MPI

This story is meant for adult readers only. It contains imaginary depictions of
graphic violence and ideas that are physically impossible and absurd. It is not
meant to convey or condone the idea of violence or sexual activities involving
anyone under the legal age of consent, nor is it meant to contain
representations of any actual people or institutions. If you qualify to read
this tale and like bizarre fantasies, I hope you enjoy it.   -Aiken

MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter One

June 8, 7:12 AM:

Don Bowden entered the front door of MPI Central in downtown Cleveland, Ohio.
The large revolving doorway blunted the howls of motorcars from the street
behind him as he entered the cavernous lobby of what was once a huge hotel. He
had gotten ready extra early this morning and was right on time, but he didn't
feel that way. Don never felt quite right on his first day at a new job. It
wasn't the jitters exactly, just a vague feeling that his tie was on crooked, or
that some bathroom tissue might be trailing from his foot.

His three years spent at Champion Fabrics in Akron felt like a distant rut to
Don, as did the two years before that working at Powell Security Systems in
Nashville. Don managed a team of late night assembly workers at Powell while
finishing up his degree in Industrial Management at Tennessee State. He recalled
his college days as very fun times, racing between studies, his work, and play
time, but the intervening years had frustrated Don as he tried to climb the
management ladder at Champion Mills. Don routinely watched IM grads from Boston
and Berkeley being hired straight into upper management while he remained,
slighted on the production floor. "You're just too valuable in production," they
told him, as they slipped him token raises and awards, "We'll get you an upper
office soon, as soon as you can be replaced."

"Bullshit, as always." Don recalled. But it was true, sort of. Don was very good
at what he did. He liked a fast pace, and he had a feel for getting the most
from his workers. His bosses had other considerations too. Don's test profiles
revealed a natural team leader, with an infectious competitive spirit. He
certainly had aspirations of higher positions, with title and authority. But
they felt he would be wasted in an office. Especially since his strongest
motivations were rooted directly in pussy flesh, and the excitement he always
felt while controlling his teams of bound female slaves.

"Jeez, I forgot how big this place was," Don thought, "You could easily fit a
Chang 828 inside of here."

Don walked the marble-covered expanse to a hallway of MPI offices at the wall to
his far left. There he found a curvaceous girl of about 19 sitting behind a
receptionist's desk nearly blocking that hallway. She was clad in a tight black
spandex unitard that seemed to cover her cute figure completely. The girl wore
heavy silver bracelets on her wrists and a matching silver necklace which
collared her neck as tightly as the bracelets held her wrists. "Miss Meeks? It's
Mr. Bowden, Ma'am. He's reported in for his first day," whispered the adorable
brunette with a prim wedge-cut into her headset phone-com.

"You may show him in, Tera," Janice Meeks answered pleasantly. Janice had just
settled in behind her desk for the morning, and was pleased to know her new man
had arrived early. The 35 year old Vice-President of MPI Transport Division,
Northern Ohio was dressed in her MPI lady-exec monday-blues. A stretchy royal
blue polyester skirt-suit clung to her narrow hips, topped by its matching
blazer bearing ID tags clipped to the top button hole, and complimented by blue
three-inch tall square-heeled pumps. Her high-collared blouse and sleek hosiery
were woven from a glossy light-gold fabric that shimmered in the light as she
twisted her chair to retrieve Don's folder. "Nice looking young man I recall,"
Janice thought, opening it to the first page, and his employment mug shots.

Balancing awkwardly on the tiptoes of her heavy silver ballet boots, Tera opened
the door and led Don into Janice's large office.

"Yes, good morning! Come in, Don . . have a seat, " Janice smiled. Don offered
his hand to the seated woman, who shook it warmly. He sank into the nearest of
two butter soft leather chairs alongside her desk. "Ter', honey, be a dear and
run these documents over to Bailey's office for his mid-month cost report."

"And no dawdling," she scolded gently, "He needs them right away." Janice handed
the girl a stack of folders and documents several inches high, and watched the
girl retreat dubiously from her office to begin the 150 yard round trip through
MPI's huge front foyer to Jerry Bailey's accounting office.

"Oh, and Tera!" Janice added before the girl shuffled out, "Please grab Mr.
Bowden and I a hot cup of coffee on your way back too, OK?"

"Yes, Ma'am." the receptionist answered with a slight catch in her voice.

Smiling brightly, Janice looked up for the welcome change in Tera's pained
expression, which darkened slightly before the door was closed. The woman
pondered briefly how her coffee request would add another 50 yards to the girl's
agonizing journey in those highly arched boots.

"Lovely girl," she beamed at Don, "and a lovely assistant too. It's good to see
you, Don! I trust you enjoyed your month off?"

"Yes, very much," Don replied, realizing all over again how attractive his new
boss was. Her shining blue eyes were framed by a well-tanned face and medium
blond hair layered into a short businesslike cut. Her smile revealed even white
teeth, lips fashionably painted a dark matte red, and just a hint of thirtyish
smile lines at the outer corners of her eyes. Janice exuded a heady mixture of
professional intensity, and sex appeal that could take a man's breath away. And
well she knew it.

"And the move? Did it go well too?" She continued, enjoying Don's gaze.

"Yes Ma'am. Your team took care of everything for me," Don replied, returning
her smile, "I hardly had to lift a finger. I thank you for that."

"Please, just Janice," she chided softly before looking at her folder again.
"I'm glad everything went so smoothly. We like our new managers to arrive fresh
and rested. That's why we insist on paying for everything. . .the move, travel
and the time off."

After a quiet moment inside the files, Janice cocked her left eye over at Don,
"It says here that your greatest frustration at Champion was not being promoted
quickly enough. Is that right, Don?"

"Yes it was," he answered, shifting a little in his chair. "I enjoyed the work,
of course, and the challenge. We set production records all the time at my
division. But It felt like I was being punished for that, rooted to one spot,
while new hires got the upper positions. But, I'm not a complainer or anything.
It's just that. . . I get impatient after a year or two, for new opportunities."

Janice scanned Don's files as he spoke, secretly reaffirming her decision to
hire him six weeks earlier, "Hmm," she thought, "Six -two, 180, single, 25,
works out regularly, manages his own investments. Reads when he can, travels
when they let him. Ambitious too, excellent school and work records, always gets
the job done, pretty sharp guy. . ."

Suddenly she stopped looking at Don's folder, thinking about what he had just
said. She closed the folder slowly, turning her chair slightly toward him and
crossing her legs with a look of calculation on her face. Don wondered if he had
been talking too long, saying too much. But her leggy new pose distracted him
from his concerns. He was dazzled with the sight of Janice's beautiful legs,
clad tightly in her sparkling golden hosiery. Don recognized some of Champion's
finest silk caressing those legs.

Janice paused meaningfully to stifle her own excitement, while allowing his to
build. She then looked directly at Don with a serious expression. "You remind me
of myself, not quite five years ago. I came from a pharmaceutical firm in Salt
Lake where they strung me along just like you talked about. But that isn't the
way we do things here, Don. That was four promotions ago. I started out driving
a truck just like you'll be doing. And I was just as overqualified as you are
now. But I was told management moves up quickly here, and that was no joke. And
when we get high on the org-charts we know everything there is to know about the
operation, the nuts and bolts from our docks to the corporate stocks. I have a
feeling you are going to do very well at MPI, Don."

"I get that feeling too," Don echoed, reassured by her candor, "I can't wait to
get started."

The phone-com chirped twice and Janice picked up.

"Meeks here," she answered curtly, "Yes. Oh. . OK , all set, huh? And is it full
of fuel? Good. Mr Bowden is in my office now. Have Jeneen come up right away to
meet our new driver. Tell her to bring Don a clean smock and his log-books.
Thanks, Tracy. Meeks out." She snapped the receiver down just as Tera opened the
door, quivering in pain and holding a drink carrier with two large coffees
inside it.

"It's about time you got back here, young lady," Janice said sternly, "I was
just telling Mr. Bowden here that if you didn't get a move on, I would let him
frame you up and carry you away on his first haul."

"Oh! I'm -I'm so sorry, Ma'am, I hurried. . I really did," Tera blurted, tears
filling her eyes and terror gripping her throat, "I ran most of the way. I fell
down twice, but I couldn't run with your coffees. . and risk spilling them. ."
Tera's voice trailed away when she saw Janice's unmoved expression and the fury
in her eyes. Trying hard to compose herself and teetering in the locks of her
cruel metallic footwear, Tera pulled out the first steaming cup, and offered it
to her boss, "Your coffee, Ma'am?"

"Where are your manners, wench?" Janice fumed, "You should have offered the
first cup to our guest! Perhaps we should let him pour that hot coffee all over
your breasts right now! What do you think we should do, Mr. Bowden?"

Don was very impressed. This woman had power all right, and wasn't afraid to use
it. He would do well following in her coat tails. But Janice was after more than
a little bit of fun at her secretary's expense. She was putting him to a test,
and he knew it. He looked coolly back at his boss, then into the desperate eyes
of the panic-stricken teen.

"Well, we could do that." he started out casually, as if discussing the
advantages of a certain type of golf club, "Hot coffee would sear her breasts
nicely enough through that tight fabric. And, as you say that was a very rude
thing for her to do, on top of wasting so much time on a simple errand."
Janice's eyes widened a little bit in appreciation. She liked his style!

"But then we wouldn't get to drink our coffees." he mused, "Or, I could just
slap her into a tote-frame, as you suggested earlier. Snap on the turnbuckles
and we could watch her deal with those feelings, while we enjoyed our coffee . .
." Janice remained silent, cocking her head a bit as she listened intently.

"But, that would be a lot of work, and she looks pretty remorseful about all of
this. Plus it might be nice to save her pouting breasts and general
wench-framing for another day. So, I was thinking that, ohhhh, about 30 minutes
of stretch-hanging would help Tera to improve her ways."

Janice's generously painted mouth broke into a lusty smile, and she nodded her
head. "Excellent idea, Don!" she exclaimed, "And I have an autobooth right there
in my closet. Tera, hand that coffee over to Don and the next cup to me, then
please go to the closet, enter 30 minutes into the keypad and hop in. Leave the
doors open wide, dear. We want to watch your beautiful struggle."

Tera's fear diminished, but only to a slight degree. Lucky her, she wouldn't
have to die today, or have her breasts disfigured, but 30 minutes of strangling
agony still awaited her. She handed over the coffees with trembling hands, and
hobbled across the room to open the french-louvered doors of Janice's
autocloset. She pressed the keypad as ordered, and started to go inside.

"Severe setting, please!" Janice called out just before the girl entered the
closet. A groan escaped Tera's lips as she turned to amend the keypad
instructions. There were four ranges of pressure used by the booth, beginner,
intermediate, severe, and lethal. Tera had experienced beginner dozens of times
which was certainly bad enough. She had even gotten the intermediate setting on
three or four occasions, which was a gut-wrenching hell, for as much as 20
minutes. But never severe, and never for 30 minutes. Her friends had told her
how dreadful severe was, and she was in no hurry to find out. Apparently this
was her day. Tera began to cry softly, and she froze in her tracks just before
entering the closet.

"Hurry it up girl!" her boss commanded, "You know the drill. Try to wimp out on
me and we'll double your hang time, and frame you up right afterwards!"

Tera choked back a sob, as she reached behind her back and struck her two silver
bracelets sharply against each other. The bracelets locked together instantly,
fused by a magnetic bond which could resist 700 lbs of pressure per square inch.
Crying, cuffed and helpless, Tera entered the narrow closet and turned around.
The steel plate under her quaking feet took a moment to register her size and
weight, as a microchip calculated the severity and duration of the pull she
would receive. A moment later a wide rope noose automatically lowered in front
of her face, and moved back slowly. Tera's job was to bow her head and then lift
her chin slowly, allowing the rope to rotate it's way around her throat, until
its knot was secure under her left ear.

There were two buttons on the wall behind her at waist level. The larger button,
about two inches across, was a reset switch, which the victim would press if the
rope wasn't aligned perfectly. It instructed the booth to loosen the rope and
repeat the alignment process for a better fit. Once the rope was in it's correct
place, the half-inch wide button below the reset switch could be pressed by the
victim. This was the commit switch, which ordered the booth to perform whatever
hanging sentence was prescribed on the keypad. Once the commit switch was
pressed, both switches would remain inactive until the sentence was carried out.
The only thing that could stop an autobooth hanging was the abort button on the
keypad outside the booth, far away from its agonized occupant.

The first time the rope closed in, Tera lifted her chin, and turned her head in
exact symmetry with the motion of the machine. She got perfect placement on the
first pass. "Janice will like that," she thought bitterly. "I guess practice
makes perfect."

That left only one thing for Tera to do. One very difficult thing. Tera took a
couple of deep breaths, trying to prepare herself for pressing the commit switch
and the pain that would follow. Her teeth were chattering with raw fear. But she
knew she couldn't delay. After an autonoosing was complete, an autobooth victim
had 30 seconds to press one of the buttons, or the self-hanging procrastinators
alarm went off, and she would receive a series of horrific electric shocks
through the steel panel beneath her feet. Likewise if she pressed the reset
switch more than twice, shocks would strike her with equally blinding intensity.
Each time an autobooth induced its victim with shocks, two minutes were
automatically added to the keypad sentence. So it was no use putting off the
inevitable . . .

Summoning all of her courage, Tera jammed her fingers into the commit switch,
squeezed her eyes together, and. . . nothing.

She opened her eyes to see Don and Janice stirring creamer into their coffees,
smiling and chatting.

"Oh, It appears you have your autobooth set for suspense activation," Don
queried.

"That's right!" Janice answered him excitedly, referring to a special feature of
the newer booths. A random amount of time, ranging between 2 and 15 minutes,
would elapse after the commit switch was pressed before the actual hanging
sequence began.

"My girls tell me their suspense time is the worst part of all." Janice added,
dropping a sugar cube into her java. "They can hear the equipment clicking and
jiggling and starting to go into motion every few seconds, only to relax, and
make them wait longer. It's like a damn bomb ticking at their throats, driving
them nuts."

"No kidding," Don agreed, sipping on his brew.

"Especially with them teetering around en pointe with those wicked boots on."
Janice responded with a wink over her coffee. "I just love that. I insist all my
girls wear the silver plated ones to work. They are much better conductors of
the electric shocks given to stubborn victims."

The door opened again and Jeneen entered wearing her MPI rubber smock over the
front of her dress. She was carrying a log book and a similar garment for Don to
wear.

"Oh, good," Janice smiled, "Right on time! Jeneen, dear, this is our new driver
Don Bowden. Don, this is Jeneen Claret. She has been assisting drivers for
nearly a year. She will be your helper for the next couple of weeks, while you
get in the swing of things."

"Hi, boss lady! Pleased to meet ya, Don." Jeneen chirped in an english-sounding
accent as she accepted Don's handshake, then noticed the panic-stricken
receptionist standing in the autobooth. "Well now, has that little minx Tera
been acting up again?"

"Hi, Jeneen!" Don greeted her, glancing back at Janice's conspiratorial smile,
"Yes, it would appear so."

"You two better get going," Janice said looking up at the clock, "if you want to
be rolling by 8. Listen to Jeneen, Don. Trust in what she's learned. She'll
steer you right. I'll take care of all the hire-in paperwork for you. Check in
with me when you get back. We'll discuss how your first day went and finalize
everything."

"Thank you," Don said, taking another large drink from his cup, and setting it
on her desk. "And thanks for the coffee, Tera," he called to the teary-eyed girl
standing in the hanging booth.

"Welcome aboard, Don! Too bad you won't get to watch Tera's luscious sentence
play out," Janice said, as she shook Don's hand once more, "But you'll have even
more exciting things to see driving the truck today. How about I record her
booth time for you as a special treat for later?"

"That would be great, thanks!" Don said, "See you when we get back."

With the door closed behind them, Don and Jeneen began walking briskly down the
long shipping hallway that led to the truck docks near the far end.

"Did Tera really do anything wrong?" Jeneen asked him with a wry smile.

"Nah," Don replied, "I think Janice just wanted to see if I would flinch at
handing out some undeserved agony to an extremely pretty girl.

"That sounds like Boss-lady alright!" Jeneen laughed as they walked swiftly on,
"And it looks like you just passed her test!"

Don and Jeneen walked past more than a dozen office doors along the way. "That
one is yours," Jeneen said as they moved swiftly past the 10th door. "Not that
you'll use it very much. We check our trucks out between 7:30 and 8:00 every
morning. Unless we get stuck in traffic or something, we're back by 4:30. You
can do your paperwork in there, but that rarely takes more than 10 minutes, so
most drivers finish up their logs in the break area out by the docks, where the
scenery is much better. Here, slip into your smock as we go."

Don took the long-sleeved black rubber garment from Jeneen. It resembled the top
portion of an open-backed surgeon's scrub. There was a small V-shaped portion at
its top with an elastic strip behind it, which Don pulled over his head snugging
the V-top to the base of his neck. Then he began pulling the sleeves up on his
arms and shoulders. The smock came down halfway to his knees in front, apron
style, but was cut high in the back, where a set of strings tied it together at
waist level.

"Here let me help you," Jeneen said, stopping at the double-wide doorway leading
into the warehouse and freight dock, "It's always a little awkward doing your
own strings at first. It's memory fabric rubber, so you have to pull it twice."
Jeneen pulled the stringties firmly and held them there for a moment. She then
pulled them again, stretching the rubber fabric tightly across Don's midsection,
while tying the strings off.

"Hey there," Don complained mildly, "Is it really supposed to be this tight?

"Yes sir, it is," Jeneen answered, running her fingertips lightly over Don's
stomach to check that the smock was wrinkle-free. "Exactly this tight." Don's
erection had diminished slightly after leaving Janice's office, but Jeneen's
touch almost tickling his stomach triggered his cock to enter launch mode again.

"That way it won't ride up during the day." She added with an extra lilt in her
british accent. "This seems a good enough fit. It's a man's large, so It's roomy
enough in there for your shirt and tie, and it lets you move your shoulders
about. A man's smock has one tie in the back, but us ladies get two, see?"

Jeneen turned around to show Don her two ties, one nipping her in at the waist,
and another one halfway up her back, stretching the garment tightly just below
Jeneen's breasts.

"No slack at all, see? The top one's a real bugger to do," Jeneen said proudly,
turning back to face him and brushing hair wisps from her eye, "but at least we
girls have some experience with that, what with our bra straps and all. ."

Don took a good look at his smiling assistant for the first time, and decided
she wasn't bad. Jeneen's reddish blond hair was pinned into a loose bun atop her
head, and there seemed to be a lot of it. Under her black rubber smock, she wore
a simple blue cotton dress, tan pantyhose, and a pair of sturdy tennis shoes .
Besides a slash of dark brown lipstick and eyeliner, she wore barely any makeup
to obscure the burst of freckles across her nose. "21, or maybe 22, 5 foot six,
or seven," Don thought, "slender too, but nicely built, downright cute. But
mostly it's those eyes."

Jeneen's eyes were amazing; they were sparkling hazel orbs, piercing yet
playful. And those eyes were playing with him now.

"There is another reason for the tight drawstrings you know." Jeneen whispered,
gesturing with her expressive eyes to the bulge under Don's apron. "Mine make
the most of my breasts of course. But yours, well, let's just say that under
smooth shining rubber, no ripple escapes the discerning eye."

Unembarassed, Don smiled back at her for a moment. Their thoughts were suddenly
interrupted by two claxon blasts from the freight dock, just inside the doorway.

"Five till eight," Jeneen yelled, "It's time to roll."

Their 24-foot truck was parked inside the 5th truck bay, with its rear door
still open. Inside Don could see a row of spits lined up crossways in the center
aisle on notched rungs. Each spit supported a live-spitted girl, impaled from
her posterior to her mouth with her wrists tied behind her and her legs folded
underneath. He saw the doomed girls silently shivering in the chilled air of the
truck, and writhing feebly on their long metal stakes.

"Hey, Tracy!" Jeneen called above the din of truck engines and warehouse
equipment, "You've got us loaded with 16 spits, and 12 roasters, right? Good!
Log us out -we're gone!" Jeneen pulled the canvas strap down sharply, and
secured the door.  

"Boy that looked pretty rough." Don said hopping into the truck. "I had no idea
MPI delivered their spitted wenches alive. I always thought they died as soon as
they were impaled."

"Oh no. We can keep them going for up to 10 hours with oxygen infusion,"  Jeneen
admitted, settling into the passenger seat, "Along with a few other tricks I'll
show you later. But It gets much worse, Don. Or... better I guess, depending on
your point of view. From the size of that lump I can already see under your
smock, I think I know which point of view you'll take."

"Well all right, of course I'm turned on by it," he answered, rolling his
eyebrows in dismay, "I'm just not sure whether to be impressed, shocked, amazed,
or come all over myself.

"All of the above I guess," Jeneen smiled sympathetically, "But don't worry
about it. Everybody's emotions run a bit riot when they first see live-spitted
wenches. But you can handle it. That's why you're the driver. Remember
everything here is by design. Spits have always been our number one seller, so
their packaging and presentation are all about bowling customers over. You'll
settle in soon enough, Don. Now, go south on highway 77, and exit left on Snow
Road."

As Don pulled the truck onto the crowded downtown expressway, he glanced over at
Jeneen's face. She bore an amused expression that seemed to say: "You better
shape up, mister!" She had a funny way of teasing him with his own doubts. But
it relaxed him too.   


END OF CHAPTER ONE
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

___________________

MPI
(c)Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Two

8:16 AM:


Don eased the bulky MPI truck down the steep freeway ramp at Snow road exit, and
wheeled east into the hazy morning sun.

"This rig feels damn sloppy in the turns," he commented to his assistant Jeneen,
"and it desperately needs new shocks, but it does have plenty of power on the
highway."

"She got a dandy tuneup a couple days ago," Jeneen said, smiling and shading her
eyes from the bright morning glare, "Tracy really has a knack for engines. We're
loaded down pretty good too. There's 28 delivery wenches back there; 16 of them
are on spits with mini-ox tanks. That makes for a little under two tons of
pussyflesh, with nearly half a ton of mobile equipment."

"Boy, that sounds like a lot of hardware" Don said, doing his best to avoid
striking an old woman shuffling through a crosswalk. Wearing a long woolen coat,
incongruously heavy for the warm June morning, she had stopped abruptly near the
curb to fold her arms and fire an angry scowl at the truck as it roared past.
"What's that bitty's problem?"

"Endangered species!" Jeneen said, drawling the words out with her best cockney.
"Or, maybe just too old to ride the truck?" she added brightly.

"Yeah," Don agreed, smiling at her humor, "Now, what about all that equipment?
Won't it get in our way?"

