Free Market M+/F+ bd ds sm toys humil nc ScFi (C) 2009 Rachel Gumm. You may freely distribute this story digitally, but only in full, crediting me as the author. Please send feedback to me at cheapslave@googlemail.com - it makes writing these worthwhile. My homepage at http://erotica.writerpilot.com/authors/view/rachel-gumm has all my stories available for download. It was half an hour after employee number two hundred and fifty-six's shift was supposed to have ended, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd managed to leave work on time. It must have been last year, she realised, before her new boss had raised the daily quotas again. Suddenly, she heard footsteps: the slow, purposeful steps of someone in control, accompanied by the stiletto-heeled steps of the company secretary, not the bare-foot shuffle of a co-worker. She slid off the bed she was sitting on, and crawled on her hands and knees to the room's entrance, a [elecro-?] magnetically locked sliding door comprised of vertical metal bars modelled on a prison's. She tried to look alluring as she slinked along on her hands and knees like an animal. Even if no one was watching - and she could never be completely sure of that - it never hurt to get more practice. Human resources had insisted the prison motif was provided merely to protect the workers from gangs of teenaged boys who might somehow break into the place of business, and to ensure that over-eager potential clients would never touch the merchandise before completing a transaction. They'd never explained the closed circuit television cameras to her satisfaction, but they claimed they also had something to do with protecting employees from overzealous clients and from any disputes that might arise over services rendered. She tried not to picture the lenses set into the top four corners of the room, watching her every move, let alone the security guard or manager who might be watching her at any given moment. Men had a lot of repressed sexual desire, the welcome pack had said, and it was the company's responsibility to protect its employees from any improper outlet of this desire - improper presumably meaning free. However, she suspected the prison theme was much more likely to do with maintaining the illusion that the clients were in complete control of the workers, when in reality they weren't even in control of themselves. Power play, amongst those without any. "Please," she begged as the client approached her room, "let me suck you off! I'll do anything you want. Please use me." She'd long since learnt to say it with feeling, as if she meant it. That was the only way to compete with countless other workers all giving the client pretty much the same spiel. You had to stand out in some way, just like in natural selection. Looking up through the bars, she could see that the client was a middle-aged, balding man in a smart business suit. Repulsive as he looked - and, more to the point, acted - his appearance was hardly surprising. Cute young men who knew how to be true gentlemen seldom visited places like where she worked. She still had fond memories of the last one who had, and that had been months ago. This man's type, on the other hand, was all too familiar: a pillar of society by day, and a loathsome, mysogynistic child by night. It was her job, in a sense, to make sure he got what he wanted. She felt her skin crawl as he looked down at her naked, cowering body. "Display yourself properly," he ordered. Employee number two hundred and fifty-six realised she'd reflexively placed her hands on the bottom of the door's bars again, her arms almost covering her breasts. Such timidity was seldom popular amongst the clients, and although there was no official corporate stance on proper protocol, such a position was certainly frowned upon. She shuffled back, her bare feet and knees barely making a noise on the cold tiles. Once she'd scrambled back far enough, she knelt on her legs, her feet tucked under her bottom, spreading her thighs wide open. She made sure to keep her arms at her sides, proudly displaying her body in all its unclothed glory. The only part of herself that she couldn't show was her vulva, as it was locked away inside her chastity belt, the same as everyone else's. "You _are_ an eager little whore, aren't you?" The man's tone of voice was approving. "Yes, sir," she said, her eyes fixed on the cold, white tiles of the floor. "No, let me do it!" came a voice from the next room. "Let me go down on you, please, sir! I'm much better than her. I won't spill a single drop or anything." _Shit._ The voice belonged to two hundred and fifty-seven. That tramp was just as eager to fulfil her quota as she was, and she had no shame. Two hundred and fifty-six watched helplessly as the man turned around and walked towards the next room. "And just why should I pick you?" she heard him ask. She crawled back to the door and pressed her head against the bars, but they were too close together for her to poke her head between them. She could only see what was directly in front of her room, which at the moment no longer included the client. She wished she could still see him. It would have felt so reassurring, so much closer to a transaction if she could just see his face, but already he was slipping away, another client lost to a more eager co-worker. "Because I'm so well trained, sir," came her co-worker's reply, the same as always. "I've been on three separate courses in advanced fellatio theory and applied technique. I can bring you to orgasm as quickly or as slowly as you want me to, and I promise I won't even spill a single drop on that nice suit of yours." Two hundred and fifty-six knew that was true for all of them. She'd