hand, the warder reached into the bucket, scooped up a handful of the slime, and roughly slapped it on Angie’s back. For a moment, all Angie felt was the cold of the goo, and then suddenly it started to burn. And boy, did it burn!
Angie started what the warders called the depilation dance. She started squirming around in a futile attempt to block the warder from spreading more of the slime on her body.
Oh, it hurt!!! Angie twisted this way and that, but the stocks prevented her from moving. She tried to use her hands, but the handcuffs locking her wrists behind her prevented any serious attempt. The warder quickly and efficiently spread the goo over her entire body.
Angie remembered when she had first started to work there. They processed so many slaves, that the work became routine and boring. Mindlessly, the warders applied the slime to the slave, not even considering how it must feel.
But now Angie knew… It FUCKING HURT!!!
Oh shit, she thought, as a recent memory came to her mind. Just minutes before, she had told Tina that it was not that bad. She had lied to the poor girl. It was bad! Very bad!
With a tear running down her cheek, Angie twisted in the stocks to look at Tina, who was currently waiting for her turn to be slimed. “I’m sorry,” she silently mouthed, hoping that the girl could forgive her.
It felt like an eternity, but in truth, it was no more than a couple of minutes before all the slaves had been slimed with the infernal gunk.
At Cathy’s command, all the warders left the room. With a flick of a switch, the showers started. To the sides of each slaves’ position was a metallic pillar with multiple shower heads lining one side. The pillars were wide enough that the jets of soap and water could reach all sides of a slave at the same time.
Angie closed her eyes against the onslaught of soap, which sprayed and foamed her naked body. After a few moments, the jets stopped, and then immediately sprang back to life with cold water.
At first, it felt wonderful and soothing as the burning slime was washed from her body, but that sensation was only temporary. Once the shower stopped, a soaking wet Angie realized that she was shivering with cold.
Never in her life had she felt THIS miserable.
But the employees of enslavement facilities spend no time coddling the slaves. Everything is done quickly and efficiently in this assembly line of feminine flesh.
Without a word from the chamber’s manager, the stocks that confined the slaves’ ankles unlocked and folded back into the floor to await the next coffle of slaves. The high pitched whine of the coffle-train started in again, and Angie felt the merciless pull on her lead.
The sound of eight pairs of leg irons rattling on the tile floor reached Angie’s ears, as the group of silent, shivering slaves made their way to the next stop along the pink mile.
ENSLAVEMENT PART THREE: THE CHAIR
Sobbing quietly, Angie shuffled into the hall, continuing to follow the pink mile. She was soaking wet from the depilation process, she was shivering with cold, and she was miserable. No thoughts entered her brain. No emotions other than despair entered her heart. She did not even hear the light, metallic melody that the chain of her ankle cuffs was making. With her head hanging low, Angie let the coffle-train guide her forward.
So lost in her own misery, she did not even notice that Jessica and the other warder had rejoined the little group of eight slaves. It was not until the coffle-train’s leash stopped her short when she regained her senses. Looking up, Angie saw that she was standing right outside the final room of the enslavement process, the CoRiSS room, or the COllaring, RInging, and Slave Stamping room. When she had been employed by the facility, this was the last room she worked in. From there, she could have gone into management.
But management was not her fate. Slavery was.
Angie’s old co-worker, and best friend, Melissa, was walking up to the coffle of slaves. Without thinking, Angie raised her eyes to meet those of the Coriss facilitator. Melissa halted for a second as recognition flashed in her eyes.
But slaves don’t have friends! Angie had already learned that lesson, hadn’t she? Jessica had slapped her across the face for looking in her eyes. Cold panic was starting to rush through her veins. This was it! The end of the line. After leaving this room, she would forever be marked as a slave.
Instead of growing hard, Melissa’s eyes turned soft as she gave Angie an awkward, reassuring smile.
But the slave scarcely noticed. The rapid thumping of her heartbeat thundered in her ears, wiping out all other sounds. Her vision was telescoping to a single tunnel. Fear had taken over her mind completely.
“No,” she said softly.
Without Angie realizing it, Jessica the Warder unbuckled her collar, releasing her from the strict control of the coffle-train.
Melissa had resumed her walk toward the coffle, but she had not yet reached it. Jessica’s partner was standing to one side, ignoring the slaves completely. And Jessica herself had not yet grabbed hold of Angie’s arm. This was routine, after all, and the warders do become complacent in their jobs.
For that split second, Angie was free. The chains binding her ankles to one another did not matter. Neither did the handcuffs confining her wrists behind her back. In that moment, nothing, or no one was holding onto her.