"Nope, not really," Jeneen said checking her face in the mirror's visor, "The
spits are hollow, teflon coated alu-terium, with twin infusion tubes; they only
weigh about 12 lbs each. The mini-ox tank and regulator for each girl are fairly
lightweight too. All these things don't weigh as much as a standard 33 pound
tote-frame does."

"Well, those things will be left behind as our girls are dropped off. So are you
saying we'll go home lighter?" Don asked, stomping the clutch and poking his
shifter into a noisier gear.

"Oh dear, no," Jeneen replied after the truck quit shaking, "Heavier. Remember
we make pickups too. We've got enough stalls to park 48 meat wenches in their
tote-frames, along this wall here behind us. Then, for those unfortunate ladies
who neglected to use frames, they'll ride along on slow-nooses in the 16
cubicles against the side walls. Altogether, our pickup capacity is 64 women.
Weight-wise our return trip cargo can be about double, counting in the
tote-frames too. Now, Don, when you get to Constitution, you'll turn right, and
then pull into the first driveway of the second office building to your left.
We're going to meet one of your steadiest customers, Mister Mulholland."

Don brought his truck to a squeaking stop at the loading zone of a circular
driveway in the shadow of a 14-story building with silver initials MF perched on
its top floor. Waiting for him under the large awning of the front doors were
five smartly dressed people, three men in business suits, and two women in short
skirt-suits. All members of this welcoming committee were clad in expensive
brown silk with small green ML logos embroidered on their breast pockets.

"The little bearded fella there is Larry Mulholland himself, owner of Mulholland
Financials." Jeneen said, as she wrestled out of her safety belt, "The old boy's
a real stickler. Goes through the same ritual each time, including the butt-grab
he gives me. Insists every time on greeting us with those same two VPs who never
talk, along with whatever girls are playing their options."

"What do you mean about playing options?" Don quizzed.

"I thought you knew about all that," Jeneen said, wrinkling her nose, "You know
that meat-wenches are submitted in three different ways, right? First there are
the regular volunteers who usually come along packed up in cozy frames; then
there are girls chosen by government lots, in that peculiar mix of random chance
and regional statistics your country is fond of using. Then there are those
companies whose employees families are exempted from government selection, by
signing their chances over to their employers. Whenever someone is picked up
that way, around here they call it playing her option."

"Oh, I know all that stuff." Don said, "I just never heard your option lingo
used for it. At Champion Fabrics, we called it site-picks. It's the same thing
though"

As the two climbed out of the truck, Mr. Mulholland stepped up to greet them.

"Hello Jeneen," he said happily, "Is this your new driver?"

"Yes, sir! This is Mr. Don Bowman sir. He will be taking care of your stops from
here on."

"Pleased to meet you sir," Don said, shaking hands with the wiry man who held
Don fast.

"I like him already!" He said to Jeneen before turning his genial eyes back to
Don and relaxing his fist, "Don, it's good to know you too. You've got a great
assistant there. Keep her around, OK? I've grown kind of fond of her. And
there's no vendor I appreciate more than MPI!"

"Certainly, Mr. Mulholland," Don responded in his best kiss-ass mode, "We
appreciate your business."

"I am showing four spit-prepped deliveries for you today, sir," Jeneen said
sweetly, releasing the latch and throwing up the cargo door which released a
blast of cold air, "Would you like them brought down now?"

"Yes please!" Mulholland boomed excitedly, "Bring Brenda and Mariah out first if
you would. My porters should be here any minute to take them up through the
building, and to drive the other two over to St Thomas."

The additional two girls Mulholland was taking delivery of this morning had been
purchased from MPI's regular stock of meat wenches for the banquet being held
this evening at his secondary office facility, located above the exclusive
shopping malls at St. Thomas Square.

But Brenda and Mariah had been local employees, optioned straight from the
executive office suites. Larry Mulholland always liked to have the girls
originating from his home base brought back through the front doors and paraded
through his building so all their friends and co-workers could greet them, chat
briefly and say goodbye, before his porters took them down to the kitchens to
meet their fate. Sweets from the suites, he always called them. Unless his
wenches were being optioned for disciplinary reasons, he normally requested
MPI's pricey number 11 spit-prep combination, where the girls were brought back
one month to the day after being carried away in the truck.

During that time, MPI administered them with medium-grade tortures, and employed
them in a variety of menial tasks at the processing plant. Despite being
mistreated in many ways, including sexually, number 11 wenches were
well-nourished during their month-long ordeals. Also, any imperfections of their
bodies were carefully burnished away by use of tanning beds, electro-massage,
breast augmentations, liposuction, and other cosmetic means, including permanent
makeup which was applied very heavily with heat-resistant tattoo inks. Then,
looking better than anyone had ever seen them, the wenches were ceremoniously
carried back to the customer, live-spitted through their pussies, and ready for
roasting. Ever the frugal executive, Mulholland tempered his phenomenally
expensive preparation choice with special discounts from MPI, that were
available only to their most long-term faithful customers.

Don and Jeneen hopped into the truck and walked slowly to the midpoint of their
row of spitted females. Glancing up from her logsheets, Jeneen pointed to a
petite black girl near the deepest end, quivering in mute agony upon her spit.

"That's little Mariah over there," she said, unlocking the spit-mooring with a
small key, and pulling back a central lever which noisily unlatched all the
spits at once. "She's a Stint, and a dear one too. And this one over here is
Brenda. We can take her first. Just a moment, sir, while I secure her tank. Then
you can grab Brenda's spit from the mouth end."

While Don walked around to the other side, where the spitted women's heads were,
Jeneen lifted a 12-inch tall cylinder from it's tight pocket set into the truck
floor. This was the mini-oxygen tank connected to Brenda's spit by two thin
aluminized tubes. The valve and gauge assembly atop the tank included a sturdy
steel ring that she slipped over the ass-end of the spit until it nearly reached
Brenda's feet, which were cruelly attached to the spit by means of slender steel
pinions. The narrow rod between her feet holding the two sharp pinions was
attached to the main spit pole by an adjustable ring collar. This ring-collar
also held Brenda's anal shunt firmly in place. As all spitted wenches do,
Brenda's ass bore a two-inch thick cooking nail planted 10 inches deep into her
rectum.  This anal shunt served to stabilize her hips while the spit rotated her
slowly over the fire; it also distributed heat more efficiently so that her
pelvic region would cook evenly.

Brenda Davies was a platinum blonde with a smooth golden tan who had worked as a
market researcher at Mulholland Financials for the past 6 years. She appeared to
Don to be in her late 20's and quite beautiful. Her large conical breasts
hanging below her spitted form swayed in time with her labored breathing. Like
all the spitted girls, her hair bore a thick coating of flame retardant gel, and
was pulled up very tightly and wrapped into a severe bun behind her head.

Facing the back door of the truck, Don grabbed his end of the spit that
protruded nearly two feet from Brenda's mouth, while Jeneen grabbed the other
end. Like two weightlifters doing a simple curl, they brought the pipe to
shoulder height clearing Brenda's folded legs above the other spitted wenches.
As she was being lifted, the woman emitted an eerie pain-wracked howl, partly
muffled by the two-inch thick metal tubing that filled her mouth. Startled by
her baleful noise, Don glanced over at Brenda's face and saw her heavily madeup
eyes, wide with terror and pain, darting back and forth. Her lips, lacquered to
a bright shining red, arched away from her teeth as if to speak. Her mouth,
grimacing in agony, desperately tried to negotiate the foreign object propping
it open.

"Um, she seems to be in serious pain over here," Don whispered to Jeneen, "Is
anything wrong?"

"Not at all." Jeneen said casually, "It's always a pretty bumpy ride. And they
experience it much differently than we do. But she's wide awake now, and that's
a good thing."

As they carried the suffering woman to the opening of the truck, a small crowd
of employees had gathered by the entryway of the building. Some could be seen
holding their hands over their mouths in astonishment, or pointing fingers of
recognition at their former coworker. "Oh, my God!" Don heard one cry, "There's
Brenda Davies! Look at what they did to her!"

"Splendid! Simply splendid!" Mulholland beamed once he had gotten a good look at
Brenda's flawlessly copper-toned beauty, "She's precious! Her skin and makeup
are absolutely perfect! And those breasts are four times the size of the ones
she carried away a month ago! This is some of your best work!"

"Thank you, sir," Jeneen said, smiling proudly and pressing a footswitch that
activated a motorized ramp to extend from the truck. "They're full of natural
breast milk also, due to the hormone therapy, which makes them quite painful I'm
afraid."

"Oh, that's quite alright!" he said, following alongside them as they carried
Brenda down the 6 foot wide ramp. The executive was nearly prancing, like a
happy child spying two cherries atop his sundae, "No problem at all. We'll be
sure to milk them well before roasting her -I just love them!"

"Now Don . . . Jeneen, just a moment. I'd like you to meet a couple of my
associates here." Mulholland said when the two had reached the sidewalk and
stepped away from the ramp with their spitted woman in tow. He waved the two
skirt-suited ladies over to join them. "These two are Pamela Sanchez from my
customer relations department, and Lorraine Eiderhorne from human resources.
They have graciously agreed to ride back to the plant with you today, to become
the focus of our celebrations this time next month."

The two women nodded in greeting to Don and Jeneen, but their attempts at
smiling for this introduction resulted in little more than a fearful flinch of
their cheek muscles. When they took a closer look at the woman held grotesquely
upon the spit, they exchanged a despairing glance between themselves and said
nothing. Don and Jeneen nodded silently in response.

Mulholland smiled, briefly enjoying the irony of this awkward moment. He had
craftily timed this meeting so that no hand-shaking would be possible, and so
that Pamela and Lorraine would have a good chance to stare straight into the
blinking eyes of a former friend whose wretched fate they would come to know
first-hand. Brenda, Pamela, and Lorraine had all lunched together regularly for
several years. The immediacy of their peril was bought home to these two
newly-optioned women, and it devastated them.

"Oh good! Here come my porters now, two for each of our wenches," Mulholland
said gleefully, as eight men dressed in all-white uniforms walked up,
"Gentlemen, two of you may take Brenda here and make the office rounds with her.
Be sure everyone gets a chance to visit with her. And please be gentle with our
dear Brenda; she's carrying a lot of my milk around with her!"

Don and Jeneen carefully handed Brenda to the two men nearest them, and started
back up the ramp to fetch Mariah.

"Pamela. . . Lorraine?" Mulholland said expectantly, "It's time for you two to
begin undressing now. We don't want to hold these nice people up on their
rounds, do we? You know the rules, down to the buff!"

The two women's pained expressions said it all. Blushing with the extreme
humiliation of having to strip naked at the front door of their own workplace,
and in plain view of all their friends and associates, they slowly began to
disrobe, handing their jewelry, shoes and other garments to the two
vice-presidents who placed them in small plastic bags.

"She really is a tiny thing, isn't she?" Don asked Jeneen as they easily lifted
Mariah's spit from its mooring slots, and heard her whimper feebly in response,
"When was she stinted?"

"I think when she was around fourteen," Jeneen answered him. "Her family is from
Kenya. They do lots of this in Africa still. She's 24 now I believe, not that
she looks a single day closer to fifteen."

For the last twenty-five years the stinting process had been gaining popularity
in many parts of the world, ever since Swiss genetic engineers had perfected it.
Administering a series of five injections of the agent Amylhystercycline over
the course of five weeks, a human female's physical maturation process could be
stopped dead in its tracks, along with any visible signs of aging. The
scientists had originally been searching for a youth serum to prolong the human
life span. They discovered instead a treatment that accomplished half of that
job perfectly. It would ensure that in every way, from head to toe, a girl never
looked a day older than her fifth injection. Amylhystercycline, or Stint, as it
came to be known, was indeed the perfect recipe for anti-aging enthusiasts.

But it wasn't exactly a free lunch either. It didn't in any way prolong life as
researchers had hoped, nor did it do anything at all if it was given after a
girl's 16th birthday. Once the test results were in, knowledge of this
frightening potion and its use had been banned worldwide. But gradually, under
the pressure of black-market profiteers, pandora's secret slipped out of the
box, and Stint became a widely distributed illegal designer drug. Suppressing
it's use proved to be impossible. So, after 7 years, bans around the world were
lifted and replaced with regulation and education, to encourage doctors and
their patients to use the drug more responsibly. This approach proved to be much
more successful. It was soon found that with the benefit of free choice, the
notoriety of stinting diminished somewhat, with fewer people overall trying to
administer it. And when they did, the exorbitant fees mobsters used to collect
were filling the tax coffers, and supplying research grants instead.

Mariah Tusumi was an extraordinarily beautiful young black woman. She had been
an interoffice courier at Mulholland for nearly 3 years. In a new process known
only to MPI, her lips and eyelids had been permanently bonded with shining
metallic polymers, and now gleamed with a reflective golden surface. In another
variation of the same process, her skin glistened everywhere with an alluring
deep bronze glitter. Her appearance had been embellished in all the ways that
MPI's number 11 girls were subjected to, except one. In keeping with the
illusion of her body's anti-aging spell, her breasts had not been augmented,
merely pierced and linked together with a heavy chain. Otherwise, they remained
exactly as they were the day her doctor and her consenting parents had, with the
hopes of improving her chances of a good marriage, legally performed her fifth
and final injection of Amylhystercycline.

Mariah was greeted by the growing crowd of Mulholland's employees with even more
amazement than for Brenda. No one had ever seen anything like her. The
startlingly surreal appearance she presented as a glamorously live-spitted stint
hushed the crowd as if they were in the presence of a tiny goddess. Mulholland
himself was struck speechless.

By the time Mariah and the additional two meat-wenches had been handed over by
Don and Jeneen to Mulholland's porters, Pamela and Lorraine were completely
naked, shivering with shame and fear, and weeping loudly. The two silent VPs had
already tethered the women's elbows and wrists very tightly together behind
their backs to comply with MPI's secure loading requirements.

All girls who are submitted without MPI tote-frames must have their hands and
elbows tightly bound behind them with regulation MPI fetters, which are
available at all supermarkets and hardware stores. It is not mandatory that they
be gagged, though many are, but it is required that they be as naked as the day
they were born.

Also, since Pamela and Lorraine weren't properly tote-framed it was required
they be loaded into vertical stretch-lockers that line the longer two sides of
the truck. Mr. Mulholland, who was very fond of asphyxia-torture for his
optioned girls, greatly preferred they be submitting in this way, even though it
was much more expensive for him. The lockers are designed to keep as many as
sixteen wenches on the truck in peak distress, held in a tiptoe slow-hanging
position until they finally arrive at the plant.

The two-foot-square locking enclosures have an unusual sloping floor. The edge
of the floor facing inward to the locker door is about 4 inches taller than the
floor edge meeting the outside truck wall, where there are tiny slots for the
runoff of urine and other body fluids. Upon entering the booth and turning
around, Pamela and Lorraine's nooses will be adjusted by Jeneen so that they
must climb up to the high side of their cramped cell, and maintain that position
on tiptoe. Thereafter, every time the meat truck tips or turns, the victims must
struggle to keep the highest available perch against the door, or strangle.

But to accentuate their problems, when Jeneen shuts the door on each of their
lockers, there is a small lever that Jeneen may pull which extrudes 12 short
steel spikes inside the door at breast level, which Pamela and Lorraine must
press tightly against if they have any hopes of surviving their journey. There
are glass windows in the locker doors and in the dividing walls just large
enough to reveal the women's faces so that handlers can see them, and so that
the prisoners can see each other. This was the nightmarish ride of strangling
torment that awaited Pamela and Lorraine.

At long last Mr. Mulholland handed Don a copy of the MPI confirmation printout,
showing he had paid his bill in full via webwire earlier this same morning. Don
did his best to disguise his shock at seeing the staggering total of the invoice
which Mulholland paid so joyously. But Mulholland was more than pleased. He was
beside himself with satisfaction.

"Don, I know you are kind of new to all this," Mulholland said, pulling the
dazed driver aside with another one of his patented bearclaw handshakes, while
Jeneen was busy leading her two new submissions to their lockers aboard the
truck, "but I just want to say that you have a customer for life right here. I
have never seen anything like the quality of work your people do. And you just
keep getting better and better! I want to thank you. And I want you to pass that
along to everyone you know at the plant."

"You're welcome, Mr. Mulholland," Don said, no longer feeling like he was acting
the part. He was genuinely impressed with this man's bellowing sincerity, "We
just want to thank you too. You are a very special customer to us."

"Well! See you next month then!" he crowed, releasing Don's hand with a slight
push off, "Now you drive carefully mister, and take real good care of my girls
there!"

Don waved to the smiling executive who was shooting him with corny two-handed
pistol-fingers. He climbed into the drivers seat and shut his door to await
Jeneen's return from securing Pamela and Lorraine . "God," he thought, rubbing
his temples, "What an annoying man! And what a crazy stop!" Suddenly the
realization washed over him that this was only their first appointment of the
day. "I wonder... can anyone ever get used to something like this?"

If they remain conscious, stretch-girls are able to see around the interior of
the truck And there is much to see. When fully loaded, the opposite wall of the
truck may reveal as many as eight more faces in little windows, awash in tears
and expressions of a bitter struggle, just as theirs are. Displayed center-stage
on the truck's central aisle, they witness the gruesome sights and sounds of
remaining meat wenches being delivered to their final destinations, as well as
the loading of pitiful new volunteers in their tote-frames, who are just
beginning their brutal journey.

Demonstrating MPI's unique methods of self-promotion, truck walls behind the
stretch-girls are fitted with large glass side-panels that reveal the naked
backs of suffering wenches as the truck moves along city streets. The sight of
this hapless female cargo is all the signage an MPI truck needs to excite
pedestrians and motorists throughout the city and keep MPI ordering desks
hopping all day long.

Needless to say each minute of the ride is pure agony for the stretch-girls, as
well as for the tote-framed girls, but it is an agony with a dark purpose. From
their first minutes of MPI possession, weaker girls are scientifically culled
from the stronger ones in a strict method of grading and classifying MPI meats.
The strongest and heartiest wenches are the most prized for live spit roasting.
Whereas, the weaker girls who fall by the wayside are utilized for less
expensive cuts, and temporary slave-servants, such as Tera, whose ability to
withstand torture was being extended significantly in her daily service to Ms.
Meeks. The sooner the two categories of wenches are recognized and managed, the
better.

Every bump in the road transmits a special message to the stretch-girls throats
and breasts as they face their dilemma of self-impalement in order to stay
alive. Wenches who are in their tote-frames are of course spared this battle,
but they have their own profound discomforts to contend with.

Many would even say they are far worse off. . .


END OF CHAPTER TWO
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Three

9:03 AM:

"You'll need to step in here, Ma'am" Jeneen said to Lorraine, steering her
gently by the back to one of the cramped lockers along the starboard wall of the
truck, "This is where you must ride until we get back to the plant."

Lorraine Eiderhorne was an attractive woman of thirty-six with an almost regal
air about her. She had managed Mulholland's personnel department for eight
years, and was very accustomed to being in charge. Oddly enough, one of the key
things she did for Mulholland was to assess which of his people could be
optioned out as meat-wenches, and then advise him on how best to replace them.
As he had announced his two newest choices only this morning, Lorraine was still
reeling from the bizarre knowledge that she had just become Mulholland's latest
candidate for his inhumanly cruel favorite MPI selection, spit-prep number 11.

Lorraine knew all too well that thirty days of merciless tortures and body
modifications awaited her at MPI central, which would pale to the agony suffered
when she returned, quivering on a roasting spit to be cooked alive for next
month's employee barbeque. "This can't be happening," she kept thinking to
herself, "Not to me. This can't be real!"

Lorraine was very trim and fit, and worked diligently to stay that way. She had
pale green eyes and medium brown hair done into a neat french braid. At work,
Lorraine always wore severe makeup, with dark eyeliners, pale base and cherry
red lipsticks that she reapplied hourly. She enjoyed reinforcing her sense of
power with excessive cosmetics. At five foot eight, she was about four inches
taller than Pamela, and two inches taller than Jeneen. Pamela and Lorraine were
completely naked, except for the painfully tight elbow and wrist bindings both
women had to wear. But since Jeneen wore her thickly soled sneakers below her
blue cotton dress and rubber smock, Lorraine stood exactly at eye level with
her. With just a hint of tear-rimmed desperation in her face, Lorraine glanced
at the tiny two-foot-square locker she was told to stand in, then looked back
into Jeneen's eyes.

"Isn't there any place for us to sit down?" she asked softly, trying hard to
control the quiver in her voice which gave the impression of whining, "And
please, it is so cold in here, can you just heat it up a little bit?"

"Afraid not, Ma'am," Jeneen clipped back to both questions, "The truck's
temperature is preset at 52 degrees to maintain freshness." While giving
Lorraine these unsatisfactory answers, Jeneen quickly guided the woman inside
the little cell and spun her around, while Lorraine's feet twisted, awkwardly
trying to negotiate the uneven surface of the floor.

"Besides, a little case of goose bumps never hurt anyone." Jeneen added cruelly,
having decided she really didn't care for this woman, "However, this little
stretch-locker will indeed hurt you, Ma'am. That is, after all, its primary
purpose."

"Ouch! You don't need to do this, dammit!" Lorraine blurted with the sudden pain
of her right ankle being sprained, and the frustration of having her simple
requests ignored, "Please be reasonable about this. I'm not giving you any
trouble. . ." Resisting the urge to slap the woman, Jeneen pulled a large rope
noose down from it's netting pouch, draped it around Lorraine's neck, and began
to tighten it, using a small ratcheting lever mounted to a side wall of the
locker.

"Yes I do have to do this, Ma'am. And I am being very reasonable, thank you,"
Jeneen said, collecting her calm as she briskly worked the ratchet, "Your
employer specifically requested the two of you ride in stretch lockers, even
though it costs him extra. And he wants you to have moderate mammary distress
also. Since he is paying for all of this, well... we are honor-bound to oblige
him, aren't we?"

"Wait, what do you mean about mammary distress?" Lorraine cried anxiously,
"What. . Wait just a minute there! I can't. . . .how am I supposed to. . .to
breathe!  Please!!

Lorraine was in a dead panic now, struggling to find a toe hold somewhere on the
sloping floor of the cell, since Jeneen had swiftly taken away the last bit of
slack from the rope, as well as Lorraine's ability to speak.

"Don't worry about anything, Ma'am. I think it's really best if I just show
you," Jeneen said almost sweetly, as she plucked at the rope over Lorraine's
head to see if it was tight enough to demand full tiptoe concentration from her
now-silenced victim. It was.

"Your body will tell you exactly what to do," Jeneen whispered, leaning in very
close to the woman and looking deeply into her terrified eyes. Above the
fragrance of Lorraine's' hairspray and heavily applied cosmetics, Jeneen could
smell the woman's fear now, raw and tangible, and it rather satisfied her.
Jeneen smiled contemptuously for a brief moment, then shut the door, locking it
carefully with her small key.