only let a stain appear on a client's clothes once, and it had come out of her wages, undoing three jobs' worth of work. A suit as expensive looking as this man's would no doubt set her back days, essentially making her work for free. She shuddered at the thought. She was many things, but she wasn't a slave. Not technically, anyway. Two hundred and fifty-seven's voice snapped her back to the present. "I'm much better than that cheap whore next to me." "That's a lie!" protested two hundred and fifty-six. "Just because I haven't been on any fancy courses doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing. I bought a mannequin to practice on, and all my male friends are kind enough to give me private lessons every weekend, watching me perform on it and giving me tips." She wished she could still see the client, just to gauge his reaction. She didn't know if he was still entertaining the thought of using her or if he just considered her an annoyance now. "Some of them are even nice enough to buy my services here and give me pointers then too. I'm just as good as her, I know it." She heard footsteps again, then to her relief, the man walked back in front of her room. She scrambled to the floor once more, spreading her legs wide open again. "My tastes are very specific," the man informed. "Tell me, do either of you enjoy being tied up?" He looked back at where two hundred and fifty-seven must have been. Her co-worker quickly chirped in again with another prepared line. "I'm so cock hungry, I'd let you do anything to me as long as I got to suck you dry at the end. Tie me all you want." "I see, slut," he replied thoughtfully. Then his gaze turned back to two hundred and fifty-six. "And how about you?" "I can do it, if you'd like," she replied, her voice soft. It wasn't the scripted answer, but she was still naive enough to believe in the occasional honesty. "But would you enjoy it, whore?" he demanded. "I guess I wouldn't mind too much," she said. "But I wouldn't like it as much as just pleasing you." Her eyes remained fixed on the floor's cold, hard tiles on the other side of the door. "Perfect," said the man. She glanced up at him to see him grinning back down at her. "I'll use this one right here," he declared loudly to where the receptionist must have been standing the whole time. In a quieter voice, he explained his decision to the naked woman. "I told you my tastes were specific. It's so much more fun when I know you're not enjoying yourself, when you're resisting. I'll enjoy making you squirm." Employee number two hundred and fifty-six cast her eyes back down at the floor, unsure what to say. She almost felt sorry for the guy. Maybe he was resigning himself to the fact that no woman would ever enjoy having sex with someone as obnoxious as he was, even going so far as to fetishise it, as if it was his choice. Then again, she was sure she'd have plenty of opportunity to lose all sympathy she may have momentarily felt for him. "Very good, sir," chimed in the receptionist from out of view. "If you tell me your requirements, I'll have her prepared in just under five minutes." Employee number two hundred and fifty-six was wearing the most perculiar outfit she'd ever seen. It probably didn't even count as an outfit at all. Whatever it was, it was probably in the dreaded realm of "equipment." It was much more elaborate than anything she'd been made to wear before, so was almost certainly something the client himself must have brought with him. After seven months with the company, she was pretty sure she must have tried on the full range of in-house costumes by now. Besides, this wasn't their style, or rather, it wasn't their lowest-common-demoninator lack of it. She was encased from her collared neck all the way to her toes in a tight fitting black rubber sack with special sleeve-like compartments inside it that kept her arms at her sides. Lying down on the floor, she tried to lift her head up enough to look down at herself. A leash was dangling down from her collar, the shiny metal chain ending in a rubber handle that was idly lying on top of her groin. She gently lowered her head back onto the hard tiles of the floor. Again, she heard footsteps, and again she felt that terrible surge of anticipation, dreading what might happen next. The client strolled in, his eyes lighting up as he towered over her. Once he was safely inside, the door slammed shut with a deafening clunk. The sliding doors had evidently been designed by someone whose main goals were to intimidate people, and to ensure each transaction went as quickly as possible. "Ah, perfect." The man looked her up and down. "How do you like your outfit?" "It's strange." She squirmed around uncomfortably, trying to look back up at him. "I guess it's kind of interesting, though." "I want you to be completely honest with me," said the man. "I even paid extra to have them turn off the CCTV cameras and microphones." That meant he must have been rich, she realised. She gently lowered her head back to the floor again, giving her neck muscles a chance to relax. "OK, then. I'm uncomfortable. I can't move around in this thing." "It doesn't look to me like you're trying." The man knelt down and grabbed her leash. When he stood up again, she saw the chain looming ominously from his strong hand all the way down to her fragile neck. It seemed somehow fitting as a representation of their relationship. In a way, it was more honest than a glimpse of the animalistic fucking of most clients would have been. Two hundred and fifty-six squirmed around in her outfit, trying her best to sit upright. She couldn't. She looked helplessly up at the man holding her leash. "What's your name?" he asked. "Whatever