With panic consuming her, Angie let loose.
“No!” she screamed.
Angie then turned and ran back down the hall as fast as the ankle chains would allow. She had to get out of there! She did not want to be a slave. She could not be a slave.
She ran. As fast as she possibly could, Angie rushed down the hall.
“I don’t wanna be a slave!” she screamed, over and over, even though she was unaware of doing it.
Suddenly, she felt a weight fall onto her legs as Jessica tackled her. Angie plummeted downward, and hit the ground hard. But still, she continued to struggle.
She had her legs underneath her and was beginning to stand again when Jessica thrust her weight into the slave and knocked her onto the ground a second time. This was followed immediately with a rapid series of sharp, stinging blows from the other warder’s riding crop. That was enough to quell Angie’s break for freedom, but not her emotions, which were pouring out of her as sobs and tears.
From somewhere behind her, Angie heard Melissa’s loud voice reverberating down the corridor.
“Stop!” she said, her voice full of authority. Angie then realized the rain of blows had stopped. Unaware of exactly who, someone helped her up to a kneeling position.
Melissa was right there, face to face with her. She was gently, but firmly, holding the slave’s head in her hands.
“Shh,” she said, “quiet down, Angie.”
“I don’t wanna be a slave!” Angie blurted out through the sobs, “please let me go. Let me go! Please?”
“You know I can’t do that,” Melissa said, her voice tender and comforting, as if she were talking to a child who had skinned her knees on a skateboard. “I can’t let you go. But you need to settle down. It’ll go much easier if you do. You know this.”
“Please let me go!” Angie said, before succumbing to another volley of sobs.
Melissa then pressed Angie’s face into her bosom with a tight embrace. After a couple of minutes of soothing, Angie had calmed down enough where she was once again rational.
“I’m sorry,” Angie whispered.
“Don’t be. Just get control of yourself. You know this has to be done.”
“I know.”
With that, Melissa helped the slave to her feet, and gripping her arm tightly, started leading the way back to the Coriss room. With the tears out of her system, Angie was now aware of her surroundings. The clanking of her ankle chains. The scowling of the second warder, who obviously did not approve of Melissa’s way of handling the situation. And she noticed that the front of Melissa’s uniform was now soaking wet from holding her body so close to hers.
Chuckling softly, Angie said, “I’m sorry I got your uniform wet, Mistress.”
“That’s ok, slave,” Melissa replied, chuckling as well, “just promise me you’re done with these dramatics.”
Sniffing a running nose first, Angie agreed to her friend’s demand.
Friend?
Maybe slaves had friends after all.
Once inside the room, Angie was led to the “Enslavement Chair,” where Jessica jangled the keys to her cuffs in front of her face.
“You better not run again!” the warder said.
“She won’t,” Melissa replied with absolute certainty.
Starting with the ankles, Jessica unlocked each cuff from Angie’s limbs, finally leaving her unhindered by any bondage, but that freedom would be short lived, and the slave knew it.
Without being told, she sat down into the cold, steel chair, resting her arms into the furrows of the arm rest. While doing so, Angie noticed that the lower halves of the wrist cuff blanks had been inserted into the chair’s groove. Of course the blanks had already been loaded, that was standard operating procedure, after all: load the chair before the slave was even released from the coffle-train.
Melissa rested a comforting hand on Angie’s shoulder, and whispered, “Ready?”
“Yes Mistress.”
The Coriss Facilitator adjusted the whole arm assembly so the cuff blank was directly under the slave’s wrist, and then closed the top half of the chair’s arm restraint over Angie’s right forearm.
The Chair’s restraint system was similar to a pillory. The slave’s arm rested in furrows molded into the armrest. Hinged to this was half of a cylinder, with a matching groove down the center of it. When closed, it would secure the slave’s forearm. There were similar restraints for the lower legs, and one for the neck.
After securing each of Angie’s four limbs, Melissa adjusted the chair’s neck rest, or, more appropriately, back half of the neck restraint. Finally, Melissa made sure there was no hair between the restraint system and the back of the slave’s neck, and she closed the front half with a loud click, which was the locking mechanism engaging.
The Chair was multi-functional. In addition to restraining the slave, each half of the restraint system held half of a metal blank: cuffs for the limbs, and a collar for her neck. The metal used was an alloy of Loganium and carbon; and it was also infused with nano-technology. Once the facilitator flipped the switch, an electric current would run through the metal blanks, fusing the halves together as well as to the slave’s flesh, thus making them a permanent addition to the slave’s body.