Jeneen turned around to Pamela who had watched this exchange in speechless
terror. Pamela Sanchez was a petite woman of twenty-nine, who spoke and wrote in
five languages, three of them fluently. Her mother's parents had immigrated from
Portugal, and her father's family was from Ecuador. She had such a pleasant
personality she was a natural gem in customer relations, where she had
co-managed Mulholland's corporate accounts for almost four years. She had
shining jet black hair that fell just past her shoulders, and the prettiest of
faces. Her dark brown eyes were large, gently lined, and filled with a beautiful
latin mystery. Her lips were very full and painted with a glossy beige frost.
She wasn't as assertive as Lorraine, nor as vocal. Somewhere in the back of her
mind, she hoped this would figure in her favor.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Jeneen asked lightly as she gently turned
Pamela by her shoulder to face the open locker next to Lorraine's cubbyhole.

"Um, no. . . I don't guess so." Pamela answered sadly, not knowing much what
else to say.

"Now this," Jeneen continued devilishly, "This, is bad." Jeneen took a lever
located about a foot above the door handle of Lorraine's locker door and pulled
it down slowly but firmly. "This is what Mr. Mulholland means when asking for
moderate mammary distress."

From the other side of the locked door, Lorraine could be heard screaming and
gyrating away from her precious toe hold against the metal door. Her feet kicked
into the door a couple of times, while her face, visible through the nine-inch
square window, turned beet red, equal parts anger, asphyxia, and betrayal. After
a brief struggle she came back to rest again, gasping for air and sobbing in
pain against the door, with her eyes screwed shut in blinding misery.

"Oh Gosh! She's in some awful pain now... whatever did you do to her?" Pamela
asked.

"We call that the spirit breaker. That little lever just brought twelve hidden
knives out of the door panel to dig into her breasts," Jeneen answered, "They
are less than two inches long, but they are very sharp indeed. She's rather
forced to press herself against them now, because of her noose, you see? Lots of
girls, especially the uppity ones like her, will fight like hell in there. I've
seen some of them break their feet in a couple of places and slash their breasts
nearly in half before they figure out how to deal with their new position."

"Oh my god, you're going to do that to me too. . ." Pamela said mournfully, as
Jeneen marched her forward into the booth and turned her around. While Jeneen
hurriedly placed the heavy noose around Pamela's neck and pulled Pam's long
tresses through the back of it, she realized the girl hadn't made a question or
a complaint of it. It was more like a resigned statement of fact, sorrowful, but
still peaceful. Jeneen smiled at that, and decided she kind of liked this one.
It seemed almost a shame she had to do her up in the same way as Lorraine.

"You really are a dear one, aren't you?" Jeneen said, working the ratchet lever
that tightened Pamela's noose, "You're not like that noisy bitch at all."

When Jeneen had almost gotten the rope snug above Pamela's head, she paused to
study the woman's exotic face again, and touched her cheek lightly. "You know,
If you weren't one of Mulholland's prize wenches, I'd think seriously about
taking you aside for one of my own personal projects. We are allowed to do that,
you know, twice a year, even though I haven't taken on a project wench of my own
yet."

"Oh! Could you?" Pamela asked her, "Please? Could you?"

"Don't go thinking it would be so good for you," Jeneen warned her softly,
stroking the girls incredibly sleek hair, "With Mulholland's way you get to live
for one month exactly, if you can call that living. With me, you'd get to last
for 6 months tops; and we're not talking happy days here. Seriously, what kind
of a deal can that be?"

"Ohhh, I don't know. It's just ... I just have a feeling. That's all. . ."
Pamela murmured, looking deeply into Jeneen's liquid hazel eyes, and feeling
kind of stupid.

"I know baby... I know." Jeneen said, and leaned in further to kiss Pamela very
softly on her creamy butterscotch flavored lips. "I have that same feeling
too..."

"We'll see about it, OK?" Jeneen said, smiling briefly and grabbing the ratchet
again, "Now, once I pump you up to your tiptoes, remember to lay as gently
against this door as you can. Then the knives won't jab you as deeply when they
come through. And whatever you do, try not to bounce away, you'll only cut
yourself up worse when you land back against the door. Got it?"

Unable to form the words, Pamela merely gave a nervous little nod, with a can-do
look on her frightened face. "This girl is just so sweet," Jeneen thought,
"She's not even trying to bargain with me. I could drink her right up."

"Courage Baby," Jeneen whispered, squeezing the ratchet five more times, until
Pamela's toes barely touched the highest spot in her cell, and she was making
wet gurgling sounds. Jeneen then shut the door and locked it. "Here we go!" she
silently mouthed to the girl waiting in anguish on the inside. Watching Pamela's
face intently through the window, Jeneen slowly pulled the lever halfway down.
Pamela gasped in pain, as she felt the tips of twelve narrow blades violating
her breasts, but held fast to the door. "Good girl!" Jeneen mouthed again, and
slowly pulled the lever the rest of the way down. Pamela sobbed desperately
through the constriction of the neck rope. Her beautiful face contorted in agony
as the knives burrowed in the rest of the way. But somehow, incredibly, she
managed to follow Jeneen's advice, and resisted the terrible urge to fling
herself around the booth.

Jeneen kissed her fingertips and placed her hand gently to the glass window,
then turned to leave. As she shut the rear door of the truck, and pulled the
locking lever down, she could hear whistles and screams coming from inside the
building behind her. They were the usual cacophony of shock, amazement and glee
that co-workers always expressed when number 11 wenches were being paraded from
floor to floor, too beautiful to be believed, and agonizing helplessly on their
roasting spits.

Jeneen wondered idly if she really meant it this time, what she had said, and
felt, about little Pam. She had expressed the same desire to several other
wenches during the past year while working at MPI, but always ended up putting
her urges aside, and abandoning the girls to the gory defaults of MPI's pitiless
processing. She tried not to dwell on it much, but she suspected this meant she
was kind of a tease, as she innocently tempted her prisoners with scant hopes of
being rescued.

She desired them badly enough all right, especially sweet submissive ones like
Pamela. She had even lusted after Mariah for a short while. But it was a big
commitment to take on a project girl for six months. It was a lot of hard work
too. And from what she had heard, it could be even harder to let them go.
Perhaps that was what she was afraid of most.

But there was something truly special about Pamela, and the trusting way she
took the spirit breaker just now. "Time..." Jeneen thought, straightening her
smock and walking around to the front of the truck to tell Don she had finished
up. "Time will surely tell..."


END OF CHAPTER THREE
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Four

9:14 AM:


"Tap, tap. . ."

"Tap, tap, TAP, TAP. . ."

Don had dozed off slightly, though he had only been waiting a few minutes for
Jeneen to return. There had been a steady, persistent tapping at his truck door
window, tugging him back toward consciousness. He opened his eyes suddenly to
see the distraught faces of two teenaged girls looking up at his door glass. He
straightened up abruptly and lowered the window to see what their problem was.

"Please Sir, can you tell me?" the first one frantically asked Don, "Do you have
Lorraine Eiderhorne on this truck?"

"Umm, yes, I think so," Don replied, still regaining his alertness, and looking
at his log sheet, "Yes, that's her name all right. We just picked her up. Her
and another lady also, from Mr. Mulholland. Why do you ask?"

"Well, um, you see, I am Misty Eiderhorne, her daughter," she said, trying to
fight back her emotions, "I have to see her, OK? Please? I just need to say
goodbye, if it's not too late."

"I am afraid that's not possible, young miss," Jeneen said, coming from around
the back of the truck and overhearing Misty's request, "I just secured your mum
into a stretch locker and sealed up the truck. I can assure you she's in no
condition to see anyone right now."

"Oh no! This is so terrible!" Misty cried, "I don't believe this! I only found
out an hour ago when she called to tell me that Mulholland had chosen her to go.
Oh, I just hate that sick bastard! I left class and got here as fast as I could.
Isn't there something you could do for me, Sir? Please? I have to get on that
truck right now and see her again!"

As Misty surrendered to her feelings and began sobbing, the other girl who
appeared to be her classmate, tried to hug her and console her.

Don looked at Jeneen briefly, knowing there was nothing they could do; Jeneen
confirmed his thoughts as she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head sadly
back at him. They both knew it was a strict policy that no one was allowed
aboard a delivery truck except an MPI employee, or a fully committed meat-wench.
There was no getting around that.

"Look Miss," Don said, climbing out of his truck cab, "I'm real sorry about
this, OK? But rules are rules. You need to remember your mom as you last saw
her, because there's nothing else we can do for you. There is no way you can
enter our truck unless you are going to the plant for processing yourself."

"Well Ok then, that's just what I'll have to do, I guess!" Misty said suddenly.
Her friend looked at her, horrified. "I'd miss her too much anyway, Gail," Misty
continued, galvanizing her decision in her friend's direction, "especially with
her being whisked away like this."

"Well, shit the bed!" Jeneen thought, "I guess the stupid gene runs clear
through the bitch's family!"

"Ma'am, I don't think you quite realize what you are saying," Don said, gently
trying to frighten Misty away from her spur of the moment idea, "You are talking
about being tortured, and beaten, and raped and strangled just like her. And for
days on end. It's not only the worst experience you can possibly imagine, it is
the worst experience a whole lot of very smart people can possibly dream up for
you. And after all that you would eventually be sold to someone who will cook
you up for his entree. And if you proved to be strong and hearty enough, there's
a good chance you would be live-spitted and roasted alive in the bargain. I know
you want to see your mother again, but is it really worth that kind of
suffering?"

"That's right, dear," Jeneen echoed, "Take it from someone who knows, everything
they do to you hurts as badly as it can, and for as long as it can. It's not a
pretty picture."

"Quit trying to scare me," Misty shot back defiantly, "It won't work. Besides I
know about all that stuff. We studied it in school. I am telling you I want to
go on that truck however it is you have to do it. And If that makes me into one
of your meat witches or cold cuts, or whatever else you call them, then that's
fine with me."

"How old are you, Miss?" Jeneen asked her.

"Just turned 19," Misty replied, straightening up her back, "According to our
textbooks that makes me old enough to volunteer."

"That is correct, but will your dermal implant verify that age?" Don queried
again, concerned with how young the girl appeared, "because our new tote-frames
automatically check identities and ages of occupants, while registering their
invokement with the census database. Penalties for lying about your status can
be very severe."

"I've given you my correct age." Misty said proudly. "As long as nothing is
wrong with my implant, it will confirm that."

"Well ... Ok," Don agreed, "But we'll need to move fast. Jeneen, how are we
doing on the schedule?"

"Pretty good, Sir." she replied, "If we can get her framed up and stowed in
under 20 minutes, I think we'll still be on time for your next stop at
Bradshaw's loan office. I guess we should take your statement, now, young lady.
Do you remember how you have to say it?"

"Yes I do," Misty answered with a slight smile, "After all, I didn't cut class
that day... hmmm, lets see.. I have decided to become meat... No no, that's not
it -um. .  oh yeah! ... I am volunteering to become meat!"

"There we go, sugar," Jeneen smiled, "You've said it correctly.  It looks like
you'll get to ride with your mummy after all. I shall go fetch her a tote-frame
now, Sir, if you approve."

"I do," Don said.

"Better get two," Gail said, "I am volunteering to become meat also."

"Oh Baby, you didn't need to do that," Misty said to her sadly, "You hardly knew
my mom. Don't you know that once you have said that sentence in public, there is
no backing out?"

"Of course I know that, silly." said Gail, "I was in class that day too. And I'm
not doing it for her, sweetheart. I'm doing it for you." Gail hugged Misty
again, and held her tightly while both girls cried. Jeneen, shaking her head,
went after two tote-frames instead of one.

By the time the two teary-eyed teenagers released each other, Jeneen had already
returned from the bins at the rear of the truck where extra equipment was stowed
for situations like this. She carried one tote-frame in each hand by the large
form-fitted grab-handle welded to the back spines of the frames.

The tote-frames stood nearly two feet tall on six pairs of curved legs of
different lengths. Without occupants inside of them, the frames looked like
oddly-shaped shining chrome spiders. But no spider ever had a bite like this.

When a tote-frame was correctly placed on a meat-wench, four two-inch wide
locking steel bands encircled her upper body, gripping her neck, breasts and
waist in an anguishing embrace, with her arms folded up severely high on her
back. Two more pairs of bands encircled the victim's folded legs, pressing them
up hard against her stomach and chest. At the middle of her back where all the
bands met at the spine plate, the grab was positioned, which allowed for easy
lifting and loading of the wench.

Together with the leg bands the frame would render the wench into a diabolical
ball tie, reducing her to a simple and very portable piece of agonizing
girlflesh. So portable and handy in fact that MPI made the frames available to
the public free of charge at most gift shops and department stores, giving a
flat ten percent discount for any services performed when they were used.

The benefits in speed and efficiency at packing up and offloading framed
wenches, along with the compact arrangement in which they could be trucked, were
well worth the incentives MPI gave customers for using their expensive
recyclable equipment. Warnings were posted however, urging users to be very sure
about what they were doing. When checking them out, every customer had to sign a
statement acknowledging that the clerk had reminded them of three all-important
facts:

First, being locked inside an MPI tote-frame is an enforceable invokement
contract, creating the immediate status of meat-wench for its occupant. It
cannot be rescinded.

Second, all locking bands on a tote-frame, as well as turnbuckles and their
anchors, interconnect magnetically with virtually no effort at all. Any
foolishness or horseplay will result in the permanent creation of a meat-wench,
provided its occupant is female and of proper age. If its occupant is someone
other than that, the customer and/or the occupant may face stiff fines and
penalties. At a judge's discretion, their families may also be ordered to
contribute a meat-wench in that person's place.

Last and most importantly, all tote-frame bands use a patented unpickable
locking system which broadcasts a silent alarm if ever tampered with or cut
away. MPI agents respond to that signal even more quickly than to the beacon
emitted when a tote-frame is properly closed, and it's occupant ready for
pickup. The only way a tote-frame may legally be removed is after its delivery
to a central processing plant. This sensible feature assures the meat-wench, as
well as anyone responsible for the tote-frame, that there indeed will be no
turning back.

Jeneen sat the ominous devices down on the parking lot near the truck, and
reached into a pocket of her smock for a few pieces of additional hardware that
were always required for secure wench framing.

"Let's go girls," she said a bit impatiently, "Save your sentimentality for
later. You two should be completely undressed by now. We have a tight schedule
to keep, you know."

Reacting instantly, Misty and Gail swiftly disrobed and threw all of their
clothing into a trash bin a few yards away. Misty recorded a brief voice message
on her phone, then ran and tossed the phone and car keys into her car, locking
its doors behind her.

In less than two minutes the girls stood anxious and naked before Jeneen,
wondering what to do next. Misty, at five foot five, was almost a smaller carbon
copy of her statuesque mother, except that Misty's hair was a couple of shades
lighter, and her skin was tanned much darker. Her hair was long and braided very
attractively, just like her mom's, but Misty preferred to wear even bolder
makeup than her mother did. And unlike her mother who wore it only to work,
Misty went full-face wherever she roamed.

Willowy Gail Thornton formed a stark contrast to her barbie-doll proportioned
lover. A slim five foot ten on her bare feet, Gail was a track star at school,
and had very muscular legs to prove it. Her beautifully rounded ass compensated
for her rather smallish bustline. Gail kept her hair cut into a long pageboy. It
was the deepest brown it could be dyed before being called black, and streaked
with gothic orange highlights. She rarely applied much makeup, but when she did,
she liked wearing the edgiest metallic shades of gloss she could find for her
lips, mostly because it always put Misty in the mood for some marathon french
kisses.

"Now that's more like it," Jeneen said sweetly, appreciating how her volunteers
made up for lost time, "So, do you ladies know what we're going to do now?"

"Um, I think we are supposed to climb under those frames and close them up
around us, aren't we?" Gail asked.

"Well, that was probably true for the frames you studied at school," Jeneen
answered, "But actually, these are our commercial models, so we'll do it a
little bit differently, but it's not hard at all. Here, I'll show you. Hands
comfortably behind your backs please, one inside of the other. Each of you may
hold one of these disks in the palm of your outside hand."

Misty and Gail had no trouble at all with these instructions. Each girl took a
two-inch wide black metal wafer offered by Jeneen and positioned her hands, one
cupped inside the other, in the small of her back. Jeneen lifted Misty's hands
slightly away from the girl's backside and pressed another thicker disk, this
one being silver colored, against the back of Misty's left hand. A magnetic
attraction immediately engaged between the silver disk and the black disk
clenched in the palm of Misty's right hand, and held the silver disk firmly in
place.

"Remain absolutely still for fifteen seconds, please," Jeneen said, before
giving Gail the same instructions for her disks.

In only a few seconds the magnetic bonds grew much stronger, until the disks
were pressing the girls' hands very tightly together. Suddenly in a burst of
pain, the girls felt something stabbing through their hands. Both teens cried
out at almost the same moment.

"Ow! Help! It's cutting me!" Misty wailed, "What's it doing? Oh god, this hurts
like hell!

"Oh jeez it hurts!" Gail echoed, "It's burning me! Make this thing stop! Please
take it off!!"

"Calm down, girls," Jeneen said, "Your hands have merely been fastened together
using our new bloodless superconducting magnetic piercing tools. MPI employs
them now for all tote-frame piercings. The disks are programmed to penetrate
your flesh from both sides and link themselves up. They follow up their docking
procedures with five seconds of searing heat, cauterizing your tissues for
minimal blood loss and shock. Just in case you were wondering, taking them off
is not an option. They are irremovable. You will wear these palm disks for the
rest of your unfortunate meat-wench experience." Jeneen concluded her
explanation with the cheerfully sarcastic sing-song voice bored tour guides and
trolley drivers were fond of using.

"Piercings?" Gail asked in astonishment, "You mean there will be more of them?"

"Oh, yes," Jeneen answered her dryly, picking up one of the frames, "Don't say
we didn't try to warn you. Gail, dear, I need you to do a full squat now, so
your frame can be fitted around you properly."

An assortment of curious onlookers was assembling nearby to watch, including
several joggers who had stopped on their midmorning runs, and a number of people
on their way inside the building to do business of one type or another. "Hey
guys, wait up!" one of the joggers was heard yelling to his partners further on,
"This is worth watching. These gals are going to be fixed up good!"

Hoping to curry favor with her frighteningly efficient handler, and to get these
embarrassing moments behind her, Gail obeyed immediately and struggled to keep
her balance on the balls of her feet as the naked fitting began. Jeneen
positioned the seventeen-inch long metallic spine of the tote-frame along Gail's
back, lining it up so that four pairs of the two-inch wide metal strips would
join in front where they were supposed to -at Gail's throat, just above her
breasts, across the center of her breasts and at the waist. Gail was trembling
uncontrollably now. Between the burning pain in her hands, the humiliation of
crouching bare-assed in front of total strangers in a crowded parking lot, and
the shockingly cold caress of the tote-frame, she began to cry.

"Relax dear, this is your dry fit only," Jeneen said tenderly. "We won't tighten
it up until everything is just so." Two small buttons were located in back near
the bottom of Gail's neck band. When Jeneen depressed the first button, the four
pairs of torso bands closed together gently in front, and with a motorized
whining sound, locked themselves together along their one-inch wide magnetic
seams. The bands were still fairly loose at this stage, allowing Jeneen to line
them up more precisely. The tote frame emitted two soft beeps, indicating that
its occupant was recognized at the database, and that her meat wench status had
been approved and accepted by the census bureau via wireless transmission.

Jeneen paid particular attention to the bands directly over Gail's breasts. The
central breast band was different from the others. Two slots were cut into it,
one over each breast; each of the slots was four inches wide by an inch and a
half tall. Jeneen lined up Gail's nipples and pulled them firmly through the
narrow openings. Jeneen continued to work the girl's breasts into the slots very
aggressively, until the openings were packed full of Gail's tender flesh.
Eventually, Gail's nipples protruded several inches outward from the front of
the slots with a fair amount of semi-flattened breast tissue trailing behind
them. Gail groaned and sniffled all the while this was being done to her.

"This hurts me..." Gail moaned softly, looking down sadly at her misshapen
breasts.

"I know it does, baby," Jeneen said, "But the more of it I squeeze through now,
the less of it will be squashed later by the frame's bands. And you're darn
lucky your boobs aren't much fuller than an A cup. The bigger a girl's titties
are, the more these slots are designed to hurt her, especially when being hauled
around in her frame." Jeneen gave Gail a knowing look, as both of them were
thinking that Misty's treasures were more than twice the size of Gail's.

"This is going to hurt quite a bit too, hon," Jeneen said, "Just like with your
hands, it will be over with very quickly."

With that brief warning, Jeneen deftly took a pair of inch and a half wide disks
into each hand, and simultaneously placed them upon both of Gail's breast tips,
just behind her swollen nipples. In a few short seconds their magnetic forces
began to adhere, and squeeze together firmly. Jeneen released the disks, just as
Gail began writhing in pain.

"Oh my god! Please stop this!" Gail screamed, "I can't take this anymore,
please! I've changed my mind -please let me go!" At this very moment Jeneen
could tell that the piercing and cauterizing process had kicked in, because Gail
suddenly stopped begging for mercy, and concentrated her energy on releasing
earsplitting screams instead.

"Sure you can take it. You're a very healthy wench," Jeneen finally answered,
when Gail's lungs had been exhausted, "Look there! The disk-docking is complete,
and you've certainly survived. You've barely lost any blood, either. Now it's
time to snap on the turnbuckles. I think they look so hot..." Gail looked down
woozily and nearly fainted, as she watched Jeneen maneuver a short steel rod
between her two breast disks. The black disks on her breasts weren't smooth on
top like Gail's palm disks were. These had swiveling steel eyelets fixed into
their centers, obviously for attachment purposes. The narrow rod Jeneen held had
two fixed eyelets also at its midpoint, and spring clips at each end which
snapped easily onto the hoops of Gail's breast disks. A knurled ring near one
end of the connecting bar allowed its length to be adjusted by telescoping it in
or out. When Jeneen had the bar sized just tightly enough to exert a strong pull
between Gail's breast disks, she twisted the ring firmly into place, as Gail
wept continuously.

With Gail's breastwork complete, Jeneen pulled the remaining two sets of curved
metal bands around the poor girl's folded-up legs. She waited for the bands to
autolatch loosely as the upper four sets had done. After checking to see these
bonds were positioned correctly, Jeneen crouched down so that she was almost
nose to nose with her victim. As Gail was still so wobbly and near to blacking
out, Jeneen had to hold her up carefully for the final procedures.

