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 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.

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   Case #802120 - Part 9 - The Slave Tank

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   The rest of Saturday, after I had finally been locked up in the Slave
Tank, passed slowly and without incident.  I wasn't put back in the same
cell as I'd been locked the previous night, nor even the same building by
the looks of it.  That one had been a dirty, crazy place whereas this one
seemed very neat and orderly.  The cell I'd been assigned was Spartan, but
it was clean and relatively comfortable like any modern prison cell I could
imagine and not like the Dickensean one I endured yesterday.  Aside from
having a bed, there was a small desk on which I found a number of brochures
and other information from various trading companies and auction companies
advertising their abilities to get the best prices for enslaved women who
chose to sell all their worldly goods.  There was even a phone on the desk,
although all calls to and from it had to go through the main switchboard
and were likely monitored.  According to the instructions for the use of
it, I was allowed to place one call per day, at 6pm, but only to local
numbers.  I tried using it to phone my husband on Saturday night but ended
up wishing I hadn't because all I got was our answering machine and the
sound of my own recorded message saying "We're not home right now, but if
you'd like to leave a message..."

   My cell was one of a dozen or so in this wing that, according to a sign
I saw on the way in, was where slavers would find enslaved women between
the ages of 40 and 45.  I felt strangely alone, being the only person in
this wing, although it was also a sanctuary of sorts where I was spared
from having to listen to the anguished sobs and screaming of young girls
who had been incarcerated.

   A television was mounted on the wall in my cell.  There wasn't any
sound, but it appeared to be showing what looked like a bizarre, endless
infomercial.  Mostly it was like a slideshow of all the women currently
being tendered for, including me!  I only caught a glimpse of the
advertisement of me the first time I noticed it and had to wait nearly an
hour before it replayed.  It showed photos of me -- the ones obviously
taken the previous night by the desk sergeant -- alongside text information
of all my personal details.  A line of bold red text at the bottom of the
screen blinked with the caption: "CURRENT BIDDING = $0.00".

   I idled away hours on Saturday night watching the television.  Many of
the other enslaved girls looked entirely happy in their photos and their
enslavement category noted them as "voluntary".  I wondered why any of them
would have "volunteered" to be enslaved.  It just seemed an anathema to me
that so many women, mostly college co-eds by the look of them, could even
think such a thing.  Why would they willingly submit to this humiliation?
What was even more puzzling was so many of them looked so attractive.  I
envied their youth and wondered what possessed them to so openly desire
degradation.

   Then there were those who women who were committed into slavery by their
family or spouses.  I could tell by the expressions on the faces of most of
them that they felt more like me, although I still felt a strange notion of
relief in that my husband wasn't responsible for my predicament.  The
really disturbing thing about the majority of those in this category was
their photos.  They were the worst types of "candid" shots -- gynecological
in aspect and with rarely any of them shot in proper lighting.  I felt
genuinely sorry for a lot of them, especially those with information
sections that described them in the most incredibly vulgar, debasing terms.

   I waited for my own little spot to reappear one more time and then went
to sleep feeling a little dispirited by the red caption "CURRENT BIDDING =
$0.00" now blinking in my thoughts.

   The only visitors allowed to see me on Sunday were White Slavers.  The
first of these arrived early and he set what was to become the pattern for
the day.  The Slaver arrived at my cell accompanied by a prison guard; a
man I came to know as Jack.  After Jack let him into my cell, the man had
me stand next to my bed while he "examined" me.  He made me smile so he
could inspect my teeth and then had me pose in a variety of embarrassing
positions, including bent over and holding my ass cheeks spread.  He had a
cloth tape that he used to take my measurements -- not just my breasts
waist and hips (34b/25/37) -- but my ankles, wrists and neck as well.  He
even wanted to know my shoe size.

   One particularly sadistic man who inspected me late in the day came
equipped with a weird set of clamping devices.  They were like small
alligator clips except they were tensioned with a calibrated screw instead
of being hinged.  He attached them to the sensitive buds on my nipples and
then slowly tightened them.  With the calm, clinical tone of a doctor, he
told me to smile for him and to continue smiling for as long as I could
while he tightened the screws.  Each time he twisted the screws, my nipples
would relay the ever-increasing pressure pain through my body and cause my
face to twitch and contort.  When he had them as tight as I could bear --
and I was by now almost unable to contain the loud, vocal expressions of my
pain -- he twisted the screws one last time and forced me to count slowly
to 20 before he would remove them.