With the nano-technology, the collar and cuffs could actually expand and contract with the slave’s weight.
“Here we go,” Melissa said.
Angie heard a computerized beep, indicating that the Coriss Facilitator had turned the chair on. There was a loud, mechanical buzz as vibrations filled the Chair’s restraint system, and Angie’s fear returned in an instant.
But she did not have time to yell or scream. Abruptly, the metal blanks clamped down on her flesh. They all felt tight, but the collar blanks felt like they would strangle her. Angie grimaced and tried to remain calm as one more tear fell down her left cheek, but it felt like this terrible moment would never end.
Her throat was being crushed! As were her wrists and ankles.
They squeezed and squeezed and…
Just as quickly as it started, the pressure ceased, and the buzzing sound started to slow down as the Chair was turned off. Angie relaxed and breathed easily. Even though the Chair’s cylindrical restraints were still engaged, she could feel the new collar upon her throat, and the cuffs upon her wrists and ankles. It was now official! From then on, no one would ever doubt that she was a slave.
“You ok?” Melissa asked.
“Yeah… I mean, yes Mistress,” Angie said, thankful for her compassionate tone of voice.
“Alright then, round two.”
Melissa then wheeled a large, boxy device up to the slave’s right side. This device was known to the employees as the Ringer. Technically, it was the Midwestern Slaver Supplies’ Precision Piercer, but “Ringer” just rolled off the tongue much easier. Spinning an extension on top of the machine, the facilitator positioned it in front of Angie’s nipples.
She then flipped the first switch, which turned the vacuum on. The small suction devices attached to the extension’s bar captured her nipples, pulling them away from her tits.
At first, Angie gasped for breath at the sensation, and then moaned softly at the unexpected pleasure it was giving her.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, in a moment, they’ll be pierced, and THAT hurts,” Melissa said.
“Yes Mistress,” Angie moaned as the wetness returned between her legs.
With the suction holding the slave’s nipples away from her tits, Melissa positioned the piercing devices on either side of the base of Angie’s nipples. These were on the top part of the extension, and were poised over the tops of her nipples.
“Here we go,” Melissa said, and then she flipped the second switch. The two devices clamped shut as the sharp, needle like ends pierced the base of her nipples.
“Ow!!!” the slave screamed, maintaining control of her emotions. With the pain, the sensation between her legs grew even warmer, and the moans escaping from her throat paid testament to that fact.
The device then opened up, and Melissa positioned the third and final part of the Ringer. This was on the lower part of extension, and held the loganium rings. Melissa lined both ends of the open rings with the tunnels now pierced into the base of the slave’s nipples. Once finished, she flipped the third switch.
The two ends of the rings clamped shut through the piercings. Another mechanical buzz filled the room as electricity was applied to the rings, permanently sealing the two ends together.
Angie could no longer control herself. She screamed with passion as the first climax seized her body.
When she returned to her senses, the slave realized that the suction was off and Melissa had wheeled the device out of the way. Her friend was staring at her with the largest smirk that she had ever seen.
“Are we ready to proceed?” Melissa asked, to which Angie affirmed.
Melissa then went around to the back of the Chair, and pressed a foot petal at the Chair’s base. This unlocked it from the seated position. Gripping the handle right above Angie’s head, the facilitator pulled the Chair down so the slave was in a prone position, much like a recliner.
She then walked to Angie’s left and positioned the business end of the Slave Stamper 2000 over Angie’s now bare pudendum.
The Slave Stamper, also a product of Midwest Slaver Supplies, resembled a dentist’s light, with several arms that allowed the device’s head to be maneuvered. The head was rectangular in shape, and the very end of it had holes in the shape of a mirror-backwards “SLAVE.” This end is what touched the flesh of the slave.
Before the slave is even secured to the Chair, the Coriss facilitator inserts a clean, sterilized cartridge into the head. This cartridge contains the tattooing needles and ink. Once it is turned on, the needles move in a preprogrammed pattern, permanently etching the word “SLAVE” into the girl’s flesh with black ink.
In addition to the main unit, the Slave Stamper’s computer is connected via cable to the Chair. In the left arm rest another cartridge is inserted with needles and ink. With the slave’s number and barcode already programmed into the computer, when activated, this tattooing device will etch those onto the inside of the slave’s secured forearm.
Melissa went to the computer screen, and hit the green “ON” button.
The needles did not exactly hurt. It was pricklier than anything else, but it did not matter. Angie screamed with the second of her orgasms the moment the needles touched her body.