you want it to be," she said as she squirmed around. "We're all just known by our numbers here anyway. I'm number two hundred and fifty-six. The other woman you were talking to, in the cell next to me, is number two hundred and fifty-seven. None of us know each other's real names." "Don't give me that," said the man. "I told you, no one else can hear us." She looked away from him, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Jane." "Good," said the man. "Why are you here, Jane?" Jane spoke in a hushed tone. "Please don't call me that, I'll get into trouble." "You'd better be nice to me then," said the man. "Why are you here, _Jane_?" "Because you picked me," she replied in between grunts, making another attempt to sit up. She couldn't hold the position. All the suirming did was make the chain swing around, reminding her of her place. Maybe that was the point, she realised. "Don't give me the script," the man snapped. "Why did you choose this career? Why aren't you working in some supermarket stacking shelves?" "Oh." Jane stopped struggling and lay down, gazing up at the man. "Because it's the only way I can afford orgasms, I guess." "Ah, so you're more of a slut than a whore." "What's the difference?" she asked, still holding his gaze. He looked sincere, as far as she could tell. "A whore has sex for money. A slut has sex for its own sake. You're here because you feel a need to climax." She averted her eyes from him again. "I guess," she mumbled. Without warning, the man spat on her face. "Answer me, slut," he said loudly. Jane let out a yelp and tried to roll onto her side, but it was impossible in her cocoon. The man tugged on the leash, keeping her face close to him, close and vulnerable. "Yes," she finally admitted, staring straight into the man's eyes. "I let people use me so that I can buy my own orgasms afterwards." "So you admit you're a dirty little slut?" "Yes," she said. "Say it," demanded the man. "I'm a slut," she said softly. "Louder." "I'm a slut." "Again!" he ordered. "I'm a dirty little slut, OK?" Jane was practically shouting now, suddenly oblivious to whether anyone could hear her in the adjacent cells. "I crave sex. I want to have orgasms. I _need_ to have orgasms. Is that what you want me to say? It's true. I need to be fucked, and I'm frustrated every day that doesn't happen. I'd like nothing more than to have regular, daily sex with someone. Not like in this place, but actual sex, where I get to climax. Is that what you want to hear?" She squirmed around uncomfortably in the rubber outfit, suddenly feeling an urge to just run away to somewhere private and cry to herself. She tried to ignore the unwanted emotion. The man grinned. Jane briefly wondered what he was enjoying the most, her confession or the fact that she was genuinely trying to get away from him for the first time. She was starting to realise that she _really_ didn't want to be where she was, and that she was helpless, utterly unable to escape her perdicament. He seemed to be grinning with the knowledge that she'd just had this realisation. Then again, maybe she was giving him too much credit. "And just where do you get your orgasms, you worthless slut?" "Another place like this," she confessed. She made a conscious effort to calm down. She didn't want to rise to this pervert's bait. He evidently got off of pushing her buttons. "Where none of the workers know me. Sometimes I pay one of the women to lick me out, but usually I can only afford to have my chastity belt removed and to masturbate by myself." "So you're a dyke then?" asked the man. "No!" she replied, a little more forcefully than she'd intended. The idea repelled her. "It's just those services are always geared towards men, so I have to make do with what's on offer." If women like her were sluts, she thought to herself, then so were pretty much all men. But she didn't say it. The man knelt down again, then began to slide a strong hand along her outfit, all the way from her neck, down past her breasts, and finally to her stomach before sliding it all the way back up again. Thankfully, she could barely feel him under the thick rubber. It felt less like being violated than like a stranger brushing past her in the street. She let her body fall limp again, figuring he probably wanted her to act like she approved. "What do you think about when you masturbate, my cheap little whore?" Jane looked up at him, trying to work out what he wanted to hear. "Truthfully?" "Of course." He continued stroking her like some kind of pet. "I picture myself with a man, and neither of us are wearing a chastity belt. After working all day, you know, regular jobs, we spend the evening together bringing each other to orgasm for its own sake. No money, no cameras, just two adults in love. Like in the olden days." "Ah, you're old fashioned," replied the man. "You believe that sex should be a symbol of love." He leaned even closer to her, his face practically touching hers, and lowered his voice. "So why don't you get your own key made for your belt?" "Because it's illegal!" Jane instantly regretted raising her voice, not for fear of what the client might do so much as her boss. She made a mental note to dream up some plausible thing to pretend she had been talking about. Something that was illegal, but that her employers would approve of. Only two kinds of people had the key to their own chastity belt: one kind was those whose job it was to enforce the wearing of them in the first place, members of the Committee for Helping Authorised Sexual Transactions in England, or Chaste for short. The other kind was people who craved sex so much, and were so poor, that they got an illegal key made because they couldn't afford to