"Focus for me baby. We're almost done with the hardest parts," Jeneen said,
squeezing Gail's cheeks firmly enough to summon the girl's attention, "I just
need you to stick out your tongue for me as far as you can, and we'll finish
this up quickly." Gail eyes were trying to roll up, but she did her best to
comply. She thrust her tongue out as far as she could, and Jeneen pressed yet
another pair of disks onto its midpoint. Both these disks were red-colored, and
one inch across, with a pivoting hoop on top like her breast disks had. Jeneen
had already linked another turnbuckle rod to this hoop, and it dangled freely as
she pinched the disks together. As soon as the disks began to clamp down upon
Gail's tender tongue with their predetermined ferocity, Jeneen released her hold
on the disks, and reached behind Gail's neck to depress the second button on the
tote-frame.

This button engaged the final lock down procedure. With a steady clicking sound,
all six sets of bands proceeded to tighten up around Gail. She shrieked and
babbled helplessly around her tongue disks, which were just beginning to pierce
and sear themselves into place.

The crowd of bystanders was ooing and ahhing at all these developments. The
people seemed to be very impressed with Jeneen's professionalism, as well as the
gurgling screams Gail managed to eject while this process was completed. In
about 20 seconds the tote-frame's compression cycle was finished and it sounded
off three sharp beeps, signaling the end of a successful framing.

Jeneen gently laid the wheezing, sobbing girl onto her side, and congratulated
her.

"You did just great, hon," Jeneen whispered excitedly into her ear, as she
clipped Gail's tongue rod to one of the eyelets at the center of her breast rod,
"Much better than a lot of the girls do. I really am proud of you. And your
tongue disks have something very special in them. They inject a small amount of
narcotic into your bloodstream to relax you up a bit for the long drive ahead.
It should be kicking in about now. I'm told it helps the girls quite a lot at
this point. After all, they have so much pain to deal with, while adjusting to
the artful new designs of their bodies." Jeneen twist-locked the knurled ring of
the now much-shortened tongue rod, forcing Gail's head down sharply toward her
imprisoned breasts, which from the tightening of the tote-frame were now crushed
viciously against her body.

"And if it's any consolation to you, dear," Jeneen added, "I'm going to let that
miserable bitch friend of yours really have it good, Ok? I think it's her
comeuppance for getting you into this mess to begin with."

Having said that, Jeneen rolled Gail over until her knees rested against the
gravelly cement of the parking lot to perform the final maneuver with Gail's
arms. Though the disks of her palm piercings were excruciatingly tight, they
still allowed Gail's painfully linked hands to pivot, as Jeneen firmly lifted
her victim's arms to mid-back. Then with a steady pull Jeneen tugged her wrists
even higher, wrenching the girl's shoulders and elbows until, with another wail
from behind Gail's tethered tongue, the victim's hands cleared the grab of the
tote frame and came to rest against the metal of the frame's upper spine.
Recessed into this spot of the tote-frame was yet another ingenious magnetic
disk. Perfectly positioned for linking up with the disks joining Gail's palms,
it rooted them irresistibly in place with a magnetic force of 700 lbs. per
square inch.

"There we go, sugar!" Jeneen proclaimed, straightening herself up stiffly, and
releasing a sigh of completion. "All trussed up and ready for the loading!"

The crowd of observers burst into applause and a few cheers.  Jeneen looked up
at them in surprise, but then relaxed and smiled pleasantly for her admirers.
She glanced at Don, who was looking very proud and excited by her performance.
She saw him clapping too, and wearing a big smile on his face.

"Fabulous work, Jeneen!" He said above the clamor of their spontaneous audience,
"Seven minutes on the dot. Never seen it done better, or faster!"

"Thank you, Sir," she said, blushing happily. She pulled some more hair wisps
away from her eyes, and straightened up her smock again, "I will go take care of
our little Misty now, if you like."

"I like." he said to her simply before turning to the crowd, which numbered
nearly forty people, "Thanks folks! Thanks a lot. Everyone here should be moving
along now, and getting back to your business. We appreciate your support, and if
you enjoyed what you saw just now, look us up. We're MPI . . Meat Processors
International. We're in the book, and we schedule free tours of our downtown
facility."

Laughing and chatting joyously, the people obliged Don and began to disperse. A
couple of the men shook hands with him, and patted him appreciatively on the
shoulder before leaving. Two college age girls shyly approached Jeneen and asked
how they could get a job like hers. She told them they could apply at MPI for an
intern's position. Several new trainees were hired every summer, but applicants
needed to have very good grades and references, and had to commit to two years
of full-time work following their six months of training. They smiled and
thanked her sweetly for her advice, and left with the others.

As Jeneen approached Misty, she smiled and asked what she had thought of Gail's
wench framing.

"Oh, my god. . ." she sobbed, staring at her helpless friend and knowing no
words to describe her horror and grief, "Surely, you can't be allowed to do all
those other things to us. It's despicable! The piercing, the arm twisting, and
that awful crap with her titties and her tongue. We didn't sign up for any of
that!"

"Yes you did," Jeneen replied with her eyes narrowing a bit, and seeing more of
Misty's mother in her with each passing moment, "By freely volunteering, you
signed on for any method of transport and preparation currently in use by MPI.
You should know that our methods change every so often. They are forever adding
curious little refinements."

"My poor, poor Gail," Misty whimpered in a detached kind of way, "I'm so sorry I
got her mixed up in all this. She had no idea. . . I wish I could get her out of
it."

"There's no use even dreaming of that," Jeneen said, dispassionately picking up
the second tote-frame and walking back to Misty, "Especially at this point.
Besides, I intend to have you locked well and truly inside this frame and loaded
on the truck in the next ten minutes. I should think you would be considering
yourself at this moment."

"Um... yeah, you're probably right," Misty agreed. She swallowed nervously, and
glanced once more to her dear friend, who laid trembling in pain and crumpled
into a ball on the rough pavement a few yards away. Ten minutes could seem like
an eternity sometimes, but Misty dearly wished it would be two eternities
instead.


END OF CHAPTER FOUR
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Five

9:32 AM:

In short order, Jeneen attended to the job of placing Misty into a wench frame,
while Don carried Gail around to the back of the truck. After setting the girl
down gently on the pavement, Don unlocked and threw open the rear door of the
truck. As usual, the warm outside air blasting into the truck caused the
remaining live-spitted girls to twitch and shiver.

This animated behavior always seemed to draw crowds, creating a stir of
excitement as morning rounds were made. But this time it was important to move
quickly to stay on schedule. A couple of fresh gawkers arrived immediately, and
stood watching nearby, mouths gaping in fascination.

"Shit!" thought Don, "I've got to hurry. They'll be holding me up with stupid
questions any minute now."

Thinking back to his driver's manual, Don recalled where the frame hoist control
box was, and reached inside the left edge of the door railing. He felt around
for two fat buttons, then pressed the bottom one twice. A steel beam telescoped
out about three feet from the top midpoint of the door, while a motor-driven
cable descended from its outer end.

The cable, which held a large steel hook, automatically stopped when it got to
about twenty inches above the ground. Don pushed its hook through the grab
handle on the back of Gail's frame and pressed the upper control box button one
time. The cable drew up, jerking Gail's compacted body into the air. She
squealed in additional misery, as the steel straps of her wench frame pinched
into her breasts.

"Clear!" Don shouted as the hoist drew Gail steadily higher into the air. He
delivered a sharp slap on her upturned ass when saying this. As if on cue, Gail
shrieked again, and expelled a stream of urine behind her. Having studied his
manual, Don knew this was the best time for wenches to excrete any remaining
body wastes; it was understood that outside the truck was always better than
inside. So it was an MPI tradition to yell out the warning and deliver a hard
blow to get things going as wenches were lifted into the air. With the
combination of the slap, the sudden vertigo of dangling from the cable and the
agonizing grip of the tote-frame, it was common for a wench to abruptly piss,
vomit, shit ... or any combination of the above.

Yelling the word clear was a courtesy call to those who might be standing close
by, as any person within six feet faced imminent dangers of a new dry cleaning
bill. Don recalled the first time he had heard of this practice. It reminded him
of the slap doctors gave newborn babies when delivering them into the world.
MPI's slap was far more intense of course, but it delivered women into a brand
new world just the same. A world of ceaseless torment from which there was
little likelihood of ever returning.

Just before Gail cleared the floor of the truck, she groaned in agony and a blob
of her poop fell to the parking lot. Don heard one of the young men behind him
whoop excitedly and slap his friend on the shoulder. The other man growled
something back at him, and fished some money out of his pocket.

"Betters!" Don said under his breath with a wry smile on his lips. "I'll be
damned..."

Betting on exactly what a wench would do while riding up the cable hoist had
become a surprisingly popular, if somewhat bizarre, spectator sport. Don had
been briefed on that phenomenon, but these two goofs surprised him. He thought
they were going to be time wasting looky-loos, but they turned out to be
connoisseurs of a dark new diversion.

"Here's our little Misty now," Jeneen chimed out cheerfully, as she brought the
freshly framed girl into Don's view at the back of the truck. Jeneen carried the
tote-frame's handle with both hands, bouncing Misty along rudely against her
rubber aproned thighs as she moved forward. Misty wailed and sobbed piteously
with each thump, trying to issue an intelligible plea for mercy, but her
brutally restrained tongue made that impossible.

"Well done, partner," Don smiled to his helper, as he reached into the truck and
unhooked the cable from Gail's tote-frame, "I trust you gave her a good tight
framing?"

"Oh yes sir!" Jeneen replied, "She's nice and snug here. I gave her turnbuckles
a few extra twists. I also made sure to get her bosoms only partly into their
slots ... if you know what I mean?"

"I do indeed," Don said, pressing the drop hoist button again. He and Jeneen
shared the opinion that Misty deserved to suffer more than Gail, for initiating
the two girls unnecessary invokements.

"Watch your step, Jeneen," Don said, "Gail just did number one and two. By the
way, what about the pain medication on Misty's tongue disks?"

"Lowest possible setting, Sir," she responded quickly, setting Misty's knees
down carefully in the mess left by the victim's girlfriend. "It seemed the most
reasonable thing to do."

"I agree with you," he said, hooking up the cable to Misty's frame, "No sense
dulling the experience for her, considering how much she insisted on receiving
it. Would you like to deliver Misty's slap for her?"

"With pleasure," she said while Don pressed the lift button.

"Clear!" Jeneen yelled, winding up her arm to deliver a slap the second Misty
went airborne.

Don was amazed at the energy of her blow. Like a martial arts expert, Jeneen's
hand was balled into a fist at first, but opened out flat just before it struck
Misty's ass. It lashed out with the force of a boxer's punch, rocking Misty
violently on the cable as she rose into the air.

Misty's feeble cry rose slowly from her throat until it was a keening wail that
filled the parking lot. The eerie noise suddenly halted as she threw up. A
moment later with a gasping cry she ejected a large bowel movement, then began
to piss.

"Hat trick!" one of the men called out behind them, lifting his arms in victory.
The other better, who had previously won money on Gail's behalf, frowned in
disgust and began to drag out his payment.

"Damn, that's a lot of shit," Don exclaimed, stepping back from the spattered
mess as Misty's form rose over the lip of the truck bed.

"Better out than in," Jeneen said proudly, stepping back also as the last of
Misty's urine dropped to the pavement. "A whack's force has to land just right
sometimes, but wenches seem to go more when they get the maximum dose."

"Along with the minimum medication," Don added devilishly.

"Right," she admitted with a wink.

Driver and assistant both climbed into the truck bed to where the two wenches
trembled side by side on their knees. Don disengaged the hook from Misty's frame
and pressed the up button twice again, retracting the cable and wench assembly
into the roof of the truck.

"I'm a little fuzzy on this next part," Don said, "Could you walk me through
it?"

"Certainly, Sir," she replied eagerly, "Naturally, our two wenches are in
priceless torment at present, but some additional discomforts are prescribed for
them when loading time comes. As you know they are stacked in special shelves at
the deepest end of the truck and secured into narrow doorless stalls, with their
heads facing outward. These cells have a slight slope to the floor, sensibly
allowing liquid waste to drain behind them through slots in the truck wall."

Understanding those details well, Don nodded to his accomplice.

"But first we fit butt plugs into them to keep accidents from getting the floors
too messy." Jeneen opened a compartment on the wall of the truck and withdrew a
torpedo-shaped ass plug. It was a little over five inches long and almost two
inches thick at its widest point. It glistened with a greasy substance that all
the plugs swam in. "There's an assortment of three sizes in this boot. You just
pick the size you think will fit your wench the best. This is our medium size.
It should do nicely for Gail."

Jeneen pulled one of Gail's ass cheeks firmly to the side, and placed the tip of
the plug directly against Gail's anus.

"The lubricant is quite slippery, so one good shove usually gets the job done,"
Jeneen said as she pressed the plug firmly home. Gail convulsed in newfound
torment as her bottom swiftly filled with the rubbery intruder.

"Ga....ggaaahhh!" she blurted helplessly as the narrow neck of the device nested
itself past her sphincter which involuntarily held the plug fast.

"Just to enhance things for them a bit," Jeneen continued, "This lubricant has a
powerful pepper oil mixed into it. So be very careful not to rub your eyes or
anything. It burns like the devil. Would you like to do Misty's plug now?"

"Sure," Don replied, selecting one of the jumbo plugs from the bin, "I think
this one will be just right for our meddlesome young friend." The plug was
nearly an inch larger in all dimensions than the one Jeneen had selected for
Gail. With more force than finesse, Don pushed the plug deep into Misty's
pooper, amid her yelps and sobs.

"A good choice, Sir," Jeneen said, noting that with Misty's smaller sized body
the larger plug would serve its purpose well. "I think it fills her bum most
correctly." Jeneen pulled a couple of wet towlettes from a dispenser above the
plug bucket and handed one to Don.

"Now, if you will pick up Gail," Jeneen proposed once they had cleaned their
hands, "I'll carry Misty and we'll get them tucked in for their trip." Along the
way Jeneen held Misty in front of the small window of Lorraine's stretch locker
so that the doomed mother and daughter could view each other. Lorraine's face,
beet red from her hopeless struggle against the noose and breast daggers, took a
moment to register the horror of what had happened to her daughter. When
Lorraine choked out a sob of recognition, Jeneen winked at her. "It appears your
lovely daughter just couldn't wait to join her mummy aboard the truck," Jeneen
said loudly enough for the mother to hear through the door, "She had hoped for a
chatty goodbye scene I think, but unfortunately she now has less opportunities
of talking again than even you do."

When Jeneen had positioned Misty inside her two foot wide cell, she gripped a
two-pronged graphite hook attached to the upper railing of the stall by a thick
bungee cord and wedged it into Misty's nostrils. Before the poor girl's eyes
could reflect more than indignation, Jeneen took another short bungee with
spring clips on each end. She snapped this bungee to a center ring on Misty's
breast rod, and then attached the other end to a ring that was welded to the
middle of the stall floor between her knees.

"These two elastic bands have snugged Misty into place," Jeneen said, placing
her hands upon her hips, "Our wench is now ready to ride. You can do up Gail in
the same way if you like."

"The nose-hooks are shaped to hold up the wenches heads," Jeneen explained
further, as Don lifted Gail into the stall next to Misty, "while pulling firmly
against the downward tethers of their tits and tongues. The general idea is to
steady wenches inside their compartments and reduce the chances of bashing their
heads as the truck bobs along."

"On heavy volume days," Jeneen continued, "since these stalls are six feet deep,
there is room enough to load two meat wenches per stall. Earlier pickups can be
designated Scoots, and moved to deeper berths to make room for a second wench in
the front."

"Must be kind of cramped for them back there," Don observed, while placing the
curved graphite fingers into Gail's nostrils. Her head jerked up with the
menacing tension of the bungee, and her eyes fluttered in panic.

"Yes it is," Jeneen agreed, "Especially since their faces will be mashed right
into the front girl's buttocks. Scoots' faces are restrained by bungee cords
too, so there is no avoiding that one."

"Hmmm," Don mused while connecting the lower bungee to Gail's breast rod, "I
think I might know of a girl who should pull that duty."

"That's why drivers get to decide which wenches will be Scoots." Jeneen said
brightly, "And if he desires to, he may even remove the butt plug from the front
girl before mashing her arse against the Scoots face. Any accident she has then
will plaster the face and tongue of her caboose, and accidents are rather common
once the pepper oil has done its work."

"I see," Don smiled up at Jeneen from his crouch, "Driver's prerogative, huh?"

"Yes Sir," said Jeneen, glancing down at Misty who had heard every word, "Just
another indignity to be suffered by the most deserving wench. But even if the
driver doesn't remove the plug, the Scoot will likely still have to deal with
the front wench's pee. It has a way of landing onto a Scoot's outstretched
tongue."

Don stood back to admire their handiwork upon the two helpless girls.

"My goodness." Don pondered in amazement, "This is certainly different from the
transportation methods used where I come from. Ten times more painful I am
betting."

"It's off the scale, I wager," Jeneen reflected, "Schools try to prepare young
girls for the rigors of wench framing, but there's no way they can keep up with
us. Unfortunately, girls who find that out don't get to go back and correct the
textbooks."

"There's just no describing their look," Don continued as he stared into the
girls' eyes, "I don't think I've seen a girl in more distress in my entire life.
It's hard to believe they can even survive this agony..."

"I try to imagine it myself sometimes," Jeneen said thoughtfully, "A riot of
fresh emotion is occurring in those eyes - anger, shame, resentment, you name
it, all of it compounded by pain. Those feelings must be all that keeps them
going right now. But something else is in there too. I don't have a word for it
really, but it seems like... utter astonishment. Do you see it too?"

"I certainly do," Don concurred, "But to me it also looks like defiance. They
aren't docile yet like those spitted girls have become. Maybe these two still
hope there is a way out of this hell."

"That could be it too," Jeneen said, "The spits are a bit buggered out by now,
and quite used to being contorted like this, with their painted mouths pried
open. By now I suspect some of them even long for the fires."

"These two are still learning, aren't they?" Don suggested.

"Yes, and so are we," Jeneen said, "The tongue piercings and the bungees have
only been in use for a couple of months now. Our methods are always evolving.
Years ago drivers used to just toss wenches into pouches made of netting. But,
remember what I told you before? Nothing here is by accident. MPI's handling
processes are carefully designed to not be fatal. But the pain, shock and
humiliation of each dreadful moment must be just short of that."

"Absolutely," Don said, "And it has to be canceling out everything they've ever
known as human beings - in twenty short minutes they have become meat in the
truest sense of the word. They understand that now, don't they?"

"They must," Jeneen said, looking at Don intently, "That rather turns you on,
doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Don replied, no longer embarrassed by his erotic response, "And
that's part of the big plan too, isn't it?"

"Quite right," Jeneen smiled, "You see, this method of bondage not only
reconditions their bodies for the spit, it also provides a stimulating sight
from the rear of the truck. Virtually anyone who sees these little faces will
have the sublime reaction you are having now. We enhance the process further
with these..."

Jeneen reached over to a compact bank of electronic switches numbered one
through twenty four, and turned on numbers eight and nine. Two small spotlights
appeared, aiming straight into the victims' faces.

"Welcome to woody wonderland!" Jeneen stated triumphantly. "This is why rear
doors are now left open when our trucks return to the station at early evening
rush hour."

Suddenly Don understood. It was more free advertising for MPI. Loaded six across
and four tall in their stalls, as many as twenty-four tear-streaked faces,
distorted into pig-faced grimaces, and illuminated by bright spotlights, would
be seen stacking up as morning deliveries were cleared away, and afternoon
collections filled the truck. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Ruthless aren't they?" he said, smirking.

"Not where you and I are concerned," Jeneen said, reaching out and lightly
tracing the bulge Don's erect penis created as it strained against his trousers
and the rubber smock stretched over them. "Drivers are allowed to relieve
themselves on the job, you know. They don't want us to be too frustrated. It
wouldn't be healthy."

Reacting to her tantalizing advance, Don took Jeneen swiftly into his arms and
pulled her close.

"You mean they actually condone this sort of thing?" Don asked, brushing his
lips against hers.

Jeneen's pulse quickened as she took a moment to consider his offer of a kiss...
it felt delicious with his arms around her, swallowing her up in his embrace.

"Not between us, silly!" she said, reluctantly pushing him away and
straightening up her smock. She was surprisingly out of breath. "At least... not
while we're on duty. It's with them I mean, the meat wenches. You are allowed to
facefuck as many as two of them per shift, if you feel the need. It's considered
a recreational break-time by the management."

"That's incredible," Don said, trying to contain his hormones also, "I didn't
see anything in the manual about that."

"It's not documented, but it's true, Jeneen answered, "It's one of MPI's special
driver perks. They figure there's no reason to be miserable and distracted all
day long when there are meat wenches close by who have no way of resisting. I
just wanted you to know that you can choose one of them any time you like. I've
been told that guys adore fucking a wench's face when she is restrained like
this."

"What about lady drivers and assistants?" Don asked, "Do they get the same
privileges as the men? Of course... I can't imagine you women getting as turned
on as we guys do by all this..."

"Oh, we get worked up too," she confessed, loving his curiosity, "And
frustrated. The same as you do, maybe even more. You see, being girls, we relate
ourselves directly to a wench's plight. We experience every bit of it in a way.
We can't help it, and it's mind bogglingly sexy to us."

"No fooling," Don smiled, "I never knew that."

"Oh, yes," Jeneen reassured him, "Our excitement just doesn't show like male
arousal does. You wouldn't believe the number of feminine pads I go through
working here. So we are encouraged to avail ourselves of the poor dears too,
when necessary. Their warm tongues are a delight to us. All we need do is press
ourselves against them and... let the juices flow. Oh, I had better stop talking
about it..."

"Yeah, I think I understand," Don said, "Thanks for telling me about that. How
about we try to cool off and stay on our schedule? Maybe we can save some of
those pleasures for later."

"I'd like that," she replied appreciating his strength and sincerity, "A lot."
Jeneen reached up and brushed her lips against his in mischief "That's just to
get even..."

Eyes twinkling in the spotlights, she turned and walked to the truck door with
Don following close behind her.

Once inside the cab of the truck, Don buckled his safety belt and turned to
Jeneen.

"Where to now?" he asked.

"To Bradshaw's loan office on 9th and Douglas, Sir" Jeneen replied, all business
again, "Go back up Constitution for six or seven blocks until you see Douglas
Drive. Then you'll turn right and go until you see 9th Avenue. He's at the
northeast corner there. We should arrive pretty close to our ten o'clock pickup
time."

"What are we picking up?" Don queried, starting up the truck.