Again, when she regained her senses, the device had already been turned off and pushed to one side.
“Finished, slave,” said Melissa with the second largest smirk that Angie had ever seen.
“Thank you Mistress,” she replied, and her friend released her from the Chair’s restraints. Angie stood up, and looked down at the shiny metal that was now permanently attached to her wrists. They glimmered in the overhead lights, and Angie was awed by how beautiful they were. How beautiful they looked on HER!
She then lifted her hands, and felt the collar now gracing her neck. The slave could feel its weight, and, surprisingly, it was comforting to her.
“We gotta get moving here, I’m already behind,” Melissa said, coming up behind her. She pulled Angie’s arms behind her back, and slipped the bar of a padlock through the rings imbedded on the inside of the wrist cuffs. With a loud “click,” Angie’s hands were once again confined behind her back. Meanwhile, Jessica had secured an 18 inch length of chain onto her ankle cuffs with padlocks.
Shuffling once again with the sweet melody of ankle chains, Angie was led to a side door, where a second coffle-train awaited, only this one did not have leather collars attached. With her coffle-rod, Jessica pulled the lead down from the first unit and attached it to the ring in the front of Angie’s collar.
This coffle-train ran on a different route than the other, and when it was fully loaded with freshly collared and tattooed slaves, it would lead them to the distribution area, where they would be kenneled until the semi came to load them up for unknown destinations.
Behind her, Angie heard, Melissa prepping the Chair for Tina: inserting new blanks, a new cartridge into the Stamper, and new rings and sterilized pinchers in the Ringer. In a matter of time, each slave in the coffle would undergo the same procedure.
Even though the unknown awaited her, Angie felt as if a weight had been taken from her shoulders. She relaxed in her bondage. She was a slave, and she was now ready for the next chapter in her life.
ENSLAVEMENT PART 4: INTRO TO JARED’S TALE
Jared Savini walked down the long corridor towards the line of slave girls. He was alone and unattended, which was not really that odd since he was a well-known and frequent visitor to the facility. The Washtenaw County Enslavement Center was his favorite haunt when on the job. With towns like Ann Arbor, acquiring agents were always assured to find grade A stock. Everyone knew him there, and he always had free run of the place.
He was walking with his usual sense of purpose, and his steps echoed down the hall. Matt Bilke, the WCEC’s supervisor, had stopped the coffle-train for him so Jared could have a look at the unaltered slaves. Even if he had found a perfect specimen, the enslavement process would have rendered her worthless to him. Auction houses like Westgate did not deal in post-processed slaves.
The unscheduled stop seemed to have made the slaves even more fidgety and nervous than they would normally have been. As he approached the line, that fact was evident in their manner.
“Hi Jared,” said one of the warders, in a cooing, sing-song voice. Her name was Jasmine. Or Jamie. Or something or other. He could never keep them straight. The other warder just smiled at him and nodded a greeting.
“Hello ladies,” he said in a formal tone of voice.
Jared then returned his attention to the slaves. After the greeting, he usually just ignored the free women. That method always seemed to work best.
Well, most of the time. There was that one psycho-bitch that worked here, but hopefully he could get in and out before she saw him.
Approaching from the back of the coffle, he rejected the first couple of slaves without even a second look. Too young. Too skinny. Too blonde.
He did stop for the fourth from the rear: an auburn haired slave that he pegged to be around twenty years old. His examination routine was always the same. He checked their eyes, teeth and gums, and fingernails for any sign of potential disease. He would then run his hands down their bodies, lingering on the tits, ass, and cunt. This part of the examination served two purposes: one was to test sexual responsiveness because… well… let’s be frank, rich men did not spend tens of thousands of dollars on slaves to put them to work in the field, and the second purpose was to test for signs of anger, aggression or any other resistance to a man’s touch.
Personally, he enjoyed strong willed slaves that he could break, but a large percentage of men did not. Quite a few liked simple, submissive and low maintenance slaves. After all, if you wanted high maintenance, you could always just find a free woman as a wife.
Since Jared was a meticulous, cautious sort, he usually selected submissive merchandise for Westgate. The slaves who fought were a risk that he did not want to take. One buyer may be interested, but then see the aggression come out of her and change his mind. Jared, when he had first started in this business, had discovered that fact the hard way. He had lost thousands of dollars in commission over that mistake. For him, it was better to play it safe and leave the riskier slaves to the agents who liked to gamble.
The auburn haired cunt had tested well, so he continued on to the final part of the examination. He ran his hands down her legs, feeling their muscle tone, and then down to her feet, where he checked for deformities and hard, brittle or discolored toe nails. She passed, and she was definitely a possibility.