   But he was the exception.  Of the dozen or so slavers who came to see
me, he was the only one who even seemed half-interested in me.  The
majority appeared to be just "going through the motions" of inspection and
a couple didn't even come into my cell.  Jack brought them as far as the
gate, they looked in at me, shook their heads, and left without saying so
much as a word.

   When 6pm finally rolled around, I phoned my husband and felt my spirits
lift when I heard his voice on the line.  But it turned out to be a
strangely disappointing call.  He asked me how I was -- I said I was OK. 
He asked the same question in a variety of ways, and I answered him the
same way, but the conversation didn't feel like it was going anywhere at
all.  Not that I had any idea what I wanted to say to him.  For a long
time, I just sat there with the phone pressed to my ear listening to the
awkward silence between us.  When I pressed him to say something, he'd say
he loved me but then would fall silent for an even longer period of time.
By the end of the call, I almost felt like crying which I would have done,
but I feared I'd never stop if I started.  He finished by saying he'd --
try -- and visit me in the morning.

   I sat up late on Sunday night watching the slaver's infomercial.  The
fact I hadn't received a single bid began to concern me, especially when I
noticed some of the other who were enslaved yesterday like me had already
been sold.  They were much younger, of course, except for one who I
recognized as an actress from a television show I liked.  I could
understand somebody famous like her getting sold quickly and for a lot of
money, but it still didn't make me feel any better.  I noticed something
else too.  Several of women who were closer to my age and who also hadn't
received any bids had the words "EXPIRED - SENT TO HILL'S FINE MEATS" added
to their caption.

   I had a fitful sleep that night.  In one nightmare I saw the face of one
of the "expired" slaves -- a plump, matronly face twisted and screaming in
silent anguish.  When I wasn't having nightmares about this, and in that
semi-awake stage between sleep and dreams, I remembered something that the
judge had said when sentencing me.  I couldn't remember his exact words and
the struggle to recall them kept me awake almost until dawn.

   The only visitor I had at all on Monday was my husband.  He had a ream
of papers for me to read and sign -- official documents drawn up by my
attorney to assign all my financial and property rights to a family trust
fund he'd established.  He also mentioned something that answered the
question that had kept me awake half the night.  My attorney had
recommended he apply for a Federal Warrant so he could become a White
Slaver himself.  This way, my husband said, he could join the bidding for
me and, hopefully, buy my freedom that way.  I tried not to sound too
flippant or discouraging when I told him that, at this stage, he'd only
need a dollar for that.

   Tuesday and Wednesday dragged by incredibly slowly.  My husband's news
about progress in his application to become a slaver went from bad to
worse. There was numerous bureaucratic hoops he had to jump through before
he could become licensed, including police background checks.  He'd passed
all the other requirements and had even paid the $5,000 registration fee.
But he told me the application he made asked whether or not he had any
prior criminal history and he had to admit, because it was a statutory
declaration, that he was once convicted for cannabis possession.  This in
itself didn't prevent him becoming a slaver but it meant he couldn't get
licensed until they had completed a full investigation into his past.

   While we were talking about this, my husband asked if there was anybody
I knew and trusted and who might be able to get a Federal Warrant any
faster.  I didn't think I knew anybody at all until I remembered Nelson's
promise to help me.

   "I do know somebody!" I squealed excitedly into the phone.  "Nelson!  My
old boss from the book store."

   My husband told me he'd speak with him first thing in the morning.

   I woke up Thursday morning to see my current bidding price remained
fixed on $0.00.  Jack made his rounds as usual and let himself into my
cell.

   "Still no bids?" he asked.

   "No, not a penny," I replied glumly.

   He sat on the bed next to me.

   "Jack, why hasn't anybody bid for me?"

   He smiled at me -- a warm, fatherly smile.

   "I honestly don't know," he said after a brief pause.

   "I mean, I'm not ugly or anything, am I?"

   He laughed.  "No!"

   "I know I'm not young and glamorous like lots of those other girls, but
I've always looked after myself.  I don't eat junk food.  I don't smoke. 
I'm not a gym-junkie, but I do exercise..."

   Jack listened while I poured out my soul to him.

