Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 LEGAL DISCLAIMER

   All characters, places and events in this story are fictitious.  Any
similarity to real people either living or dead is purely coincidental.  It
is also important to be aware it is not the author's intention to promote
or condone any activities that would be considered illegal in many parts of
the world.  It should further be noted it is not the author's intention to
provide factual information related to any `alternative sexual lifestyle'
nor educational resources for safe sexual practices.

   The story is intended to entertain open-minded adults and you are
encouraged to read this story with your partner.  No guarantees or
warranties are offered if this story fails to meet your expectations.  All
comments and other feedback is welcome and should be addressed to
slave802120@gmail.com with the subject header `Eastlake'.

   COPYRIGHT NOTICE

   All words and images used to illustrate this story are (C)2005 Ingrid
Hawthorne.  They may be downloaded for private viewing but may not be
reproduced or redistributed in any form without the expressed written
permission of the Copyright owner.

   ==================================================

   Case #802120 - Part 7 - Enslaved

   ==================================================

   The bang of the gavel was like a starter's pistol that sent the small
crowd of people who watched my trial from the gallery scurrying for the
exit.  My husband reached over the low barricade that separated the gallery
from the court floor and put his hand on my shoulder.  He squeezed as he
repeated his reassurances that he would do whatever he could to have me
released as soon as possible.

   "It's going to be OK," he said, over and over.  "Hang in there!"

   A bailiff moved in to escort him from the gallery.  My attorney,
continuing the support from my husband, said he'd also help as he continued
putting away his notes.

   Two uniformed officers from the Public Slave Office then appeared with
the now familiar shackles and secured manacles around my wrists and ankles.
I was shuffled out of the side door of the courtroom and then along a
corridor before being taken in an elevator to the basement car park.  The
black Ford Econoline van that had transported me to court sat parked a
short distance from the elevator, ready to return me to the Slave Tank. 
When the back doors of the van were opened I looked inside and noticed it
wasn't the same van.  This one had no seats at all in the back.  In fact,
there was nothing at all in the cargo area except for a small cardboard
box.

   One of the officers unlocked and removed my shackles while the other
watched and warned me not to try and escape.  Once the shackles were off, I
was told to strip.  My clothes along with my shoes were then stuffed into
the box and one of the officers took it somewhere while the other ordered
me to climb into the back of the van.  I crawled into the corner up near
the wire mesh grill that separated the cargo area from the front seats.  I
sat on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chin and hugged my shins
while I waited for the officer to close the doors.  He was looking off
somewhere, possibly for his partner, and didn't seem in any hurry to lock
me in the van.  A few minutes passed and, while I wasn't in any hurry to
return to the Slave Tank, the waiting made me restless.

   A few more minutes passed before I heard the echoed footsteps of the
other officer returning to the van.

   "What's the hold up?" the officer standing at the back of the van asked.

   "The press want to get a few photos of this one," a voice outside the
van replied.

   "Did Travis OK it?"

   "Yes.  The Press said they want him in the photos too.  We're just
waiting for him to get changed."

   "Are they doing it in the press room?"

   "No.  It's a nice day outside.  I said we'll meet them behind the
courthouse."

   "Looks like we're going for a walk," the officer said to me.  "Out you
get."

   I crawled out of my corner to the back of the van and climbed out. 
After sitting naked for so long in the relative warmth of the van, I felt
chilled when I stood barefoot on the cold concrete floor.  My hands briskly
rubbed some warmth back into my arms before my wrists were locked behind my
back again.  The officer was going to shackle my ankles again, but the
other told him not to bother.  He seemed in a bit of a hurry now, and the
two of them escorted me through the car park and up a ramp that led to an
enclosed private car park at the back of the courthouse.

   The early afternoon sunlight made me squint, but my eyes quickly
adjusted and I could see a small crowd of people standing around what
appeared to be a pillory mounted on a wooden dais in the middle of the car
park.  The group, nearly all with cameras, suddenly became animated with
one of them noticed the officers and me walking up the ramp and, as I
approached them, I could hear a cacophony camera shutter noises.  I kept my
head down and stared at the ground in front of me.  I could hear questions
being called to me, but I was far too embarrassed to look up and answer any
of them.

   The officers' hands kept holding my upper arms until we were standing on
the dais.  One gently pushed me forward while the other lifted the
crossbeam of the stocks.  A hand on the back of my head then leaned me
forward and guided my neck into a half-moon hole in the center of the lower
part of the crossbeam.  When the top beam was gently lowered into position
again and locked, the handcuffs were removed and my wrists strapped with
wide leather cuffs to each end of the crossbeam that held my head.

   I tentatively turned my head from side to side and felt comfortable that
my neck had plenty of room to move, but my head was well and truly stuck.
My wrists too were securely attached and I was effectively trapped with a
small sea of cameras and grinning faces staring up at me.  Among the faces
I noticed my boss, Nelson.  A strange smile flashed across his face when he
saw that I had seen him.  I immediately averted my eyes and pretended I
hadn't, but each time I looked anywhere near his direction, I could see
him. Staring.  Ogling me in the same hungry way as everybody else.  In
fact, I could almost read his thoughts and began to imagine that he had
deliberately ruined my case just so he could enjoy the spectacle of my
humiliated like this.