The next slave, however, gave him an immediate hard on. If she weren’t a slave, he would have described her as an ebony goddess. All men had different tastes; some were leg men, some were breast men, some liked pasty white flesh, and others, like Jared, preferred dark meat.
It did not have to be Central African black, like the slave before him; they could be Hispanic, Arab, Spanish, Italian, or Greek. Even a bronzed or tanned cunt would work for him.
But this black one turned him on… big time. There was fire in her eyes; he could see it before he even began the inspection. She offered mild resistance to his commands, but it was enough for him to see her character. She would be a fun one to break… and that was spelled F…U…N!!!
Jared did not get very far in his inspection before making a decision. He would keep this one for his own.
It was probably the biggest perk of his job: once a year, he was allowed to keep one of his acquisitions, and he had not made a selection yet for this year. That is, until now.
With a satisfied smile on his face, he moved on down the line: too blonde, too old.
The petite girl had promise, so he mentally added her to the list of potentials.
The next one in line had creamy white skin and fiery red hair, and he was about ready to move on. Better to leave the fair haired ones to other agents.
But then it struck him: recognition. And it struck him HARD!!!
HOLY SHIT! It was the psycho-bitch he was trying to avoid.
He was left indecisive, a very rare condition for him. The pleasure of watching her sold off as a slave would be indescribable. In the past, that bitch never left him alone; she would follow him throughout the facility, clinging to his side with that interminable chattering of hers. She was constantly asking him out, and he was constantly telling her no, until the last time he had seen her when he said “maybe” out of shear exasperation. It was a temporary fix, and he knew it, but at the time, it did not matter to him.
Hell, he had even spotted her following him home! On multiple occasions! Jared was no psychologist, but he knew enough to identify her as having an emotional disorder. Possibly bi-polar, but he doubted it. His guess was Borderline Personality Disorder. He had known more than his fair share of BPD chicks in his life, and he had become quite adept at sensing it in women.
They’re clingy to the point of annoyance. They’re emotions rule their lives, with rapid and extreme emotional shifts that are more intense and have a longer duration than normal. To them, the world is in black and white and everything revolves around them. You may be an angel to them at first, until you look at them cross-eyed, then you’d be the devil incarnate. That is, until you leave her and she comes running back to you. Talk about high-maintenance.
Yes indeed, seeing her bought at auction would be a sweet revenge.
But the thought was short lived. Always practical and logical, Jared’s rational mind kicked in. Her emotional outbursts would seriously decrease her auction price, which would mean a lower commission for him. Besides that, selling a psycho like her could ruin the House’s reputation for fine slaves, as well as his own reputation as a Merchandise Acquiring Agent.
Of course, he could always keep her for himself and enjoy an extended period of revenge. Glancing to his right, he looked down the line at the black slave, which was number six in the coffle, and he felt a stirring in his pants once again.
No, the redheaded cunt was just not worth it.
Without even coming in close to her, Jared turned away from the psycho and started examining number one, who was proving to be more than adequate. She had the tanned skin and brunette hair that he preferred, no signs of disease, and the most sensual reactions to his ministrations that he had seen in a long time. And, on top of that, he could see no signs of rebellion or aggression.
It did not take him very long to decide. “I’ll take numbers one and six,” he said to the senior warder, Jennifer, or Jasmine, or Joslyn, or whatever the hell her name was.
Once they were released from the coffle-train, he fastened his own leather collars with leashes onto their necks, followed by Westgate issued handcuffs and leg irons. He then led the slaves to the front of the facility to meet with Matt Bilke once more to finalize the paperwork.
Westgate had a contract with the Washtenaw County Enslavement Center, as well as with other centers within the region. They paid an even $1000 for each slave picked, which was considerably more than the finest of slaves could bring in the standard market.
As Jared led his two newest acquisitions into the sunlight towards his company transport van, he smiled with satisfaction. What a perfect day it was. Beautiful sun. nice temperatures. A new personal slave with considerable promise and another beauty for auction which should bring him a nice, hefty commission. And, on top of that, he would never be bothered by the psycho-bitch again!
At that moment, Jared felt right with the world.
ENSLAVEMENT PART FIVE: PRE-AUCTION DISPLAY
Three days later.
Friday, May 3rd.
Since he was paid entirely on commission, Jared had a personal stake in the auctions, and as a result, he always attended them. In fact, he always arrived at The Westgate House around noon on sales day, which was the time public viewing started. He would linger around his acquisitions to get a feel for the customers’ reactions. Quite often, the potential buyers would engage him in conversation, allowing him to “sell” the assets of the slaves even more. As one of the top agents for Westgate, he was well known amongst the buyers.