"Never know for sure till we get there," she answered, buckling up her harness,
"Sometimes he has as many as six or seven girls for us, sometimes none. But we
swing by every monday morning just in case. He is very aggressive with his loan
defaultees. It shows on my logs that three tote-frame signals arrived from his
location early this morning. But that may or may not be the full lot."

"I hope this Bradshaw guy isn't as nutty as Mr. Mulholland was," Don said,
shifting gears and charging the truck noisily up Constitution Avenue, "That guy
just about wore me out."

"They're all a bit kooky in a way, I guess," Jeneen laughed, "But they are all
good for business, and Mark's not too bad - better than most of them actually.
He's always been a gentleman with me. But he certainly is hell on his girls.
You'll see all about that..."

Four electronic tones sounded from the dashboard of the truck. Jeneen pointed to
a small device mounted underneath the radio.

"Tote-frame enclosure!" she cheered, "This device notifies us whenever a new one
occurs somewhere inside our territory. As long as a signal goes off before 3:00
P.M. we must swing by and load up the wenches on the same day. After that the
duty falls to the evening shift."

Text information flashed across the small vid-screen of the signal unit which
Jeneen took careful note of.

"It says here that we have one tote-frame ready for pickup at 1215 Liberty Lane,
the Hillock residence. It also says this is the first one ever for that
location. That usually means a family member or close friend is volunteering,
unless of course it is a comp."

"A comp?" Don puzzled, "What's that, a freebie?"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry," Jeneen said, "Nicknames for things get to be a habit around
here. Comp stands for compulsory submission. Either by the family or the state.
Those can be very interesting. We'll find out more when we get there after the
Bradshaw pickup, which is our last scheduled stop for this morning. We should
arrive at the Hillocks between 11:00 and 11:30, in time to take care of it
before lunch." Jeneen entered these notes into her digital logbook, and laid it
back on the dashboard console.

Don glanced at Jeneen's relaxed expression as he careened the truck onto Douglas
avenue. He was fortunate to have her as an assistant, Don thought. She was
efficient, helpful, quite pretty, and damned understanding when it came to the
difficulties of the job, primarily the constant horniness one felt witnessing
the anguish suffered by their cargo, and the occasional pangs of sympathy felt
for innocent women unlucky enough to become MPI meat products. It was as if they
were sculptors of pain, molding wenches feelings into a horrific new kind of
art, and taking that craft to the limits of human endurance...


"Penny for your thoughts, Sir?" Jeneen said, her pleasant face studying his.

"Well..." Don sighed, astonished by her ability to see straight inside of him;
he opted for understatement, "A bunch of things actually. I'm excited about my
new job. I am also just beginning to understand what a cutting edge company it
is that we work for. But mostly, I was thinking that we seem to make a pretty
good team."

"I agree..." she replied softly, "on all counts." They shared another smile as
the truck bounced them along to their next destination.


END OF CHAPTER FIVE
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Six

10:07 A.M.

Turning left onto 9th Avenue, Don eased the MPI truck up to the curb just past
the crosswalk. The area was a hodgepodge of older businesses, located mostly in
2 and 3 story buildings. Bradshaw's loan company occupied the first floor of a
brownstone with large plate glass windows. Signs curled around the building
proclaiming Bradshaw's Fast Cash in one direction, and Easy Loans - Easy Terms
in the other. Under a shallow stone archway at the corner of the building lay
the entrance, its large glass doors facing the busy intersection.

Two women in silver caps and smock dresses were waiting for them on the
sidewalk; each of them stood smiling beside a rolling metal rack. Sturdy
matching silver heels added an extra twist to their tight uniforms. The shoes
had only a three-inch incline, but were boosted by nearly three extra inches of
platform and chunky heel, the better to tease the eyes of motorists and
passersby.

"Are those girls from the loan office?" Don asked Jeneen as he engaged the
brake.

"Cute, aren't they?" she said, "Those two are from Doug's Deli a couple of
blocks up the street. Since we always stop at this corner on mondays, they like
to meet us here to pick up their meats. It saves them an additional delivery
charge. It's also great for their lunch business. They take their sweet time
rolling back up to the restaurant, generally driving their neighbors and other
pedestrians crazy."

"Two racks this time?" Jeneen leered to the girls as she and Don got out of the
truck.

"Very funny, Jeneen," the taller girl answered, smiling and glancing down at the
cleavage her silver uniform produced at the bustline, "Yes, we have a banquet
this week and two club meetings, plus all of our regular business. So we'll need
six roasters and two live-spitted wenches, if that's OK."

"Sure," Jeneen answered, marking the items off on her clipboard. "We have
plenty. Any special preferences?"

"Just regular stock will be fine, it's all good," the girl answered before
turning to Don, "I'm Karyn. And this is Veronica. Howyadoin'?"

"Good to meet you," he smiled back to the girls as he opened the truck door, "My
name is Don. Looks like you two have a booming business up there." Don pressed
the switch activating the ramp to descend to the street.

"Thanks mostly to you guys!" Veronica laughed, tugging on her smock, "Though
these new outfits and our heavy lipstick do seem to help. Tell you what, you two
can come up to the restaurant any time this week. Lunch is on me."

"Thanks!" Don called back as he accompanied Jeneen into the cargo hold.

"We should get the roasters out first," said Jeneen, turning to the rows of
steel boxes located behind the spit racks. Jeneen flipped a recessed switch on
the side of one unit. It's twenty-inch square top plate popped open with a
slight hissing noise. An unconscious girl's head, covered in shining plastic,
sprang into view. The steel tray she crouched upon within her tiny space rose
abruptly on springs, in tandem with the door opening mechanism. It reminded Don
of a bizarre life-sized jack in the box toy. A puff of moist gas wafted from the
chamber within.

"Be careful not to get a big whiff of that stuff," Jeneen said, leaning back
slightly, "Like their shrink wrapping, it's laced with the drug that keeps our
roasters in stasis. It won't hurt you, but it can make you feel a little
groggy."

"I've heard about that potion," he said, "It keeps a girl knocked out for up to
12 days without harm, doesn't it?"

"It does more than that," Jeneen said, snapping open the next compartment and
holding her breath briefly, "Completely relaxes wenches' nervous systems,
allowing them to hibernate in a way. Minimal respiration and fluid loss, zero
transportation shock. Some of it is also contained in the enema solutions they
use to entirely clean their digestive tracts. Some customers swear it even
sweetens the meat. They revive completely rested and ready for the cooking
process at the customer's end."

"Lucky them, I guess," Don said dryly as he peered into the first girl's face.
Her entire body was sheathed in clear plastic, like fresh food in the grocery
store. Though her head was upright, the rest of her body was compressed in the
tightest ball imaginable. Under the taut plastic, Don could see she wore a huge
ball gag with a tiny breathing hole through it. A hole was punched into the
plastic wrapping directly over the ball gag to provide a minimal air exchange.
Don lifted the girl from her cramped confines by grasping carrying loops
connected to the straps around her shoulders. 

"Roasters are a bit lucky in the early stages," Jeneen acknowledged as she
pulled her girl from the second compartment, "They don't have the stamina to
arrive pre-spitted like our best grade of meats do. That's why they cost a
little less. And while they are unconscious, they are certainly not suffering.
The flipside is, when they are revived, they may find themselves in the hands of
an inexperienced do-it-yourselfer. Or worse yet, a chef who really knows how to
hurt a girl. Then there are those whackos who prefer to cook up a piece of her
every now and then. They may insist on making her last for weeks, while using
her as a constant receptacle for sex."

"Yeesh," Don shuddered at the thought.

"Wenches who are live-spitted at MPI have a terrible time of it all right,"
Jeneen added thoughtfully, "But at least they know their ordeals will end within
the next twelve hours. Roasters get no such guarantee."

Don nodded, and looked at the three inch square sticky-patch mounted under the
plastic between the first girl's shoulder blades. At the top left corner of the
tag a soft green light flashed every few seconds. Below the light, lines of
information were neatly printed:

US2C Lot:  SJ-921027
Aileen Grant, 31,
Bookkeepers Assistant,
1220 Arkansas Lane, Chicago, Illinois
In stasis 5/30/88 - MPI center #191

"Endothermic regulator patch," said Jeneen, "The latest technology. That green
light shows she is alive and stable, with a heart rate one-eighth speed of
normal. When her plastic is removed and the patch is peeled away, it issues an
electrical pulse that starts the revival process, which takes about 10 minutes.
Her personal information is interesting as well, isn't it? Look at this one..."

US2C Lot:  SJ-927448
Tammy Breen, 28,
News Anchorwoman, KNOB
570 Windy Way, Chicago, Illinois
In stasis 6/3/88 - MPI center #191

"Never know what you'll get, do you?" Don smiled, "Like a box of chocolates."

"Sure is..." Jeneen said, carrying her roaster to the truck ramp, "They started
including those bios about 4 months ago. I've seen a number of celebrities come
through here. But even if they are just ordinary folk, the bit allows you to get
a feeling about them, and call them by their names when they wake up. Our
customers seem to like that. Info tags make quite a conversation piece."

Don and Jeneen placed the bound girls on their backs near the top of the ramp.
Karyn and Veronica stood expectantly below. A number of spectators had gathered
around the truck by now, staring with fascination at the cargo, and gawking at
the mouth-watering girls in their silver costumes.

"It's easiest to slide them down," explained Jeneen, "The plastic is quite
slippery against the steel." She pushed Tammy gently with her foot, and Don did
the same with Aileen. The women slipped down the ramp into the waiting arms of
Karyn and Veronica, who laid them crossways on the bottom shelves of their
rolling racks.

In just a few more minutes the deli order had been filled. The girls thanked Don
and Jeneen, signed the billing invoice, and began pushing their heavy racks up
9th avenue to their restaurant. Several talkative bystanders tagged along behind
them.

"Now we can check on Mark's girls," Jeneen sighed, straightening her smock and
tucking the clipboard under her arm.

Jeneen led Don past the doors of the loan office where the owner, Mark Bradshaw,
stood ready to greet them warmly.

"Jeneen has probably told you I rarely buy any wenches," Mark explained,
"However, I am a frequent supplier of raw girl product. Like all of the
moneylenders do, I require my female clients to sign a clause on the forfeiture
of their meats in case they default on repaying their loans. The maximum amount
I loan my clients is 500 credits, so with the meat waiver our investment is
always secure."

Mark's business, in fact, thrived whenever a loan defaulted. MPI's meat purchase
premium varied with the international market, but was currently set at 950
credits per live wench. That value could go up or down as much as 15 percent,
based on heartiness and attractiveness. Since girls usually repaid most of their
notes before running into problems, their redemption amounted to bonus income.

Terms were clearly spelled out in the agreement. Loans were to be paid back in
ten months at four percent monthly interest. Payments were always due by the 5th
of each month. But by the 8th they were considered late, and on the 12th they
were considered missed.

The borrower was allowed two late payments, or one missed payment during her
contract. A missed payment had to be caught up before the next due date along
with twice the monthly interest, or the girl faced immediate invokement. As such
they were required to report to Mark for wench framing by the following Monday
at 8 A.M., or be deemed meat fugitives. Most of his girls reported promptly, but
a few did not.

"What do you have for us today, Mr. Bradshaw?" Don asked.

"Three girls in tote frames, and two more for the stretch lockers," Mark
answered cheerfully, pointing to three young ladies shuddering helplessly in
their steel fetters behind an office partition. "As voluntary reportees, these
three are assured of being turned over to MPI within 24 hours with minimal
tampering. My other two girls tried to run, and as Jeneen knows, those clients
are offered no favors."

Mark waved his hand to a pair of girls standing a short distance away by the
receptionist's desk. Naked and trembling in pain, they balanced precariously on
tall high-heeled pumps. Their wrists and elbows were strictly tethered behind
them. Every inch of their shining bodies bore mute testimony to the ordeals they
had suffered.

"These two have been thoroughly whipped," Jeneen noted appreciatively as she
approached the girls. She ran her hands lightly over the angry weals
crosshatching the girls' backs and ass cheeks, "Have you been playing with the
meat again, Mark?"

Mark gave her a sly smile, and nodded his head. "These bitches are Becky and
Jocelyn. Me and my staff have been messing them up pretty good. They tried to
skip out, which cost me a stout wench-tracking fee, and transport cost back from
Toledo. I could have given them to you along with those other ladies you picked
up last week, but we kept these around for some extra payback. Hey, I warned
them about not running - I like to keep my promises."

When issuing loans, Bradshaw stressed to his clients that if they defaulted and
were difficult to bring in, he would treat them to several days of special
in-house tortures. Then they would take what he referred to as the scenic route,
traveling to MPI on the dreaded nooses and breast spears of mobile stretch
lockers. Bradshaw was willing to take a 10 percent depreciation on their meat
values for transporting them this way.

Jeneen looked into Jocelyn's desperate eyes. Her long blonde hair was matted
with tears and sweat. Her face was bruised and swollen, her mouth held at it's
widest aperture by a large rubber ball gag, cruelly locked in place with a
narrow leather strap. Jocelyn's eyes and mouth appeared frozen open in a silent
scream of terror.

Her smallish breasts were adorned with something Jeneen had seen only in the
latest equipment catalogs: Kilo Corporation's new commercial breast halos, very
expensive, and by all reports some of the wickedest nipple trainers in the
world.

These consisted of three concentric steel rings mashed against each breast. Dual
alligator clips pivoted on narrow bars at the centers of each of the smallest
rings. The bites of those four hellish clips delivered enough pain into a girl's
nipples to make her nearly pass out, but the rings themselves supplied still
more. Each ring was designed with six tiny sockets on its flattened inside face.
These receptors could be equipped bayonet-style with a variety of menacing
instruments.

Small devices ranging from quarter inch long sharpened studs, to one inch long
stainless steel thorns, could be snapped in place to further chastise an errant
girl's breasts. The inner rings, or nipple-rings, were two inches in diameter,
middle rings were four, and the outer rings six inches across. Each ring pivoted
on pairs of one inch steel balls connecting it to the next. Balls between the
outer ring and middle ring were at the top and bottom; while balls adjoining the
middle ring and nipple ring were located at the sides. Sets of black velcro
straps looped to the sides of the largest rings fastened the ensemble in place.
The thin velcro strips allowed infinite adjustment for the distance between the
breasts, as well as for the tension desired around the victim's back.

Jocelyn's halos had been equipped with half-inch thorns. They were strapped
tightly against her breasts, and closely together in front. Blood trickled
freely from several of the spots where the thorns gored into her, as well as
around the four nipple clamps, but what really caught Jeneen's attention were
the steel tripod assemblies mounted to the outer face of Jocelyn's and Becky's
middle rings.

Attached to trios of bayonet receptors on the outside faces of those four-inch
rings, triangular fixtures clamped antique quill pens in front of the girls
breasts. The feathered tails of the pens brushed benignly against the girls'
nipples while the writing ends jutted straight out in front. Jeneen was at first
confused by this arrangement, but glancing at the far wall she understood. Two
large posters were affixed to that wall which the girls had been writing on,
using the breast-mounted writing instruments for their authorship.

Each poster displayed dozens of pictures of the girls being whipped and fucked
relentlessly from all directions. Jeneen and Don stared in awe at what Mark had
forced his prisoners to do.

"What do you think about that?" Mark asked proudly. "This was my very own idea.
Kilo markets their Titty Tripod as an all-purpose connection point. But it also
works great for holding small objects, like these old-fashioned quill pens. It's
pretty simple, really. We spent the first few days working the bitches over and
taking those photos. Then we assembled the best pictures into a computer collage
and outputted them on three foot wide by six foot tall posters. Our girls have
been kept busy on their writing assignments ever since."

"Powerful," Don commented, "You've given them some heavy-duty penmanship
practice haven't you?"

"Yes, we have," Mark said, "And to make things more interesting, we placed the
ink pots along the opposite wall. They had to get down on their knees in order
to dip their pens into the inks, which is very difficult to do wearing those
heels and elbow-ties, and walk across the office to write on their posters,
using stepladders when necessary. This process was repeated hundreds of times,
with us whipping them and shooting rubber bands at them whenever we felt like
it." Mark looked around at his five smiling employees, three of whom were
elegantly dressed young ladies. It was clear the staff had enjoyed themselves
greatly at the two girls' expense.

No doubt about it, Jeneen thought, Jocelyn and Becky had endured some very harsh
treatment, and perhaps the ultimate in punishment writing assignments. Looking
more closely at the posters, She saw the girls kept their lines uniform by
following tiny green tick markings similar to what grade school tablets had. The
two posters were quite different looking, as each one featured unique pictures
of the girl who labored upon it. Their words were in alternating colors of
bright ink that stood out almost cheerfully from the stark pictures beneath.

In as neat a cursive as the girls' pain-wracked breasts could manage, they
proclaimed scores of nasty comments in two quivering columns. Statements like 'I
am a cock craving meat slut ready for the spit', or 'I loved to be whipped,
fucked and filled with cum', or "I hope I taste good when they cook me over the
coals'. Each improbable confession repeated itself on several rows before the
text changed to another color, and yet another humiliating remark. It defied
one's imagination to think that these girls could accomplish such a painful and
demeaning task. But of course they had no choice.

"Well done, sir," Don said in amazement, "What an original idea..."

"Thank you," Mark smiled, "I've gotten offers on these posters that are in the
thousands of credits. They are so special, I even thought of keeping them on
permanent display here in the office. But then it hit me... I don't want to do
that. It might frighten other girls away from screwing up and arriving in the
same fix. Think of all the fun we would miss out on then? So, I plan to auction
the posters to the highest bidder, after selling a thousand or so copies of the
video we've been making, and a few hundred photos they've autographed with their
breasts."

"You wicked man!" Jeneen said with a wink, "You certainly do know how to make
money, don't you?"

"Not just money," Mark answered, crossing his arms dramatically, "Revenue. And
get this - I offered my employees an option to take part in torturing our
runaways in lieu of their next raise. Guess which one they chose?"

Don and Jeneen traded smiles with the shrewd loan officer before turning to the
second girl. Becky was a brunette with a short perky haircut and rather large
breasts which, like her back and ass, had been striped many times by Mark's
cane. Her breasts appeared to have larger implements in them than Jocelyn's, as
Becky's thorns looked a bit thicker under the rims of her Halos. This seemed
appropriate to Jeneen, given the fuller proportions of Becky's boobs.

Becky looked hopelessly back at Jeneen. The girl had been wearing black eyeliner
and heavy mascara, which her tears had washed into deep smudges around her eyes,
and dark trails along her cheeks. Becky's bright red lipstick had been smudged
too. Jeneen surmised that this was probably due to the oral abuse her office
mates had treated her to. Surprisingly, Becky was ungagged.

"Hello there, baby," Jeneen said, sweetly touching one cheek of the raccoon-eyed
girl. "Looks like you two have done a really good job there on your poster
projects. But now I suppose it's time we got you loaded into your
stretch-lockers."

"Please -help us!" Becky blurted, as if Mark and his employees couldn't hear
her, "You have no idea what this lunatic has put us through... I paid him every
credit I owed him, plus an extra 500 for the trouble we caused by running off.
But he stuck the money right in his pocket and went ahead and tortured us
anyway."

"Can't help you there, hon," Jeneen replied, surprised that the girl could speak
so coherently, given the amount of pain she was in, "A deal is a deal, after
all."

"But ... but can't you at least report this to someone?" Becky insisted, "We
screwed up, and we are going to roast for it. I know that. Shit, after what we
have been through, I almost look forward to it. But he must have broken some
laws too. He stole my money after all... then he let his employees take turns
beating us and raping us. He even let his goddamned clients fuck us!"

"I hate to tell you this," Jeneen said slowly, "But Mr. Bradshaw has broken no
laws. The instant you violated your contract with him, your meat status was
recorded with the census office. From that moment forward all your rights were
voided. You have no ownerships to consider, no privacies, no dignities or
freedoms of any kind. Those entitlements are waived in favor of the ones who
possess your meat."

Jeneen paused to look at the wenches crouching miserably in their tote frames
before turning back to Becky, "Look around you, dear. You and the other wenches
here have given up all the privileges that belong to people, because you are
merely things now... things called meat. Mr. Bradshaw is always careful to
deliver his meat wenches to us in living condition. Provided he does that, he
faces no fines or penalties."

"I understand that now," Becky sobbed, "But you're a woman too. You must know
what this is like, how unfair it is to be tortured like this..."

"Yes, I am a woman too..." Jeneen said, irritably recalling how often she had to
field that question, "...who nevertheless won't give you any special leniency. I
am an employee of the firm after all that will be placing your deserving ass on
a roasting spit. And we aren't given bonuses for being gentle with the meats
-quite the opposite in fact."

"Well, can you at least get this over with?" Becky asked, "If I am to roast then
let's get it done quickly."

"Patience, Becky!" Jeneen countered, "We mustn't bloody rush things. Haven't you
seen our live-spitted girls before? They are the best anywhere. They last for
hours and hours, and stay awake well into the cooking process. That doesn't just
happen by accident you know, or by ramming a spit up them. They would be dead
straight away."

"Listen to what you are saying!" Becky said, "Keeping me alive as long as
possible while I cook? Jesus, it's crazy. I don't want to last that long. Who
would ever want to suffer that much?"

"Simply put, you are of no value to us if you don't" Don interjected, "MPI uses
extensive torture to enlarge girls' tolerances to pain. You should try and get
used to that fact, because it won't get any better from here on."

"He's quite right, Miss," Jeneen added, "Staying power on the spit occurs only
when your mind and body are reshaped by our torture. If you make the grade, your
conditioning process can take several days, or several weeks depending on your
constitution. It's different for each girl, but results are always the same.
That's what our customers enjoy the most."

Becky started to speak again, but decided to remain silent. She understood
clearly now that Don and Jeneen were merely her jailers, eager and willing to
impart more pain to their living cargo. They were not to be confided in, and
arguing was a waste of time.

"Would you like this one gagged also, Sir?" Jeneen asked Bradshaw.

"No, I don't think so," he mused, "We have enjoyed letting Becky yell and
complain the whole time. She spouted that stuff to most of our customers." He
leaned in to whisper to Jeneen, but at a volume that was clearly meant to be
heard by all, "We primed them to act sympathetic toward her too. They carried on
like they would try and help her out if she gave them the best oral sex of their
lives. She sucked every one of them like hell, but all she got out of it was
another mouthful of sperm or a faceful of cunt juice."

Becky turned to Bradshaw and stared in shocked disbelief at his smiling face.
This was her first realization of Mark's hidden strategy. It humiliated her
deeply to think that all her efforts had been useless.

"It just doesn't matter any more," she thought bitterly, "No matter what, I will
be taken away with the others, made over into one of their compliant little
pain-zombies. I have no choice..."