   The officers behind me grabbed hold of my ankles and I was forced to
spread my legs widely.  There were two more leather cuffs attached to
chains bolted to the deck of the dais that held my legs stretched obscenely
apart.  I immediately squirmed and wriggled onto my toes as far as the
chains would allow when I felt fingers discreetly teasing my vulnerable
pussy.  I couldn't see either of the officers, but I could just make out
the sounds of their quiet laughter as each took turns to finger me.

   I could feel my face redden, but I tried to remain composed.  Nelson and
a couple of other onlookers with cameras began to make their way around to
the back of the dais.  The officers then stopped fingering me, but they had
already teased me enough that I knew my pussy would be clearly moistened
and exposed to anybody who cared to look.  They stepped down from the dais
and after a short while, Judge Travis T.  Walters made his way across the
car park and joined me on the dais.  The people who had wandered to the
back of the dais returned to the front to listen to the judge make a
speech.

   "As you all know, there has been a lot of controversy in recent years
about our enslavement program here in Eastlake County," he began in a loud,
serious voice.  "Many of you in the press have been critical of the number
of our community's young women who have been enslaved -- many of them, I
might add, who have voluntarily entered the program of their own free will.
I personally have been demonized by a lot of you for my application of the
law and yes, I'm well aware of jokes some of you, especially in the print
media, make in calling my courtroom a -- travesty.  But ladies and
gentlemen, is it a travesty to enslave the drug addicts and whores?  The
harlots who would lead our fine young men astray?  No.  We here in Eastlake
don't want that.  No-sir-ee.  Do we want to just sit back and watch as our
young women in this town get drunk and bring the names of their families
into disrepute?  No sir.  Not in this town."

   The judge sounded like he was preaching fire and brimstone, but I got
the sense, even though I could see his face when he was talking, that the
enthusiasm in his voice was more than simple convictions.  He continued.

   "Ladies and gentlemen of the press.  A few weeks ago a story started to
circulate that my judgments discriminate on the basis of age and social
status.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  It's not my fault that
the vast majority of the people who face my court are young and often
uneducated.  And yes, they do get enslaved when I convict them.  But it's
not just the young and uneducated!  You see here before you proof of that.
This woman comes from a good home.  She was raised by affluent parents and
educated in the finest schools and universities you can imagine.  Hell, she
even went to one o' them fancy finishing schools in Switzerland where they
teach young gals to speak with a plumb in their mouth!"

   A ripple of laughter broke though the crowd gawking up at me.  A
snickering kind of a laugh clearly intended to mock me.

   "That's right, ladies and gentlemen.  This woman grew up thinking she
was better than humble folk like us.  She grew up thinking that laws don't
apply to her.  Well friends, as you can see, laws -- do -- apply to her. 
She, and I want you to quote me on this, got drunk and now she's paying the
price.  It don't matter, that it was some fancy-ass wine in some fancy-ass
bar.  The law is the law and if you break it, you're going to pay the
price. Yeah.  Quote me on that."

   There were murmurs of approval from the crowd.

   "OK.  Are there any questions?"

   A chorus of excited voices all shouted at once.

   "You," the judge pointed to a man somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

   "Judge, can you pull back her hair a bit so we can get some photos of
her face?"

   "Sure."

   His hand slipped up over my eyes and then pushed back my loosely hanging
hair.  Cameras whirred to life again and people jostled each other to get
take their pictures from directly in front of the raised dais.

   "Judge!  I have a question for the slave!"

   "Shoot," the judge said.  His hand remained pressed against the front of
my hairline.

   "How do you feel right now?"

   I had no idea how to answer the question except to say "very sorry".

   "How many drinks did you have?" another reporter called out to me.

   "I only had two glasses of wine!" The words came choked from the back of
my throat.

   "We heard in court that you had three --"

   "And champagne!" another voice added.

   "No," I started to feel confused.  The judge intervened.

   "I think we established she was drunk.  Next question?"

   My name started to be called from every direction and he pointed to
somebody.

   "There's a rumor that you tried to bribe the officers who arrested you
--"

   "No --" I mumbled and hoped to correct the rumor, but the judge cut in.

   "It wasn't raised in the trial.  Next?"

   "Are you a real blonde?" somebody called out.

   "Yes," I replied, taking some consolation from the simple question.

   "Have you got fake tits?" somebody else called out.

   "They look real to me!" the judge laughed after he'd bent over to look.
"The feel real too!"

   I struggled to escape the touch of his hands that were now suddenly
groping me.

   "Say cheese, Judge!" a cameraman directly below -- his lens trained
directly on my dangling breasts and the judge's fingers squeezing one of my
nipples.

   He continued squeezing even after the photos had been taken and then
twisted it hard until I grimaced and yelped at the pain.

   "Judge!  Can we get some pictures of you disciplining her?"

   "You mean a spankin'?  Sure!"

   The judge then proceeded to slap my ass with his bare hand.  He smacked
it with a force that knocked me forward -- my shoulders banged sorely
against the crossbeam of the stocks each time he hit me.  I tried to avoid
the stinging by wiggling my ass, but he hit me firmly and squarely every
time.

   "I think she's enjoying that, Judge!"

   The voice was familiar.  I briefly opened my eyes and looked down to see
Nelson grinning up at me and encouraging the judge to spank me harder.  It
was so humiliating and I closed my eyes again to try and close out the
image of Nelson's face -- beaming with undisguised delight.

   "OK, I'm getting a sore hand here!" the judge laughed and stopped. 
"Thank you ladies and gentlemen.  That will be all.  I'll leave the slave
here for another 15 minutes for you to get more photos, but then she's off
the Slave Tank."