This time was no different. The House had already cleaned and prepped the slaves, and had them chained around the Grand Hall. The Hall itself was used as a central meeting ground, where buyers could come and mingle with other buyers and Westgate staff. Although some free women did make purchases from the House, the clientele was still dominated by men, and as a result, these pre-auction gatherings had the feel of an old boy’s club. With a fully stocked bar offering free libations, the men would sit around in the soft, fine leather chairs and couches talking about everything under the sun. French delicacies were made available, as were cigars of the finest quality.
The walls of the Grand Hall, as well as the corridors surrounding it, were beautifully trimmed with walnut, while the plush carpeting at the feet of the guests was a bright crimson in color. Scattered along the walls at even intervals were golden sconces holding hundred watt bulbs, which cast everything into a warm, inviting glow.
Around the perimeter of the Grand Hall were numerous entryways that led to the corridors. It was within these entryways that the slaves were chained. They were chained standing in a spread-eagle, with their arms and legs held out to the four corners.
For the week, Jared had collected five slaves total to be auctioned, and as was the custom, they were all lined up in a row, occupying the first five entryways on the Grand Hall’s east side.
With a martini in hand, Jared started making the rounds, slowly going from slave to slave, while unobtrusively keeping an eye on the buyers. About a half hour into the viewing, he saw Rodney Habersham approach the tanned slave he had acquired from the Washtenaw County Enslavement Center.
“Well hello, my boy!” Mr. Habersham said to Jared in his usual thundering voice. He had a glass of beer in his hand and a cigar sticking out one end of his mouth. “Is this one of yours?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Habersham.”
“You always have the best taste in slaves,” Mr. Habersham said, accompanied by a deep belly laugh.
Most men that visited the house came in a tie and coat, but not Rodney Habersham. As the Founder, and president of Midwest Slaver Supplies, he had become one of the wealthiest men in America. He was also one of the most unlikely multi-billionaires in the world. Mr. Habersham never wore a tie, preferred beer over the finest of French wines, and thought puns were the greatest form of humor ever invented by man.
The jovial, rather rotund businessman was also one of the largest spenders at the auction house. He had a well-deserved reputation for free-spending if it meant he got what he wanted, and at the moment, it appeared that he wanted the tanned slave.
“She is a beaut!” he said. Mr. Habersham was just standing in front of the slave taking in her beauty; and the slave stood there perfectly, with down cast eyes. No sign of rebellion at all. Jared knew he had picked a winner.
Mr. Habersham then ducked underneath her right arm chain to enter the Grand Hall, and to get another view of the slave. With a wide grin on his face, he came up close behind her.
Oh shit!
Jared’s heart skipped a beat as he saw it cross the slaves face. It was only a millisecond, but it was there. An expression. A simple expression. But it revealed a growing anger inside the slave.
Mr. Habersham’s left hand was hidden from Jared’s view by the slave’s body, but he had a pretty good idea of where it was headed.
Suddenly, the slave jerked to one side as her face twisted with rage. She did not say anything, but she fought against the chains that held her captive with a passion that had not been revealed before. The rattling of her chains overpowered the din of conversation in the Great Hall, and it drew the attention of everyone in attendance.
Jared felt sick to his stomach. How could this have happened? He tested her! He had felt her up in the exact same places that the buyers would, and she did not even bite her lip. This stupid slave was going to cost him a lucrative commission.
But then Mr. Habersham’s loud guffaws broke through the noise, and Jared realized the man was one of those guys who enjoyed strong willed, rebellious slaves. The man laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.
“Jared my boy, you have got a winner with this one! I think this is your best selection yet!” After ducking back under the slave’s chain, Mr. Habersham switched his beer to his left hand, and with his right clasped Jared’s hand in a firm, enthusiastic shake. “I think you just made by day.”
With that, the billionaire walked away, completely ignoring the other merchandise.
Jared let out a sigh of relief. He was pretty sure that would be a sale.
With an angry glare, he glanced back to the now calm slave, who saw the stare and lowered her eyes in submission.
That was a close one. Taking a deep breath, he let the anger slip away, and resumed his watch for potential buyers. He had five and a half more hours to go before the public viewing ended. After a three hour break for dinner, the auction would begin.
ENSLAVEMENT PART SIX: THE AUCTION
Of the five Merchandise Acquiring Agents employed by Westgate House, Jared was the only one who liked to watch the auction from the wings of the stage. The other two preferred to be out in the audience.