Tears of resentment ran across Becky's cheeks, washing fresh tracks into her
mascara.

"Don't look so sad." Mark said lightly, "You were very endearing. You've gotten
some excellent nourishment along the way, and I'm not even mad at you anymore.
Hell, you're making me rich, aren't you?"

END OF CHAPTER SIX
MPI
(c)  Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

MPI
(c)  Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Seven

10:38 AM:

"You'll be needing your breast halos back now, won't you Sir?" Jeneen asked Mr.
Bradshaw.

"Yes," he answered, "This is the first time we've gotten to use those trainers,
and it certainly won't be the last! Do you know how to remove them?"

"Certainly," Jeneen replied, "I've studied up on these little demons."

Jeneen started by undoing Jocelyn's nipple clamps, a task that couldn't be
completed too quickly or easily, owing to the cruel logic of the halo's design.
Because two clips perched upon each unhappy nipple, one had to remove them in
multiple stages. But it still wasn't quite that easy.

Small pairs of threaded tensioner knobs governed the locks holding each clamp in
place. These knobs had to be unscrewed by several turns until a soft click was
heard, announcing that the locking mechanism was released. The clamp's tail
pieces could then be pressed together and its serrated jaws extricated from a
victim's swollen nipple flesh.

In field studies Jeneen had read, test subjects confessed that this tedious
process being repeated four times, elicited some of the worst pains imaginable.
Reaching under the feathery tails of the quill pens, Jeneen busied her
fingertips, twisting upon the tiny tensioner knobs, inevitably disturbing the
terrible bite of the clamps. Gradually her victim's left nipple was freed, and
then her right. Jocelyn wept pitifully around her gag as blood flowed back into
her misshapen teats and her mauled nerve endings fully awakened. Jocelyn did her
best to remain still for this procedure, for she knew any movements would only
prolong her ordeal. Don meanwhile loosened the velcro strap at Jocelyn's back.

Jeneen was finally ready to ease the rings away from the girl's mistreated tits.
Even with the huge ball wedged between Jocelyn's teeth and lips, her
heartbreaking shrieks and moans filled the room as the device was being removed.
Two badly bruised breasts were revealed at last, with rosettes of tiny stab
wounds encircling them.

Jeneen inspected the barbs that had embraced Jocelyn's tender mounds and did a
quick math problem in her head before turning to Don, "Eighteen of the half-inch
buggers buried into each breast..." she marveled, "You know that's got to hurt."

"Hope we didn't mess up their breasts too badly for you," Bradshaw said somewhat
apologetically, "We were in a hurry to try out all the features of our new
halos."

"No problem at all, Sir," Jeneen smiled back, "Considering your investment in
these trainers, that's very understandable. At the plant, we'll restore any
damage with tagged chromosome laser therapy. We'll have them looking perfect
again in no time."

"Plus," Don added, "this is nothing compared to what our breast spears will do
to them in the stretch lockers. Assuming you want us to use those, of course."

"I didn't know that was my choice to make," Bradshaw said, surprised, "These
wenches are your property from now on, aren't they?"

"Yes, technically they are," Jeneen winked, "It's a customer courtesy though, if
you have any special preferences. After all, lockered meat gets the same
discount, with or without the spears."

"Well... by all means, let's use them!" Bradshaw said, after glancing around and
seeing his associates nod their heads eagerly. "...umm, on Becky only, please."

Hearing of her minor reprieve, Jocelyn's large eyes closed briefly, a shadow of
relief crossing her tightly-gagged face. Becky, however, was furious.

"Oh sure!" Becky hissed, glaring back at her sadistic loan officer, "Not angry
at ME anymore, are you?"

"Not angry... no," Bradshaw replied poker-faced,, "But you were the instigator
of your plan to run away. So your breasts might deserve to suffer a little more
than Jocelyn's. Besides, you have such nice big ones..."

"Oh! Why couldn't I have been gagged like Jocelyn?" Becky thought, as Don's and
Jeneen's hands drew near to her, "I thought it was my lucky break not having to
wear one of those horrible things. But she got the better end of the deal. All
I've done is catch more hell for telling them what I think..."

Becky whined in distress as Jeneen and Don teamed up to extract the halo
assemblies from her breasts. Screaming and straining against her bonds, she
collapsed briefly just as Jeneen pulled the gruesome device free. Don supported
Becky by the waist before she could fall to the floor, and slowly brought the
girl back to her feet as she regained her senses.

A young woman came around the counter to collect both sets of halos. She wasn't
a regular employee. She contracted part-time for Bradshaw and several other
businesses, as a wench-handling prefect. Prefects were trained to know when
wenches were in life-threatening situations, and would intervene in time to
spare their clients any penalties. They also oversaw bandaging care, equipment
maintenance, and any other needs that prefects deemed critical to their task.

She disconnected the quill pens, and draped the halos into plastic kits for
sterilization before their next use. She handed Don and Jeneen a couple of wet
towelettes to wash their hands. Wetting some sterile gauze with a pale green
solution from a large plastic bottle, she began daubing it onto the two girl's
injured breasts.

"Wound-Prep?" Jeneen asked the girl, referring to an expensive ointment marketed
by Kilo Corporation. It was especially good at doctoring up the impalement-type
of injuries that Kilo's devices created so efficiently. But it was also ideal
for nearly any type of cut, burn or abrasion.

"Yeah," the girl answered with an odd look in her eyes, "We've been going
through lots of it this week."

"Coolest medicine in town," Jeneen said as the girl continued her application.
"We buy it by the drum, even hose our wenches down with it at times."

Wound-Prep was a non-greasy liquid combining a patented germicidal wash with an
herbal healing salve. It stopped the bleeding almost immediately, then dried
quickly, invisibly forming an enzyme-layer bandage that promoted swift healing,
often without scars. It was sold in two formulations - one which anesthetized
the pain, and one which didn't.

Jeneen recognized the green-tinted fluid as the type which MPI rarely used. It
soothed battered nerve endings, and alleviated inflammation, transforming the
hurt into an almost blissfully warm tingle. The girl glanced tensely up at
Jeneen but remained swift in her purpose, as a faint odor of cloves filled the
air.

"Yes, it is good medicine," the prefect answered Jeneen coolly, "Not that it
will do much good for them later. But for now... it helps." Becky and Jocelyn
winced during the Wound-Care applications, before mellowing out in relief, and
smiling gratefully to the girl, their veritable Florence Nightingale.

While the prefect carried the trays away, Jeneen turned Becky gently and led her
toward the door. Don did the same with Jocelyn, and both woozy girls began their
slow shuffle to the horrors awaiting them aboard the truck.

It took another 20 minutes of brisk activity to get all of Bradshaw's wenches
secure inside the truck. When Don closed the rear door, 5 spotlit, tormented
faces were now displayed along the far wall of the truck, wenches whose bent
bodies heaved and gasped in agony from the awful clutches of their frames. Faint
sounds of kicking and muffled groans could also be heard from two new occupants
of the stretch-lockers. Becky and Jocelyn were fighting hard to adjust to their
new quarters, but it clearly wasn't going well.

"That's about got it for now, I think," Don said while shaking Bradshaw's hand,
"Thanks again for letting us buy your meats."

"Wouldn't let them go to anyone else," Mark responded cheerfully, "You're the
best. How about I save each of you a copy of the movie we're releasing soon, on
the punishment of those two runaways?"

"That sounds great!" said Don, surprised by the man's generosity.

When Don slowly drove the truck away from the curb, several bystanders stood as
closely as they could, almost hugging the glass side-panels of the truck. They
were admiring the sight of Lorraine's and Pamela's beautiful naked backsides,
now joined by the quivering nude spectacle Becky and Jocelyn offered as they
slow-hanged helplessly in their narrow cubicles.

"On to that customer's home now, right?" Don asked his partner.

"Yes, Sir," Jeneen answered, glancing at her log, "The Hillocks, at 1215 Liberty
Lane. Just make the block here until you get back to Douglas. Liberty is only a
half-mile further down Douglas."

"You sure know your way around this part of town, don't you?" Don smiled as he
eased the growling truck onto the narrow side street.

"I've been here in precinct 21 for almost two years," Jeneen said, "Ever since I
finished my training. So that kind of helps. You'll catch on to it pretty soon
too."

"I've been meaning to ask you," Don called over the rising clatter of the truck,
"How'd you ever end up working at MPI?"

"I'm trying to figure that one out myself," Jeneen laughed before turning
serious, "Actually it was a friend of mine, Dawn, who said I should interview
for the job, right after we both graduated. She said they were keen about hiring
hard-bodied girls like us. We were both on the drill team in high school, and
played basketball too. She was going down because her favorite aunt loved
working for MPI. Anyway, I took her dare and tried out too. The next thing I
knew I was hired and going through their 6-month program."

"Why such a long training?" Don asked her. "Is it like classes and stuff?"

"They call it training, but mainly it's a probation period," she said, "They're
teaching you the business all right, but at the same time they're checking to
see how you take to the grind and stress. They bump you through half a dozen
grunt-jobs at the plant, grading you out and never letting you know where you
stand. You're exposed to lots of suffering and gore, then given interviews and
reports to do. Eventually they know if you're focused and loyal enough to
perform under pressure. Finally they gave us an employee pin, a nice raise, and
an induction ceremony with a big barbeque bash. You're a full-fledged partner
after that."

"Was your friend hired on too?" Don asked.

"Yes, but she didn't make the team," Jeneen said, "When she worked as a scribe
down in the spitting room, she kept breaking down and crying. It can be very
emotional for scribes. They take down information from the wenches while the
spit-poles are slowly driven through them; they record any last words that come
along, before their mouths are filled with alloy tubing. Dawn still made it to
the party though, but as one of the spitted roasters."

"What?" Don stared incredulous, "You're joking, right?"

"Nope," Jeneen said, "You see, that's another one of our stressors. Female hires
who don't make it through the training donate their meat at the induction
banquet."

Don and Jeneen remained silent as the truck resumed it's way east on Douglas
Avenue.

***

"Mom, do you think she's OK?" Terri asked her mother, "It doesn't look like she
could bear having her tongue stretched out like that."

"Of course she's not OK," Mrs. Hillock said testily, straightening up to catch
her breath, "Nor will she be. Having one's body bound inside a tote-frame isn't
supposed to be easy for a girl. It's torture, and even so, it's just an inkling
of what Tonya will get later on. But she can bear it all right. She has to."

"I'm sorry, Mom," Terri murmured, "It's just... I've never seen anyone get put
into one of those things before, except on classroom films. It looks like pure
hell for her."

"I know it does, dear," her mother replied in a sudden flush of sympathy, "I've
never seen a framing up close, either. But I've seen it demonstrated many times
on vids, and the printed instructions we got made pretty good sense. Except for
all of her struggling, it wasn't too tough, was it?"

"I guess not," her daughter concurred, biting her lip, "For us anyway. Maybe
they should have warned us about all that yelling though. The neighbors probably
think there was an ax murder going on in here."

"Maybe so..." Mrs. Hillock said as she began washing her hands at the sink, "But
it's none of their business, and she's settling in well now. That drug the
instructions mentioned in the tongue disks must be in her bloodstream by now.
It's supposed to keep her from hyper-ventilating until the truck gets here."

Tonya had indeed stopped her screaming. Lying upon her side with steel bands
hitched around her balled-up body, and her tongue turnbuckled to her agonized
breasts, she could do little more than pant and drool, while pleading to her
sister and mother with wide-open eyes. How she wished she could go back in time
15 minutes to argue her case again. Just 15 minutes... before the shouting
began... before the chairs were kicked over and the dishes broken... as Sandra
and Terri battled with her, stripping her of her robe and pajamas. Before they
pulled her to the floor, twisting her arms painfully behind her, subduing her
first with the palm disks, and ultimately the tote-frame itself.

Sandra Hillock, a busty thirty-six year old brunette mother of two, had
announced the news to her eldest daughter as they finished their breakfast
together. The younger daughter had been privy to the news for two days.

"Three times Tonya," her mother began sadly at the table, "You were caught
giving your boyfriend a blowjob, once at his house, and twice more in your own
bedroom. Three times you were sternly warned."

Sandra went on to explain that the time for admonishments was over. After
careful deliberations, and talks with tough-love counselors, her family had
decided to have Tonya prepped for roasting. Tonya wasn't yet old enough for
voluntary meat status, but at eighteen she was eligible for compulsory
submission. She still lived in her parents home, so her immediate family could
invoke her at any time, provided they paid all of the preparation fees and
taxes.

Sandra held up her errant daughter's parental meat waiver, already signed at the
bottom by both parents. She pointed to the checkbox where they had selected
MPI's special number five for her. It was a very popular choice for feasts and
banquets, and discounted during the month of June. Tonya would be subjected to
ten days of highly inventive tortures at MPI Central, then delivered back on a
live-roasting spit for her family's party the following week.

"I'm sorry baby," her mother concluded, taking an empty tote-frame from a
closet, "But it's already been decided. Today is the day you board the truck ...
as a meat wench." That was when Tonya jumped up, hoping to bolt out the back
door, and pandemonium ensued...

"Mom, at school I heard that drug makes them lose track of time," Terri said,
gazing into her imprisoned sister's eyes, "Like they've been this way forever...
I wonder if that's a good thing, or a bad thing."

"Sounds like a bunch of nonsense," her mother commented, drying her hands at the
sink, "Now start picking up this mess. The truck will be coming for her soon.
When this room is straight I want you to finish getting dressed and ready for
school. I called and told them you won't be coming in until this afternoon."

***

Responding to the doorbell with every hair in place, Mrs. Hillock welcomed Don
and Jeneen into a tidy home. After introducing them to Terri, and explaining
that her husband was traveling on business, she led them to meet the daughter
she was submitting. They found Tonya shuddering in misery on the tile floor of
her kitchen, where complete order had now been restored.

"Mr. Bowden, I hope you don't mind, but I do have a little favor to ask," Sandra
said, "Excuse me for being so blunt, but... are you allowed to have any sex with
the wenches while you're on duty?"

"Well... yes," Don said, glancing at Jeneen and feeling far too much like a
tenderfoot, "There are some provisions for that as I understand it, Ma'am."

"Good," Sandra smiled warmly at both of them. "Because if there is time, I would
love for you to take Tonya's cherry here before you go. She is still a virgin,
and as a final gift to her, I want her to experience womanhood before she goes
away for processing. It should be very pleasant for you too, so if you agree,
all I ask is to be able to watch. Would that be acceptable to you?"

Don was speechless for a moment, and looked to Jeneen again. He had no idea what
to say, what was allowable, or considered right anymore. Jeneen glanced quickly
at the bulge growing noticeably under his smock, and leaned her face in closely
to his cheek.

"It's certainly been done...," Jeneen whispered into his ear, "Deflowering a
wench is a very rare privilege, and it's allowable under our break-time
arrangements, especially when a client has requested it. But even if it wasn't
allowed or requested, I would never tell, because I want very much to watch too.
It's strictly up to you, of course!" She leaned back and gave him her best
smile.

That was all Don needed to hear.

"Yes, Mrs. Hillock," Don quickly agreed, "I'd be very happy to handle this
little problem for you." Wasting no time, Don removed his smock and trousers and
knelt behind the beautiful girl, who had been tipped up into a kneeling position
by her mother and sister. Though crouched in the hated grasp of her tote-frame,
Tonya's sex organs were highly accessible via doggie position. Pressing into her
soft vaginal opening with his erect cock, Don felt the thin membrane of Tonya's
hymen tear away as he filled her pussy with his large tool. Sandra Hillock and
Jeneen both smiled and looked on, hearing Tonya's screams and enjoying the lust
of the moment. Terri watched as well, but in total amazement, as the illicit but
exciting activities unfolded.

Don steadied his sobbing victim by gripping the tote-frame handle located at the
middle of Tonya's back, just below her writhing fingers. After hammering his
cock violently into her tight love channel for several minutes, Don pulled his
swollen penis out of her cunt. Then, still slick with the juices and blood of
her vaginal rape, he rammed his cock straight up her asshole, taking her second
cherry with a whoop of enthusiasm.

Sandra and Terri began stroking Tonya's head during these added violations, as
Tonya yelped with pain.

"See there, darling?" Sandra said to Terri, "Your sister is being taught a very
good lesson today. This man isn't afraid to use her roughly either, and that's
just what little whores deserve. Just look at the power in the man's thrusts...
his cock is certainly much bigger than that boyfriend's dick I caught her
sucking on the other day..."

Both Sandra and Jeneen masturbated furiously under their dresses at the sight of
such relentless wench-fucking. Terri was toying with her clit too, overwhelmed
by the sex and violence she was witnessing for the first time, But she still
couldn't get her mind off of her sister's piercings. They captivated her.

"Momma?" Terri asked her mother, "Those piercings on Tonya's breasts and tongue
are getting knocked around pretty hard as he's fucking her. And she's squirming
around a whole lot too. Do you think they are hurting her very much?"

"Naturally, the piercings hurt," her mom said, working her fingers swiftly,
"Each one of those disks represents a place where her body has been impaled,
burned, and squashed. Some of those areas are even linked together to accentuate
her bondage. But you must remember she's just meat now dear, so it doesn't
really matter. All that counts now is that she gets her week of well deserved
punishments, and that she cooks up golden and delicious when they bring her
back. Now, honey, why not do like we are doing, and enjoy yourself!"

Terri nodded, thoughtfully stroking her sex and making a mental note never to
displease her mother.

"Aaahhh! Naughh... haunnggh!!" Tonya wept as Don continued his assault upon her
tight rectum. Her cries of protest went unnoticed. Especially by the three
female observers who, one after another, began climaxing repeatedly.

"I believe I'll be cumming off pretty soon too, Mrs. Hillock," Don grunted to
his hostess between strokes, "Will that be alright with you, Ma'am?"

"Certainly it will be, you horny young man!" Sandra beamed, "God, you've made me
so hot I am wanting some of you myself! But if you don't mind, when you are
ready to shoot, could you deposit your sperm in my other daughter's mouth here?
It's time Terri got her first taste of man-come."

Blinking in wide-eyed astonishment, Terri stopped masturbating and looked at her
mother.

Don smiled, and nodded his agreement. His mind was already reeling with
forbidden pleasures, but at Sandra's slightly incestuous suggestion, he felt his
testicles tighten with the urge to come. This would be his third virginal
intrusion in barely ten minutes. Naughty echoes of that thought were sending his
lusts into overload. With a wet slurping sound, he pulled his dick out of
Tonya's ass and pointed himself toward Terri's mouth, as the girl obediently
crouched to meet his hard member.

"Ooh, momma, he's all dirty from her ass!" Terri cried nervously when she got
near enough to see his cock was streaked with blood and fecal matter.

"Of course he is, silly," her mother scolded, "You know exactly where he's been.
Now get to it! You're to swallow all of his cream, and clean him up well."

With a slight moan of resignation Terri took hold of Don's tool, and clasped her
lips around his swollen cockhead. Don sighed, savoring the first touch of
Terri's lips. It always felt great when a girl's mouth embraced him straight
from another girl's smelly asshole. In some indefinable way, it delighted his
mind as much as her caress pleasured his skin. But it was clear that Terri was
grossed out and frightened. She didn't have a clue what to do next.

"Suck him hard," Sandra commanded her sternly, "and squeeze his balls ever so
gently... you'll get your prize soon."

Terri closed her eyes, trying her best to force the revulsion out of her mind.
She dutifully began to suck Don's knob, mimicking the slight rocking motions he
made with his hips. She squeezed her lips firmly, sliding up and down his shaft
fractionally at first, gradually taking in more and more of him. The slightly
metallic taste of her sister's blood , along with an odd flavor which she knew
could only be Tonya's shit, crept across Terri's tongue. Those things were
disgusting to her, but the strong scent of Don's drooling cock and the flavor of
his precome eventually overpowered the other sensations. His dick was huge,
smooth and hard in her mouth, and her saliva was everywhere. The more of his
cock she felt pistoning into her, the less anything else seemed to matter.

Soon Don became more aggressive in his movements, sawing himself in and out
through her tightly pursed lips. Terri felt a nasty thrill go right through her.
Her nipples were aching. She could feel liquid pooling in her panties. She had
never felt so excited in her life, but it scared her too.

"Momma," she called out, briefly working his erection with her hand instead of
her mouth "Something is wrong! My breasts are hurting! And my... my..."

"Everything is just fine, dear," Sandra said soothingly, reaching under her
daughter's blouse and bra to grasp the girl's nipples firmly, "Just keep sucking
on him. It means you are a natural born fellatrix, getting ready to come
whenever he does. Cocksucking talent runs in your family - my breasts ache like
hell whenever I suck a man off, and I am betting your sister's did too. Here,
I'll rub your boobs for you, that usually helps. And for god's sake open up your
eyes! It excites a man to have a slut look him straight in the eyes when her
mouth is packed full of his love muscle."

Terri obeyed Sandra's instructions to the letter, and was grateful to feel her
mom's fingers kneading her breasts and pulling on her nipples. Don was panting
faster now, as Terri's lips worked even harder, filling him with pure joy.
Terri's eyes lifted to meet his. She could feel his cock growing instantly
stiffer in her mouth, as if an electric current had been switched on. "Momma was
right," Terri thought, staring into Don's eyes and sucking noisily, "This is
wild. I can feel his balls quivering with delight... it has to be the most
intimate thing you can do with a man!"

It no longer annoyed Terri to be sucking on a dirty penis. She'd have been happy
cleaning a hundred dicks if it meant feeling this way. Her pussy was spasming
with an indefinable ecstasy that kept climbing in lock-step with his. Her
unblinking eyes burned, but she held them open anyway, fixed upon his, committed
to taking his cock as he probed deeper and deeper into her throat.

Suddenly Don began exhaling and groaning loudly, and she felt his loins
contract. Terri felt his balls ripple slightly as semen jetted into her throat.
Another large burst of a thick fluid coated her tongue, than another, and
another. Soon her mouth was full of his essence, and she swallowed hurriedly to
prepare for more. Don kept moaning and coming for a long time. Terri let some of
it spray her in the face so she could look at it and rub it around with her
fingers. She spent several more minutes absorbed in her cock-worship, devotedly
licking away all of the sperm she could find, until Don's dick was clean of
everything except her shining spit.

"Whew!!" Don gasped happily as Terri backed up and rose slowly to her feet,
"Thank you, Ma'am. I think your daughter just sucked up the biggest cum load
I've ever had! She took me all the way into her throat too... blew me so good,
it's hard to believe this was her first time ..."

"Yes I know, but trust me, it was," Sandra answered, handing Don a washcloth,
and proudly brushing wisps of hair away from her daughters face, "When it comes
to sex we Hillocks are very fast learners. Congratulations, Hon'! How did you
like gobbling his sperm?"