   "I mean, you'd like to have me as your slave, wouldn't you, Jack?"

   "Are you suggesting I bid for you?"

   A smile crept across the old man's face.

   "I would if I could, Ingrid, but it's against the rules.  Besides. 
There's still plenty of time before the auction."

   There was a long silence between us before he continued speaking.

   "Of course, once auction day comes..."

   "Yes?"

   "Never mind," he said.

   "What?" My curiosity had been piqued.

   "It doesn't matter.  Just a foolish thought from a foolish old man."

   He smiled at me kindly.

   "Tell me!" I said, desperation in my voice.  I gripped his upper arm
tightly and pulled myself onto my knees right beside me.  "Tell me!"

   Jack twisted his shoulder away to break free from my hands.

   "If ...  No, it's against the rules."

   "What?  What's against the rules?"

   "We're not supposed to tell the slaves this," Jack said.

   "What?" My voice rose to a high-pitched squeal.  I started to bounce on
my knees and begged him to tell me what he was talking about.

   "OK.  Look.  When the slavers inspect the slaves, they expect you to --
perform -- for them."

   "Perform?"

   "Yes.  You're too quiet and passive for them.  It a wonderful thing that
you're so submissive ...  a natural, in my opinion, but..."

   "But...?"

   "But they expect more.  You've got to sell yourself!"

   "How?"

   "Think about it.  Imagine you're a slaver come to make an inspection. 
You look into this cell and what do you see?"

   "Um, me?"

   "Yes, but really.  Picture it.  You're just sitting here on you bed
looking morose.  Nobody wants a slave they think is going to sit around all
day looking sorry for herself," Jack said.

   "What should I do?" I asked, willing to listen to any suggestion.

   "Would you like me to give you a little bit of training?"

   "Oh, would you, Jack?  Please!"

   "OK.  But you must do everything I tell you without question.  That's
the first rule of being a slave."

   I nodded -- the student and her teacher.

   "Do you know what the -- slave position -- is?"

   "No?"

   "You're actually almost in it now."

   "I am?"

   I was still on my knees and sitting on my heels.

   "Yes, but you have your knees together.  Sit up straight and spread your
knees."

   I wriggled into position and parted my knees.

   "That's it.  Further.  Spread your knees as far apart as you can."

   "Like this?"

   "Perfect."

   The position completely exposed my pussy to Jack's wandering eyes.  It
felt a bit weird to think of an old man like Jack being aroused, but I
sensed that he was and it gave me a good feeling inside to think I could
please him.

   "Now for your hands, Ingrid."

   I looked down at them casually resting on my thighs.

   "Put them behind you back," Jack said.

   I obeyed.

   "Good.  Good girl," Jack smiled.  "That's the position.  Now, something
else."

   "Yes?"

   "Slavers will expect you to know how to give them pleasure, especially
sexual pleasure, Ingrid.  I've seen your file and there's a note there that
says you failed to suck."

   "I didn't!" I quickly responded.

   "But it says that in your file," Jack said solemnly.  "That's probably
why none of the slavers who have inspected you have been interested.  They
think you're too old and you don't suck cock."

   "But I do!" I insisted.

   "I believe you!" Jack laughed.  "But thousands wouldn't."

   "Oh Jack!  What am I going to do?"

   "I can't change your file, Ingrid, but I could..."

   "What Jack?  What could you do?"

   "I -- could -- tell them to ignore that part of your file.  Would you
like me to do that for you, Ingrid?"

   "Oh, would you Jack?  Would you tell them I will suck their cocks?  I'll
do anything they ask, if they'll bid for me so I don't end up at..."

   I didn't even want to utter the name of the place where all the rejected
slaves get sent.

   "Good girl, Ingrid," Jack smiled.  "I'll tell all the slavers that you
love to suck cock.  I'll even insist that they have you demonstrate it for
them."

   "Yes!  Oh yes, Jack!  Thank you!  Thank you!  And Jack --"

   "Yes, Ingrid?"

   "May I please suck your cock?"

   Jack had already started to unbuckle his trousers and I spent the next
hour on my knees, lavishly pampering and sucking his cock.  He maintained a
solid, unyielding erection throughout, which I hadn't expected, and when he
finally ejaculated I held his cock in my hands and aimed it so he could cum
all over my face.