It was Friday night, at five minutes to 9:00. The auction would start soon. From somewhere behind Jared, heavy footsteps approached. Turning around, he saw Mr. Howard Westgate himself, who smiled at the agent and signed “Hello, friend.”
“Hello. Nice crowd tonight,” Jared signed back. Mr. Westgate had been deaf since birth, and so he communicated mostly with sign language. When he did speak, it was more of a mumble than anything, and very hard to understand him.
“Yes indeed. Tonight is shaping up to be a good one. You have three in the final five, don’t you?”
“Yes. Numbers 25, 24, and 21,” Jared signed back. He had learned sign language shortly after being hired by Westgate so he could communicate easier with the boss.
“I’m confident they’ll make us some money.” The best of the merchandise is always sold last at the auction, since that is when the crowd is worked up and more eager to spend.
“How’s the new auctioneer?” Jared signed. The twenty year old named Daryl Sommers was causing Jared to feel a little anxiety. Auctioneering was an art, and their performance dictated how much the slaves could ultimately sell for. Lousy auctioneer, less money. Daryl was a greenhorn. He was still in college, and his only experience at selling anything was under the tutelage of Mr. Westgate.
“Daryl will do just fine.” Mr. Westgate smiled at him, and Jared realized that his boss had complete faith in his newest hire.
At that moment, Daryl came bouncing out from the other wing. “Bouncing” was the only way to describe it. The kid was tall and lanky, and he seemed to have a literal spring in his step.
“Welcome gentlemen,” he said, his voice amplified by the small microphone on his right lapel, “and ladies. How are y’all doing tonight?” The kid, Jared knew, was from the south, and although he had worked on the accent, he obviously had not worked on it enough. Either that or he thought the word “y’all” would endear him to the customers.
The crowd clapped… sort of. It was not very enthusiastic.
“Oh come on,” Daryl continued, “that sounded like you were half asleep! Aren’t you here to buy some slave girls?”
That brought more of a response from the customers.
“One more time! How y’all doin’ tonight?” That time it worked, the crowd cheered, if for no other reason than to shut him up so the auction could commence.
“So… How many masters does it take to open a beer? None! It should be open by the time the slave brings it.”
Jared’s heart plummeted to his bowels. What the fuck was the kid doing? Never, in all his years in this business had Jared seen an auctioneer start an auction like this. He glanced back to Mr. Westgate to see if he was going to get the kid off stage, but the boss was only smiling with satisfaction. Shrugging his shoulders, Jared turned his attention back to the stage. Despite the boss’s confidence, he felt no better about this technique.
“How do you get a one armed slave out of a tree? Wave at her.
“Did you hear about the blonde slave that got sold from the M and M factory? She was throwing out all the W’s.”
Daryl’s jokes were definitely corny, but it seemed to be working. The crowd was laughing more and more with each one. Jared knew from experience that the more energized a crowd, the more cash was brought in. By the time Daryl asked how many slaves it took to screw in a light bulb, (two, one to screw the light bulb, the other to screw the Master,) Jared felt that the crowd was ready. Apparently, so did the young auctioneer, who called for the first slave.
With the clanking of chain, the first slave came shuffling out. The tall, natural blonde looked petrified, but she offered no resistance as Daryl grabbed her by the waste and brought her in close. Just like bodybuilders before a competition, the slaves at Westgate are well oiled before being brought on stage. The blonde seemed to shine in the spotlight.
The slave, like all of the other ones up for sale, still had her pubic hair. In the enslavement centers, slaves had all body hair below their necks depilated. They also had collars and wrist and ankle cuffs permanently bonded to their skin; as well as a “SLAVE” tattoo applied to their pudendum.
But in auction houses like Westgate, slaves were sold before those procedures. It was actually a perk for the buyers; a part of the price that they pay: if they wanted, buyers could apply the hair remover themselves, set up and activate the on-site Accouterments Bonding Machine, and tattoo the slave stamp, either with a Slave Stamper 2000, or by hand.
As a result, lot number one, just like all the other slaves, was not yet collared. Her wrist and ankle chains were wide like the permanent ones, but they had not been bonded. They simply locked, the old fashioned way.
“Oh my God!” Daryl exclaimed with exaggerated shock, “a Blonde! You’re not the one who threw away the M and M’s, are you?”
Daryl then picked up a hand held microphone that had been cradled in a low lying stand, and held it to the startled slave.
“Umm. No Master?” she asked in a smooth, if uncertain, alto.