"Oh Mom, it was just like you said, it was glorious." Terri answered, greedily
licking up traces of semen and inhaling his scent from her fingers, "I came the
whole time he was cumming! I was afraid his juice would taste like pee or
something nasty, but it didn't. It tasted nice ... almost sweet... I would love
some more of it anytime. Can we do that again, and again?"

"That probably depends on him," her mother laughed, as Don grinned and finished
dressing, "But I got awfully excited watching you two just now. Perhaps if
another opportunity with Don came along, I would like him to try out my throat
instead."

"Oooh, sure, but then would I get to watch?" Terri giggled, drunk on newfound
pleasures, "And he could screw me in the butt right before, don't you think? It
looked sooo hot when he did that to Tonya..."

"I'm sorry dear," Sandra said, "but you'll have to wait a bit longer. You know
the laws as well as I do. Young ladies may suck cock at 16, take it up the ass
at 17, and get their pussies fucked at age 18. You'll be 17 in only three more
months, so maybe if Mr. Bowden would like to, he could come by later on and
invade your backdoor for you."

"Oh, please, mister," Terri implored Don, with no shame or misgivings, "If you
would just do that, it would be my best birthday present ever!"

"Uuhm, that's a pretty hard proposition to refuse, young lady," Don replied to
their enthusiastic young convert, before turning to exchange a wink with the
girl's mother, "Your mom and I should probably talk about that some more later.
We can figure out something I'm sure..."

"Mrs. Hillock, if you'll sign this form for us, we'll take Tonya in for the
specials you've requested," Jeneen said, pointing to a spot on the back of the
waiver form, "It's your authorization that we've picked her up in a timely
manner, and that you'll pay us in full when we bring her back."

"Yes indeed," said Sandra, smiling and working the pen quickly.

"As soon as we've packed Tonya into the truck, Sir," Jeneen said, "We'll be due
for a lunch break. Would you like to grab that complimentary bite they offered
us up at Doug's Deli?"

"Yes!" the happy driver exclaimed, "Doug's Deli sounds great, and I've acquired
one major appetite!"


END OF CHAPTER SEVEN
MPI

(c)  Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

MPI
(c)  Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved


Chapter Eight

4:42 PM:

Amid the beeps of his backup siren Don nudged his truck up to dock number 5 and
engaged the parking brake.

"Very well done, Sir!" Jeneen said unbuckling her belt, "Congratulations on your
first day at MPI."

"Thank you," Don smiled, rubbing his eyes for a moment before turning to his
assistant. "I certainly couldn't have done it without your help. So, what was
our final tally?"

Jeneen glanced at her computer notes and compared them to the manifest sheets in
her logbook, "Let's see... on dispatch, we came close to selling out, delivering
all 16 of our spits, and ten of our twelve roasters. Our two remaining roasters
still have 9 days of stasis time left, so they'll be fine for later delivery. On
arrivals we did very well too. We're returning with 22 wenches in tote-frames,
and 15 more in stretch-lockers. Good numbers for early June."

"I see," Don said as they climbed down to the pavement, "But we aren't near our
capacity are we?"

"Nearly sixty percent full," Jeneen replied, "Well above our average per truck
on mondays. Janice will be very pleased."

"How about that," Don grinned, "So the numbers get better during the week?"

"Sure do," she said as the two of them walked up the stairs to the truck dock,
"Deliveries stay level at about ninety percent. But non-holiday pickups range
from about thirty percent full on mondays to 90 percent on fridays. We are off
to a good start."

"Hi Tracy!" Jeneen called to the blonde woman collecting logbooks from two other
drivers.

"Well, how did it go for you two today?" Tracy said, twirling her ponytail to
exchange smiles with both of them. Tracy was a petite, fit-looking woman of 25,
clad in a blue rubber jumpsuit, black rubber boots and clear safety glasses.

"Great!" Jeneen responded handing Tracy their logbook, "Mr. Bowman here is a
natural. We hit nearly 60 percent on pickups."

"Not bad," Tracy smiled, looking over the logs, "And two away from a sellout I
see. Looks like you're our top producer for today. What do you think so far, Mr.
Bowman?"

"It's great," said Don, "I'm... uh, very impressed."

"Any special handling for the new wenches?" Tracy asked.

"Nope," Jeneen replied, "By the numbers mostly. One mother-daughter combo that
might be interesting to look into. And I'm thinking about putting a reserve on
one of the girls, named Pamela."

"Thinking again?" Tracy said, her blue eyes shining cheerfully from behind the
goggles, "Always thinking... maybe she'll be the one, eh?"

"Guess we'll see," Jeneen replied, "She's one of Mulholland's wenches though.
I'll need his say-so first."

"Put it down in your report," Tracy said sternly with a slight wink, before
turning to greet two other drivers who were approaching.

"We can complete our log entries in there if you like," Jeneen said to Don,
pointing to a glass-enclosed room near a corner wall, "Much quieter, and a
better view of things. Come on, I'll show you how we finish up our day."

The dock was teeming with activity as workers slammed open truck doors and
gunned their forklifts around. Climbing up five more steps, Jeneen walked Don
through a thick glass doorway that sealed most of the racket behind them. A
half-dozen drivers gave them friendly nods as the pair found an open table
between several vending machines and the observation glass.

"This com-port allows you to update daily reports in our business library,"
Jeneen explained, plugging a retractable cable into the back of the note pad. It
was one of four ports accessible from a central stalk on the table. "There's one
in your office too. Hard data and invoice information from our day is already
saved inside the mainframe. It's uploaded hourly from all the trucks. But each
day we take a few minutes to notate any extra thoughts or observations. How your
clients are doing, ideas for improving our methods, any special requests or
unusual wench situations. Those sorts of things."

"I see," said Don, watching Jeneen scroll through the chronicle of their day's
activities, "Like when the mother and daughter pair came aboard, was that
significant?"

"Very much so," Jeneen said, pausing at Lorraine's and Misty's entries. "It
helps our staff here to know those details." Jeneen quickly typed: Misty
distraught at losing mother Lorraine to employer's option, volunteered, hoping
to spend time with her. Talked her friend Gail into coming too. Neither had a
clue what they were getting into.

"The wench conditioning staff always likes to know what the girls have been
through recently," Jeneen said, scrolling through the entries till she got to
the part about Bradshaw's runaways. "It helps them to gauge how resilient new
girls are, and which buttons they can push." Jeneen noted that Becky and Jocelyn
had been dealt several days of breast torture and public humiliation prior to
pickup, and would need extra breast reconstruction.

"Do you want to mention the fact that Tonya was deflowered today?" she asked Don
with a smile, "They can use that knowledge to exploit her situation further."

"Sure," Don said, watching Jeneen type in the words: By mother's request both
Tonya's cherries taken by driver while in her tote frame and prior to loading.
Mother and younger sister had great fun watching.

"And what about that reserve business you mentioned to Tracy?"

"Oh, yeah," Jeneen said, backing up to that portion of the log, "I fancied
Pamela for a special project girl. She was so sweet, and I guess I teased her a
little bit about my doing that. But I would need to talk Mr. Mulholland into it,
and I'd rather not owe that man any favors. Jeneen typed in: Pamela tempted by
Jeneen's thoughts of reserving her. Very receptive to that idea. Unfortunately
it won't happen."

"Probably the smart thing to do." Don agreed, "Will our staff play up that idea
some?"

"Yes, they generally like to keep wenches' hopes alive," Jeneen said, "Even
subtle information like this is very valuable to them. Conditioners are known
for using everything at their disposal."

A few moments later they were done with their supplemental entries. Jeneen
unplugged the pad from its cable.

"All finished, Sir. I told you it would be easy!" she said cheerfully, handing
Don the computer tablet, "You can grab some coffee or snacks in here if you
like, explore around a little bit, or check out your office. Some drivers call
it a day right after their reports are done, and others like to stick around and
unwind a while. I'm sure this has been quite a day for you."

"Yes... quite a day," Don said, searching Jeneen's eyes. It was surprising how
much he desired her, even after purging his excess lusts upon the Hillock
daughters. He was wondering how improper it would be to ask Jeneen out for
dinner or something, his first day on the job and all.

"Um... OK, right," Jeneen said, picking up his signal and plucking at her hair
wisps again, "We'll be together each day in the truck for a while yet, so if you
have any other questions, you can always use my extension. I'm to go check in
with Janice now."

"This is a special card," Jeneen said softly, rising to leave and glancing
around at the other tables, "You can reach me at any time. Right?"

"Right," Don nodded and accepted Jeneen's business card which listed her work
extension along with her home number and computer's web-address. He smiled his
thanks to Jeneen and watched her leave the break area.

Don needed to see Janice soon also, but decided to take Jeneen's suggestion
first and kick back for a few minutes. He grabbed a cup of coffee and sat back
down to watch the goings-on in the dock area from his table. He noticed what an
advantage the tote-frames were at the plant. Strong men working the docks
offloaded two wenches at a time. Grasping them by the handles at the backs of
their steel-hogtied girls, workers placed the wenches on motorized conveyors
leading them through large double doorways. Just inside those doors medical
personnel looked the girls over quickly, and guided them down one of several
different conveyor paths.

Keeping a fast tempo, teams of workers at the far ends of those pathways stacked
girls neatly onto shelves and gondolas. Just like in the truck, fresh nose hooks
were reattached and breast rods resecured beneath them, all without any fighting
or struggling for handlers to deal with. Anuses were inspected, and any girls
who weren't wearing butt plugs were promptly equipped with large-sized models.
Their continuing tongue bondage spared handlers from any cursing or bargaining
attempts by the meat, so the work flowed smoothly amid the sounds of helpless
weeping and babbling.

"You're the new guy, right?" a man said behind him, "Name is Albert McCoy. I'm a
driver too."

"Don Bowden," he smiled, turning to accept McCoy's handshake, "Don't mind me,
I'm just a little dazed right now, trying to assimilate all of this."

"You'll be all right," Al sniffed, pulling up a chair to sit down, "My first
week or two felt just like that. That was nearly three years ago. I love working
here and I bet you will too. It never quits being interesting."

"Those people are grading the girls now, aren't they?" Don asked, pointing to
several pairs of men and women wearing white jackets and stethoscopes.

"Preliminary sorting, yes," said Al, "Based on their arrival condition and how
long we have to prep them. Specials number 5 through 15 give us ten to
forty-five days to work on them, so those girls are candidates for live-spitting
if they prove strong enough. Classifications one through four allow only three
to eight days before shipment. There's almost no way a girl can survive a
spit-poling in that short a time, so they're usually used for parts, roasts, or
extended work-studies.

"Work studies?" Don asked in puzzlement.

"Yes," Al replied, "Girls who come in with exceptional good looks and only
borderline heartiness can be given temporary work status here at the plant. We
still try to have them ready for prime roasting in three to six months and they
get regular therapy, which is expensive. So we use them for low-cost labor and
entertainment to help pay the freight. The prettier they are, the more visible
and um... accessible we try to make them. Work-study wenches sleep in special
dormitories upstairs.

Don thought of Janice's beautiful secretary Tera, and how it had surprised him
she was in fact a long term spit-roaster in the making. He wondered how long she
had been striving to please her cruel bosses in the plant, and how much time
remained before the inevitable outcome.

"They have to be owned meats of course," Al added, "not just a contract
prepping."

"Of course," said Don, looking over to see his girls being taken from the truck.

He watched Misty and Gail being dumped unceremoniously onto the conveyors.
Shocked, hopeless expressions flashed across their eyes. Eight of the women were
being marching away from their stretch lockers, including Misty's mom, Lorraine.
The ladies were lined up single file, standing tall and grimacing in anguish. A
worker had splashed wound-prep onto their breasts and affixed each woman's
nipples to the cunt-lips of the woman ahead of her, using strong copper clamps
and cables. One worker tugged the front woman of the queue along, using her
breast cables for a leash. The woman in back was prodded forward by a man
carrying a rod dispensing powerful electric shocks into her ass cheeks. Any
woman who tried to stoop or crouch down to ease her pain was jolted by the
device too, and its painful electricity conducted to nearby women through the
copper cables.

"Wow. They've almost got my truck emptied already."

"Yeah. They move fast down there," Al said, "Everyone here really knows their
jobs. In a few more minutes they'll have the spit rack platform hauled out of
there, the insides of your truck cleaned with high pressure hoses, and
everything ready for tomorrow's loading.

"We're very good at what we do," Al added, still staring at the spectacle,
"That's why MPI has the franchise for 14 states with several more pending. We
run processing in 9 other countries too. Most of our innovations have a way of
becoming industry standards in a year or two. I guess it's a compliment of the
way we do things..."

"Are you a history buff by any chance?" Don asked.

"Sure am," Al said, "I love reading history, especially from the last hundred
years."

"Me too," said Don, "I was just thinking how lucky we are to be living in this
time. And how unfortunate those poor women out there are."

"I think of that almost every day," Al said, "How different do you think the
world would be right now if our parents hadn't passed the UPL?"

The Uterine Protection Law, or UPL as people called it, was actually a
constitutional amendment ratified in 2288 which changed women's political status
forever. Among other things it finally put to rest the issue of women's control
over their own bodies. Americans had grown weary of the supreme court flipping
back and forth on that issue every 25 to 30 years. Whenever a political party
succeeded in repacking the high court with biased justices, the court reversed
its Roe vs Wade ruling, only to re-uphold it in a following court. The UP
amendment denied women their choices for good. Radiating from the worlds' legal
epicenter, this decision triggered other far-reaching events too -consequences
never dreamed of by moralistic proponents of the law.

"Things would be very different now, I think," Don said, "Once the state had
permanent control of wenches' reproductive organs, it was a simple matter for
men to regulate women's lives in all other ways. Prostitution, pornography and
general female enslavement weren't just mafia-run businesses anymore. They were
high-tech commodities, a basis for trade agreements, treaties and international
cooperation."

"That's right," Al echoed, "The new common ground, my teachers called it. It
didn't bother folks anymore where borders were drawn, or how their cultures and
religions differed. What mattered was that all of us mistreated our women in
interesting ways, and benefited from it. That was something we could always
agree on..."

Both men knew their history well. It started with the Serbians, kidnapping girls
throughout eastern Europe and trafficking their slaves to international buyers,
mostly through Israeli and central asian bordellos. Soon France, Russia,
Singapore, Brazil and South Africa got into the act, financing deals to buy and
sell their own female cargos, which could be used in any manner to please their
final owners, including rape, torture and cannibalism. America quietly engaged
in this commerce also, secretly routing female captives through clearing houses
in Puerto Rico and Hawaii. The U.S. government prospered in many ways before its
public was finally made aware, but by that time nearly all nations were openly
involved in the slave trade, and applauded the trend's latest vindication:
Israel and its Moslem adversaries had finally struck a permanent peace, based
mostly upon their common interests in mistreating women, and the booming economy
that they shared.

"It's a lucky world, isn't it?" Don asked, "No wars of any kind in thirty-five
years, and steadily increasing living standards all the way. What more could you
ask?

"Besides fresh nookie whenever we want it, you mean?" Al said with a grin,
"Well, you're working at MPI, buddy, so that much is a given."


***


After visiting with Al for a few more minutes, Don decided to take a look at his
new office.

He found it to be an average-looking room with a well-equipped desk graced by a
stack of MPI news briefs. There was the usual boring compliment of office
furniture and shelving, plus a surprisingly comfortable couch. A floor-length
window on a far wall reminded him of the one he had seen earlier in Janice's
office. Don slanted the vertical blinds open to discover the window was actually
a small patio doorway that opened out to a personal balcony overlooking a vast
factory floor.

Unlatching the door and pulling it open Don heard the clanking of distant
machinery and the faint cries of wenches being processed below. Stepping
outside, he saw scores of other offices with balconies just like his, arranged
on six levels around a huge open space. Years ago this area had been a
climate-controlled indoor park, with 7 acres of garden trails, swimming pools
and tennis courts for hotel visitors to enjoy year-round under the skylights
looming fifteen stories overhead.

Squinting his eyes downward, Don could see the floor level was criss-crossed
with MPI equipment and arrayed into dozens of elaborate processing stations.
Most of the large trees had been cleared away, but much of the plant life
remained. Grasses, flowers and shrubs formed natural borders between the
cemented work areas, adding a cheerful green tonic to a ship whose purposes had
darkened in the extreme.

Mounted on a post to Don's left was a telescopic viewer reminiscent of the
quaint devices found at tourist lookouts, only this one didn't require coins for
operation. Don looked through its twin eyepieces for a moment and discovered the
unit contained a high-powered digital binocular coordinated with a
voice-spectrum audio zoom. Using two small levers on its sides he could adjust
the viewer to lock in on sights and sounds with precise clarity from almost any
distance. Don picked out a group of girls that could barely be seen lined up
near a distant wall. Even with his 20/20 vision they were still no more than
tiny blobs to Don's naked eye.

"Woah..." Don breathed as he peered through the lenses, sliding himself into
startling closeness to a perfectly-focused live image.

The viewer brought Don's eyes close enough to count freckles on the nose of a
teary-eyed youngster almost 200 yards away. A white-jacketed female technician
was tattooing the girl's lips a bright cherry-red. Through small speakers
mounted inside the viewer Don heard the technician humming a soft melody, and
her victim moaning in pain.

Easing his field of view backwards and down, Don saw the girl was perched on a
pole-mounted saddle designed to impale her bowlegged thighs with a number of
vicious steel spurs. Her arms were bound behind her in some unknown way, and she
wore silvery ballet boots similar to the ones Tera had hobbled around in early
this morning. The poor girl quivered with sweaty exertion, in mortal terror of
relaxing her thighs into the fiendish saddle, which was free to rotate on the 
pole. She jammed her boot tips against the slippery platform beneath the saddle
In an effort to angle her legs away from the sharpened spurs, slipping every so
often and choking back a desperate sob.

"Be still, baby," the technician cood, firmly holding the girl's chin and
working the tattoo needle against her trembling lips, "and let me finish you
nicely, or I'll turn the electricity in your ass probe up to double what it is
now. You know, Theresa, I could always go paint the lips of those other three
wenches, and leave you here to fidget all night in your lipstick saddle."

Hearing that, Don moved his viewer over slightly. He saw that three other girls
were indeed arranged on saddles nearby, awaiting their tattoos. Facing the same
impossible assignment of keeping their toe-booted legs both rigid and flexed
beneath them, they too struggled to balance the strain in their feet and legs
with the mischief in their rectums and thighs. Like Theresa, they did their best
to remain stoic and become statues, but exhausted muscles betrayed them. Their
bodies swayed and rotated in a perpetual dance of pain.

Don backed away from the viewer, and blinked his eyes. "This thing was only
using half of its power," he thought, "A cool toy indeed."

Noticing that the other balconies seemed to have viewers like his, Don tilted
his unit up to examine one of them more closely. Zooming across the dizzying
expanse, Don could see a man in a business suit standing at his own viewer. He
was studying something of interest on the factory floor, while receiving a
blowjob from a slender girl crouched in front of him. She was dressed in a black
spandex unitard, silver bracelets and toe boots, exactly like the costume Tera
had worn. It appeared to be some kind of standard uniform for work-study girls.
She could have been Tera's twin, Don thought, except that this girl's hair was
light blond, and cut to a shorter length than Tera's brunette wedge.

"Ah-mmm, that's right," the man muttered in response to the girl's earnest
suckling noises, "Do me good, child, or it'll be twenty minutes more for you in
the hanging closet." His cute fellatrix responded with frightened moans and more
energetic sucking sounds.

"Looks like some heavy duty work-study over there," Don chuckled to himself,
pulling away from the eyepieces, "and a good perk for the professor too..."

Don strolled back into his office, which looked somehow cozier than it did
before. Then it struck him - did he have one too? Yes! There was the digital
control pad right next to a folding closet door. He had an autocloset as well.

"Things are starting to look better around here by the minute," thought Don.


***


"Yes," Janice said, responding to the knock on her office door, "Come in."

"I didn't see Tera at her desk," Don said, entering her office, "I was checking
back with you like you said."

"Yes, I'm glad you did!" Janice smiled up to him, "I'm sorry there was no one to
show you in. Tera's been recuperating downstairs, and all of the other office
girls are currently spoken for. Have a seat, Don. Jeneen was just in here to see
me, and she gave me some good news about your day together. Tell me what you
think about MPI."

"I'm thinking this is about the most incredible place I've ever seen," Don
sighed, settling himself into a chair, "It may take me a little time to get used
to it though."

"I understand completely," Janice said, "There's nothing else quite like this
business, or the services we provide. And it's a bit shocking at first, even for
the most seasoned sadists. But trust me, Don, after a few days everyone settles
in nicely. You'll see. Did you look at your office yet?"

"Yes," Don said with sudden pleasure, "The closet space is to die for, and that
view is very nice!"

"So you liked it! Good," Janice said, smiling radiantly, "I had hoped your first
day here would go favorably. I was even a little worried about you for some odd
reason. But then you two go out and bring in the top truck of the day. Piece of
cake, eh? And Jeneen tells me that even with all the usual first-day stresses,
you were able to unwind and... um, enjoy yourself a little bit?"

"Oh... yeah," Don answered feeling a little guilty about the sex he had before
lunchtime, "I had hoped that would be all right, my taking the woman up on her
offer."

"Of course it was all right," Janice assured him, "I encourage you to relax like
that whenever time and opportunities permit. Didn't Jeneen give you a green
light on it?"

"Sure," replied Don, "I just didn't want to step out of line here by indulging
myself too much."

"Not a chance," Janice said, "What a gentleman you are, Don! Jeneen tells me you
haven't facefucked any of your wenches in the truck yet. And you must be getting
an urge to do that too. So don't worry about it - you have my permission to
screw their mouths as often as you want to. Hell, most of our drivers need four
or five birdies a day just to keep their wits about them. Remember I told you we
liked our managers to be rested and refreshed? Well that goes double for our top
producers. By the way, here's your bonus check for taking the Monday Cup."

Janice handed Don a check that was equal to nearly a month's wages at Champion
Mills. Stunned, he stared at it for a moment before glancing up, looking for
words to thank his generous boss.

"First of many, I have no doubt," she said, shuffling some papers and moving to
the next order of business.

"I've assembled all of the paperwork for you." she said, handing Don a stack of
documents. "The usual tax forms, non-disclosure agreements, disclaimers and
such. I took the liberty of including a promise of promoting you at least once
each year during your first three years in good standing with us, though I
suspect you'll move up more quickly than that. I also put you down for executive
in-house privileges and full medical coverage at no cost, instead of the co-pay
plan we normally offer.

"Wow, that's great," he said. Looking over the contracts, Don noticed his
monthly salary was bumped up higher than he'd originally been promised.