“Phew!” the auctioneer replied, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow, “you had me worried there for a second.”
The crowd roared with laughter. Within the cacophony, cat calls could be heard. And then, somewhere in the back, Jared heard “Ten thousand dollars!” shouted.
“Now hold your horses!” Daryl said to the early bidder, “I haven’t started yet! I guess we’ll start the bidding at… oh… I don’t know… ten thousand dollars?”
This was followed by more laughter, and the same voice from the rear shouted out, “Right here! Ten thousand!”
“Eleven,” said another man, this one near the middle of the crowd.
“Twelve,”
“Twelve five!”
And so it continued. When the increments grew smaller and the bidding slowed, Daryl would crack a joke, spin the slave, and touch her in one place or another to elicit a response, which would re-invigorate the bidding.
In the end, that first slave sold for twenty seven thousand, which was an incredibly large sum for the first slave on the block. But it did not peak there.
The kid on the stage was a natural, and Jared had never seen anything like it. Up and up the prices went. Jared’s first slave on the block, number 13, sold for forty thousand, which meant a $4000 commission for him, (in all honesty, he had expected his top slave, the tanned beauty from the Washtenaw County Enslavement Center to sell for that). His second slave, number 19, sold for fifty thousand and three hundred dollars. Number 21 went for sixty thousand five hundred; and number 24 took in sixty eight thousand even.
This was, without a doubt, the most lucrative day he had ever had at Westgate, and by the time his top slave, number 25, came up to the block, Jared was laughing at the kid’s cheesy jokes right along with the crowd.
“And now for the final item up for bid,” Daryl said as he gestured to the wings across the stage from Jared’s vantage point. When nothing happened, a volley of laughter erupted from the audience. “I said… and now for the final item up for bid!”
From the wings, two handlers forced the tanned brunette onto the stage. There was panic in her eyes, and she immediately turned to run back off the stage, much to the delight of the crowd.
“Seventy-five,” someone yelled.
The two handlers caught her, and struggled for a minute with the slave’s oiled body. Finally, they gained control of her and carried her to the center of the stage, right into Daryl’s arms. The auctioneer whispered in to the slave’s ear, and whatever it was, it seemed to work, because the slave stopped struggling and allowed the man to hold her by the waist.
She must have seen Jared in the wings, because she glanced right at him. It was a cliché, but he thought she looked like a doe in the headlights.
“Ninety-five thousand,” raised a loud, familiar voice. It was none other than Mr. Habersham, who still had a cigar sticking out of his mouth.
“I have ninety-five, do I hear one hundred thousand…”
“One hundred thousand,” said someone from the rear.
“Two hundred thousand!” Mr. Habersham said, and the entire place fell silent at the astronomical leap in price. If he was not mistaken, Jared thought that was a record bid for the house.
It stunned Daryl too, who stood there for a second with his jaw dangling to his chest, but like any true performer, it did not take long for him to recover.
“I have two hundred thousand for this fine example of a slave right here,” he continued, giving the slave a little squeeze as he mentioned her, “do I hear two hundred and one?”
The place was quiet and still.
“No,” Daryl said, “two hundred thousand dollars going once… twice, SOLD to the man in the second row!”
Without warning, the House burst into a roar of cheers and applause.
Jared felt a hard slap on his back, and he turned to see Mr. Westgate giving him a triumphal grin. “Congratulations, my boy,” he signed.
“Same to you, boss,” Jared returned.
After a moment or two of basking in the victory, his thoughts turned to the black beauty that was currently caged in his home. With a night like this, he needed to celebrate, and his newest personal slave would be the perfect toy to help him do it.
ENSLAVEMENT PART SEVEN… THE CONCLUSION
After the auction, there was quite a bit of congratulating, back slapping and hand shaking going on. Daryl, the young auctioneer, received much of the praise, and deservedly so, but there was plenty to go around. From Mr. Westgate to Jared, everyone involved in the night’s success received his fair share of recognition.
It was perhaps an hour after the end of the auction that Jared was able to break away from the celebration so he could engage in a party of his own with that tall, black wildcat that he had caged away at home.
Intending to use the back door, Jared took a short cut through the House’s “processing” room, where the buyers could make the legally required changes to the slaves’ bodies.
Glancing to his left, he locked eyes with Mr. Habersham, who was preparing to manually tattoo a slave stamp on his newly purchased property. The billionaire gave him a wink and a grin, and raised the cordless tattooing gun in a sort of salute.
Returning the smile, Jared waved goodbye to his new favorite customer and headed for the door.
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