"Janice, I'm overwhelmed," Don said to her, "Everything you have done for me so
far has been above and beyond the call. You're exceeding my expectations in
every way."

"You'll find that's exactly what we like to do here," Janice said sweetly, "It's
MPI's secret weapon, actually. Besides, you're worth it!"

"Well, I'm certainly sold on this place!" Don said, shaking his head and signing
his name hurriedly on nine different documents.

"Thank you," Janice said, taking his completed forms and placing them neatly
into his folder. "Your copies will be e-mailed to you later this evening."

"Now, here are your keys to the main doors, and to your office. And here is your
executive security badge. Take very good care of it. Any time you eat in the
commissary, or want a room to stay in upstairs, or require the complimentary
services of one of our work-study girls, just present your badge and everything
will be taken care of. By the way, here is that video of Tera I promised you.
Her autobooth time was delightful. I find it sometimes helps to unwind from a
long difficult day by remembering how someone else's time on the noose seemed
infinitely longer."

"What a fantastic company to work for," Don thought as Janice walked him to her
door with warm pleasantries, "This place seems almost too good to be true."

After leaving Janice's office Don decided to try out his new security badge and
get a room upstairs. It would do him some good, he thought, to relax for a
couple of hours before driving back to the apartment.

The man at the attendant's desk was very courteous. After scanning his badge, he
asked Don if a suite on the 25th floor of tower number one would be
satisfactory, and whether Don would like a girl sent up to him shortly.

"Yes... and yes," Don smiled his response.

"Any preference on the kind of girl you'll be needing, Sir?" the man asked him,
"We have types C through L available."

"I haven't studied their classifications yet," Don admitted, "I'm kinda new
here. How about you just pick one out and surprise me. Would that be OK?"

"Certainly, Sir," the man said, "We do that all the time. Your girl will be
chosen at random by our computer. She will arrive at your room within 20
minutes. You have suite number 2519. Just use your badge as the key. It's coded
to give you full access to that room for the next two days. Enjoy your stay,
Sir."


***


Flipping on the light in his room, Don was pleased to find a classy-looking
suite with a king-sized bed and a large sunken Jacuzzi. He pulled the curtains
aside to reveal an impressive view of the other two MPI towers and the downtown
skyline. The skies were clear blue now, and there would be a beautiful sunset
soon.

At the table Don saw a bottle of champagne chilling in ice next to a basket
filled with fruits and snacks.

"That's right," he thought, loosening his tie and hearing a soft knock at the
door, "It's time to toast the end of an awesome day, and the beginning of a new
career."



END OF CHAPTER EIGHT
MPI

(c)  Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved

Notice: the following story is meant for mature, slightly twisted adult readers
only. It contains imaginary depictions of graphic violence and depravity as well
as sociological and political viewpoints that are patently impossible,
nonexistent and absurd. Anyone reading this needs to understand that all these
ideas are meant strictly for fictional storytelling and for the idle amusement
of curious readers and fans of bizarre fiction.

This story is not meant to contain representations of any actual persons or
institutions, living or dead, nor is it meant to convey or condone the idea of
violence or sexual activities by, with, to, or between anyone under the legal
age of consent. Having said that, if you have no desire to read an outrageous
imaginary story, what exactly are you still doing here? You've been warned.

This story is about a slightly different world from that of High Heeled Hell.
There are similar elements of capitalism gone mad, and pervasive misogyny, but
history has been skewed toward state-sanctioned gynophagia. If anything, life
for the average female is even more difficult than in Miss Juniper's world...

It is named: MPI

___________________

MPI
(c)  Aiken, 2004, All rights reserved

Chapter Nine

6:18 PM:

An elegantly dressed woman stood in the hallway as Don opened the door. "Hi, I'm
Sarah," she said, "I'm here for Mr. Bowden."

"Yes," Don said, pulling the door open wider, "That's me. come in."

"Thank you," she replied, entering the short entrance hall of his guest room. A
petite lady with a profusion of red curls, Sarah wore an evening dress and tall
pumps in a matching white satin brocade, trimmed in green. She wore no jewelry,
but her eyes and face were articulated with dramatic evening makeup. She turned
around slowly before looking up at Don with large green eyes. Her pale skin
contrasted vividly with her darkly painted toffee-colored lips.

"I'm here for you then, Sir," she smiled, "Is my appearance satisfactory to
you?"

"You look great," he said, realizing he had no idea what to expect, "Call me Don
though."

"I'm not supposed to do that, Sir," Sarah answered, smiling in appreciation of
his compliment, "It's part of my training."

"Well, sit down then," Don said, waving her to a chair, "Would you like some
champagne?"

"Why am I so damn nervous," Don thought as he fumbled around for the bottle
opener.

"Please Sir," Sarah said, placing her hands over his, "Allow me to do it. My job
is to entertain you. Not the other way around."

"OK," said Don with a chuckle, "Sounds pretty logical..."

Sarah gracefully arranged two wine glasses on a serving tray and began twisting
a corkscrew into the bottle. Don felt himself relax as he watched her perform
this ritual with a practiced sense of ease.

A moment later, with bubbles tickling both their noses, Sarah seated herself
demurely on a corner of the bed a short distance from where Don stood. "Would
you like us to go out for dinner soon, Sir?" she asked, "Or would you prefer us
to have sex here first?"

"Well, uh, let's just talk for awhile," Don said abruptly, doing his best not to
choke on his champagne or her forwardness, "This stuff is pretty new to me."

"I understand, Sir," Sarah said, "My supervisor told me you were a new driver.
That you might be a little tense."

"There's an understatement," Don smiled after another sip, "This was my first
day for a great many things. I haven't heard of half the stuff MPI does to their
wenches, or work-study girls either. To tell the truth I didn't even know girls
like you existed until a few hours ago."

"We're an executive perk, so you must be entitled to it," she said admiringly,
"You look like a man who knows how to enjoy himself."

"Oh I am," he said, "What kind of person are you, Sarah? Tell me something about
yourself."

"Not much to say," Sarah answered glancing away for a moment, "I'm a work-study
wench in preparation for a TBA live-spitting assignment. I'm 23, grew up in
Phoenix. I was working as a hair stylist in Cincinnati when my number came up. I
was a governors' pick. That gave me 72 hours to report in with my tote-frame
signal. I lived alone. The thought of doing it myself terrified me, so some
girlfriends at work framed me up as gently as they could."

Don was impressed by her degree of honesty. "That must've been difficult," he
said.

"Yes it was," she said, "The fear was the worst part though. One of my friends
did some research. She gave me a medicated enema to settle my stomach, and a
concoction to drink that tasted like a whisky sour. It relaxed me so good I was
almost happy to climb into the tote-frame. But when the bands went tight around
me it was pure hell. My boobs and tongue felt like someone had sliced them off.
When the meds kicked in through my tongue disks everything went kinda fuzzy. I
remember bouncing around in a loud truck for what seemed like days, strapped
down by my tits. I already felt like a stupid slab of meat. Some MPI guys told
me I was going to make a tasty little roaster. For some reason I thought that
was funny and started laughing. I was kinda losing my mind by then, but they
seemed to like me just fine that way. I got my mouth screwed a lot the next
three days while I was in that frame.

I played the part for them I guess, like I loved everything they did to me. And
in a way I really did enjoy them, because anything they did to me with their
cocks took my mind off of my bondage. Pretty soon the guys started calling me
their hottie and bringing friends over. Someone told me my meal plan had been
pulled for a work-study hitch. No one asked me if I wanted that, but I didn't
care as long as they kept having sex with me. The week after that they
transferred me to Cleveland. They said they needed more 'G' -girls here at the
hotel. That was about a month ago."

"G"-girls?" Don echoed.

Sarah smiled up at Don, dislodging herself from the traumatic memories, "You
really are new. 'G' stand for general accompaniment. We usually arrive in
evening dresses and escort clients to dinners and other social functions. We
accommodate all types of sex and torture too."

"Like auto closets for instance?" Don asked mischievously.

"Definitely auto closets," she replied, "There's one right over there in fact.
Would you like me to use it now, Mr. Bowden?"

"No," Don said, "At least not yet. I was just wondering..."

"Wondering how we do it?" she asked, "How do we handle all of this?"

"That's right," Don replied smiling, "Guess it's a pretty common question."

"Actually, no, but I saw it in your eyes. You're a very curious man, Mr. Bowden.
Not many men fret over what we girls are thinking about. They prefer to see the
actual suffering instead."

"It intrigues me," Don said, "I grew up around gynophagia, so I'm not easily
shocked. But MPI has taken the enslavement-of-meat thing to a whole new level.
Take the work-study arrangement for example. It sounds great for us guys. And it
even looks like a reprieve for you girls too. But it can't be a very easy one."

"No, it's really not," she agreed, "Then again nothing about being meat is easy.
The tote-frame teaches us that. Some of us are better suited than others. We're
fortunate in a way, staying alive for a bit longer and enjoying limited amounts
of freedom. Our jobs afford us frequent orgasms, and there is some glamour too.
It's not too bad, considering the alternatives."

"Do you know what your schedule is now?" Don asked, "I mean, is the chef coming
to nab you soon?"

"The wild-eyed cook?" laughed Sarah, "With cleaver in hand?"

"I'm still somewhere on his menu, all right." she continued, eyes shining, "They
tell us three to six months is the norm for 'G-girls,' but I know several who've
been around for a year or more. It's not always the ones who've been here the
longest that get cooked. Every week or two a few girls are told to go to the
spitting room without any warning. Then they march them out, and some
replacements march in."

"What about being promoted or something?" Don suggested as he finished his
drink, "Is there any hope of working your way up somehow and getting out of
there?"

"I'm really not sure," Sarah replied thoughtfully, "I kind of doubt it. Two of
our supervisors started out as meat wenches themselves. But as far as I know,
nobody's ever had their meat status changed. We try not to worry about that.
They tell us to focus on being the best work-study girls we can be, and that's
what we do."

"I see," Don said, placing his empty glass on the tray, "Still, it amazes me.
There you sit perfectly composed, a beautiful woman in the middle of all this
uncertainty."

Sarah stood up, sat her glass down next to Don's and put her arms gently around
his waist.

"Mustn't get too poetic on an empty stomach, Sir," she said, smiling playfully,
"Tell you what. why don't we go upstairs and have dinner? Afterwards, if you're
still consumed with curiosity, I'll give you a tour of MPI below-decks. That
will answer a lot of your questions."

"What if I'm burning up with lust instead?" he asked, bringing his mouth close
to hers.

"Well... we'll have to come back here and put your fires out," she whispered,
"...Sir." Then she gave him a light kiss.

***

Up on the 45th floor Don and Sarah enjoyed a delicious candle-lit meal at MPI's
exclusive Loft Restaurant. They laughed and joked their way through their salad,
soup and steaks, and washed it down with Chardonnay.

As they stood waiting for an elevator, Don drew one arm around her narrow waist
and submerged himself in Sarah's smiling lips for a long buttery kiss.

"Couldn't resist," Don said proudly as they came up for air, "I've been wanting
to do that since I first saw your face."

"Yes, I could tell," she smiled, opening up her compact mirror, "You rogue, look
what you've done. I'll have to re-gloss now."

The elevator doors opened with a hiss. The two stepped inside as Sarah pouted
into her mirror, stroking a rich rum-colored stain across her lips with a small
wand, darkening them even more than before. After she was satisfied with the
color and shine, she dropped the cosmetic case and lipstick back into her purse.
"Are you up for a quick tour, Mr. Bowden, or would you like us to go back to
your room now?"

"Let's walk around first and have a look at things," he said. "I can't think of
anyone more qualified to show me the sights."

"Thank you, Sir," Sarah smiled and pressed the button marked B-5 on the
elevator's keypad. A small computer display above the pad flashed, requesting an
authorization code. "Access code required for all lower levels," she said,
quickly entering an eight digit number, "In case you don't know yours yet we'll
just use mine."

A moment later their high-speed descent slowed and the elevator doors opened
with a warning chime. "Sub-level five, main processing." a computer voice
intoned, "MPI personnel badges or guest badges required by federal law."

Exiting the elevator slightly behind Sarah, Don saw they were in a spacious
foyer covered in gleaming beige marble that led directly into two hallways, one
hallway to the left and one directly ahead. Fifty feet to their right the foyer
opened out into the cavernous atrium area Don had seen earlier from his office
balcony. Plants and ferns were arranged everywhere. Soft music emanated from
hidden speaker systems.

Sarah pointed to signs mounted above the two hallway entrances, listing the
departments in each direction. "There are lots of specialized work areas down
these halls," she explained, "The left hallway, B South, has our stasis labs,
body mods and rehab clinics, along with some of our staff training centers. Down
this central hallway, B West, are more surgical suites, research facilities,
nutrition labs, and our famous spitting rooms."

"Is your work-study department down here too?" Don asked.

"Yes it is," she said, "Our staff reports to an area just past the nutrition
labs, but I'm not allowed to take you there. How about I show you the
body-modification works? That's always interesting."

"I'm game," said Don, still feeling pleasantly tipsy.

Sarah captured his arm fondly, and they strolled down the southern hall, past
several doorways. They saw a number of white-jacketed technicians along the way.
Nearly all the techs were escorting naked girls whose hands were firmly secured
behind their backs. Most of the girls hobbled along on steel toeboots, jerking
in pain with each step. But some were barefoot, and still others rode naked in
wheelchairs and atop hospital gurneys.

"Where are they taking all the girls?" Don whispered conspiratorially into
Sarah's left ear.

"Lots of places." Sarah answered in wide-eyed mock-suspicion, "Some are coming
in for repairs or checkups. Most are being prepped in one way or another, either
for stasis-packing or for the spit. You can usually tell; if naked wenches'
breasts and bodies look extra nice, with lovely tanned skin and sparkling makeup
on their faces, it means they're about to be shipped, either on alloy tubing, or
shrinkwrapped inside steel enclosures.

"That's funny. I thought wenches stayed in their tote-frames all the time around
here," Don said.

"Not quite," Sarah said, "The public perception is that wenches remain in those
god-awful frames till the bitter end, and MPI promotes that idea because it's a
valuable conditioning tool. As dehumanizing as it is to be framed, believing
that you will never be released from it has an even greater impact on our minds.
In truth they only keep a girl fully framed for one to four days, basically
until her cooking assignment arrives."

"Framed girls are kept in large rooms on B-North at the opposite end of the main
floor," Sarah continued, gesturing back toward the atrium area, "There are about
two thousand framed wenches at MPI at any given moment. Depending on which plan
she's assigned to, a girl's experience and handling will vary a lot. But one
thing is for certain: when she kisses her tote-frame goodbye, it's only to face
more difficult things."

"I may have seen one of those things earlier from my office window," said Don,
"Some girls out there on the floor were getting their lips tattooed. They didn't
seem to be having much fun either."

"Ah yes, the lipstick saddles," Sarah said brightly, hugging his arm like a
debutante, "I remember it well. It's one of the first things they do to us after
repairing our breasts and putting those infernal toe-boots on us. They rivet the
darned things on, you know. Aren't you glad I told you that, Mr. Bowden? The
boots are a permanent bondage all by themselves. A girl can't exactly run away
wearing those things, now can she?

"No, I guess not," Don answered feeling his cock grow stiffer, "MPI thinks of
everything don't they my dear?"

"Did you enjoy watching the booted ladies having their lips done, Sir?" she
asked coyly.

"Actually yeah, it was pretty hot," Don confessed with a smile. He was enjoying
her silly way of carrying on. "In my viewer-scope, I could hear the technician
lady talking to them. She was pretty cruel about it, making threats, going
non-stop if you know what I mean."

"I sure do know," Sarah said, "Believe me, you're not the only one who
appreciates those things. The lipstick ladies are one of our most popular stops
during guided tours. And not just because people like watching women have their
makeup applied. Once each day there's a surprise live-spitting down there and
all hell breaks loose."

"Really!" Don exclaimed, "It just gets better and better doesn't it?"

"Yes," Sarah said, "A wench will be impaled right while she's sitting there on
her saddle. And you never know who it'll be, or when. A spit pole will just rise
up through her saddle without warning, twirling into her pussy. It's narrower
than our usual spits. It rotates up through her body like a snake until it
finally passes out of her mouth. That takes about twenty minutes from start to
finish."

"Must be quite a show," said Don, "What happens then?"

"Well, the girl never lasts long," Sarah answered, "After all, she hasn't had
her corolla grafts done yet, and her airway hasn't been optimized. She'll
strangle and bleed out pretty quickly when the spit pierces her diaphragm and
lungs. When it's over they mop her down, answer questions and take her to the
commissary for roasting."

"Amazing," Don said.

"It's always a big event," Sarah said, "You can tell when a saddle-spitting
starts up because the whoops and screams of the guests can be heard all over the
main floor. Of course, the unlucky rider and the wenches sitting nearby do some
of the loudest yelling too. It gets pretty wild."

"You kind of lost me with the airway and grafts stuff," said Don, "What's that
all about?"

"Good of you to ask, Sir!" Sarah said proudly as they walked through the large
double-doorways marked Body-Mods. "Because this is exactly where they do those
kinds of things."

The two had entered a lobby area of a large surgical suite adjoined by recovery
rooms and examination rooms. Five naked women were waiting in sturdy chairs
along the right-hand wall. Each girl's hands were tied behind her back like the
wenches Don had seen in the hallway. These women were tethered to their chairs
by simple steel cable loops connected by hinges to their chair-backs and draped
freely around their necks. Barely as big as the diameter of their heads, the
stiff hoops were nevertheless impossible to lift off without assistance.

The women also wore red ballgags, huge rubber plugs wedged deeply in their
mouths and held fast with wide plastic cable ties stuck through the centers of
the balls and encircling the napes of their necks. They were the largest most
uncomfortable-looking gags Don had ever laid eyes on.

"These gags are enormous," he said in wonderment as Sarah slowly released his
arm. The expressions on the women's faces stopped the two giddy travelers in
their tracks. The cheek muscles of all five women rippled in continuous spasms
of pain, and tears flowed steadily from eyes tormented into constant squints by
the cruel pressure of the gags.

"It conditions their jaws for the spit," Sarah said almost sympathetically,
walking closer to the girls, "And yes, it really does hurt. They're given
injections to relax and lengthen the jaw muscles, but that doesn't help their
facial muscles at all, or their mouths and necks for that matter. Wenches
usually get to wear these things for three or four days while they're recovering
from their corolla and airway surgeries."

"It looks tough," said Don. "Compared to this, a two-inch spit pole would almost
be relaxing."

"See these little incisions down here?" Sarah asked, running her fingertips
lightly across one of the girls' lower tummies, "Amazing isn't it... In just a
couple of days they're almost fully healed. The corolla surgery is one of MPI's
best-kept secrets. They install several inches of tubing linking the uterus and
the stomach together. The tube is cloned from the wench's own body tissues. Thin
membranes are grafted in place to seal up the tubes at each end. That prevents
any fluids from going places they shouldn't, until it's time for the spit pole
to break through the membranes. This way a spit can travel through her body
without tearing abdominal tissues, or damaging her lungs"

"God that's brilliant," Don said running his hand over one of the faint scars,
"... then from the stomach the spit goes right to her mouth without rupturing a
girl's diaphragm or esophagus... so that's how MPI does it."

"A small part of the formula, yes," Sarah concurred, reaching for one of the
girl's wrists and looking at the narrow info-band encircling it, "It appears
these girls are due for spitting in three more days. They're probably here to
get their breasts plumped up and their airways done. Tomorrow or the next day
they'll have their tans and final makeup tattooings applied."

"How does that airway business work?" Don asked.

"You're familiar with a standard tracheotomy procedure, right?" asked Sarah.

"I think so," said Don, "isn't that where they cut a hole in the lower throat to
rescue choking victims?"

"That's right," said Sarah, "Our incision is larger but the method is similar to
that procedure, only without the emergency. The additional airway is created
along with a small removable plug that looks cosmetically perfect. Spitted
wenches get ample amounts of air to breathe already by oxygen infusion through
their spits, but they may panic anyway and asphyxiate. If that starts to happen
the plug can be pulled out. Then whatever other problems the girl is having,
breathing shouldn't be one of them.

"I wonder how they cope," Don said, reaching out to touch one of the girls'
quivering cheeks, "There's no way to ask them now is there? Maybe this all seems
like a crazy kind of dream to them."

"Crazy yes, but no dream," Sarah replied, "Generally those drugs they give us in
the tote-frame are tapered off by the time we're released. So these women are
feeling the full force of things. Pain is a constant for them. As I understand
it, their suffering is useful, it actually prepares them for the agony of being
cooked alive."

"And you say they'll be ready to go in just a few more days?" Don asked.

"Most likely, Sir," Sarah said, studying him closely, "A girl can be safely
spitted as quickly as 24 hours from her corolla surgery. But she'll last hours
longer if she's had two or three more days to recuperate. Optimum live-roasting
times for most girls are reached after about a week."

"If you want to ask a girl how it feels," Sarah added, "You can always ask me.
My corolla and airway were done during my first week as a meat wench. Once
installed, they remain in place indefinitely, or until needed."

Sarah motioned Don back to the hallway, seizing his arm again as they exited
through the double doors. The two of them walked back toward the elevator foyer.

"Ok, here goes," began Don, "Does it ever excite you sexually that you've become
a meat wench now?"

Sarah paused a long moment before answering.

"Yes it does," she said finally, taking a deep sigh in the refuge of Don's arm,
"Sometimes anyway. It makes no sense really. Lots of times I'm angry and
resentful about my situation too. But whenever I'm making love or masturbating,
if I think about being meat I'll just start coming like wild. The thought of it
alone does that to me. Pretty nuts huh?"

"Hmm, that's interesting," Don said, "Do you think it's because of your MPI
conditioning? Or is it the way you're wired?"

"Very good question, Sir," she replied thoughtfully, "A little bit of both I
guess. I know being around horny men who adore the sight of suffering wenches
has a way of getting to me. And all those drugged screwings I got my first days
in the frame must have helped too. But a girl gets certain feelings when she's
owned, and when her fate is sealed like that. Maybe it goes back to our
submissive genes or pheromones or something. Who knows ... but I can be around
other trapped wenches and it sort of rubs off, the sexuality of it hits me like
a heat burst. For instance, right now I'm tingling all over like mad. "

"Same here," said Don, "Good to know it isn't just me."

"No, it isn't," Sarah agreed before brightening again, "Are you ready to inspect
the spitting rooms now, Mr. Bowden, or can your lust-o-meter hold out that
long?"

"Sure, let's go to the spitting rooms," he said, "I think my meter can manage.
Just barely."

END OF CHAPTER NINE
MPI
(c)  Aiken, 2004, All rights reserved

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