have their belts removed legally as much as they felt they needed it. She suspected that many of Chaste's members were the kind of people who wanted illegal keys but couldn't live with the constant fear of being caught, but she knew it was a job she could never have. Besides not coming from the kind of conservative background the committee would approve of, she wasn't the kind of woman who could arrest people who were only guilty of a victimless crime. She'd heard rumours of what happened to such people, and she knew she couldn't live with the guilt of being in any way responsible for it. He knelt down on top of her, one impeccably dressed leg either side of her, and slapped her on the cheek. "Answer my question, bitch. Why don't _you_, a self confessed dirty little slut, want to get a key that will let you masturbate and fuck whenever you want to?" She let out another yelp. Slapping the workers was strictly prohibited, but if he'd paid to have the cameras turned off, it was just her word against his - and she could take a guess as to who had the most socially acceptable job and the richest friends. She tried to pull herself together. "Be-- Because I don't want to get caught! You-- You know how the government does random checks of people to make sure they haven't by-- bypassed their chastity belt's lock. I've heard the stories of what happens to people who do that. I don't want to be sold into slavery! It's a risk I can't take." She took a deep breath. "I can't even afford it anyway." The man hesitated, as if making a difficult decison. When he next spoke, his voice was lowered. "What if I were to pay for it?" he asked. "I could ask you to marry me. You'd stay at home, where no one would perform random checks on you, and every evening I could fuck your brains out the old fashioned way, using your cunt instead of your mouth." "You'd have a key for your own belt too?" asked Jane. "I already have one," he said softly as he unzipped his trousers. "Of course, I wore my belt here so your employers wouldn't suspect anything. They think this is the only orgasm I've had since last week." He poked his member out of his fly, inches from her face. She instinctively forced her head up as far as she could manage, just managing to lick his helmet. He closed his eyes, almost wincing. "Not yet, my eager little whore," he said. He lifted her up onto the bed, her head next to him and her rubber encased feet by the pillows, pointing up to the tiled ceiling. Then he rolled her onto her front, facing the mattress. The seamless effect of her costume was lost as a heavy duty zipper faced towards the ceiling, the metal teeth spanning the length of her back. She briefly drew her legs up towards the ceiling, trying to get as comfortable as she could with her toes pressing against the mattress. Her breasts hurt from the pressure of her own weight, but before she could protest, he dragged her towards him so her face was dangling off the edge of the bed, facing the floor tiles. Standing up straight - the bed was not coincidentally just the right height for this purpose - the man forcefully grabbed her hair and positioned her mouth on top of his dick, forcing her to take it in. She had to stop herself from gagging as he pulled her hair, pushing her painfully up and down his member. Remembering all the advice she'd been given, she greedily sucked away, trying her best to please him. She tried to ignore the taste of the precum intermingling with her own saliva as she swallowed as much of it as she could, careful not to let any drip onto the client's expensive looking shoes. Just as she was getting the hang of it, he withdrew himself. He grabbed his member and started rubbing his shaft. She couldn't look up so she couldn't see the expression on his face, but it didn't take a member of the committee to work out that he was about to ejaculate. "Please, no," she protested, but it was too late. As his rubbing grew to a climax, he finally spurted his seed up into her face. She caught as much of it in her mouth as she could, but she let out a final loud yelp as the rest splashed onto her nose and chin. She just knew some must have gotten in her hair too, and it always felt so gross cleaning it off again afterwards. It was so much harder to ignore the harsh realities of what her job entailed when she had to clean up in front of a mirror. She swallowed what she'd managed to catch, barely making it in time before he slapped her cheek again. "Shut up, bitch!" Confused at the mixed signals she was geting, she silently tried to clean up her face with her tongue, trying hard to not even whimper slightly. For at least the third time that week, she fantasised about handing in her month's notice. She hated her job, but if she couldn't afford her own orgasms she'd drive herself insane with frustration. She saw the back of the men's impeccebly dressed legs as he made his way towards the sliding bars. "We're done here!" he yelled. Jane suddenly reaslised she was crying. How unprofessional. The sky was a vibrant, clear blue, even from behind Jane's sunglasses. Bright green trees gently swayed back and forth in the light breeze as she made her way down the road. Although she was still technically in London, it was the kind of suburban street she couldn't even dream of being able to live in, far away from the chain stores. She was glad it was finally the weekend. For just over forty-eight hours she was Jane again, a free woman, not employee number two hundred and fifty-six, a nameless whore behind bars. She looked at all the door numbers as she walked past them: nine, eleven, thirteen. At thirteen, she walked up to the door. She looked at the names next to the intercom on the wall, then back at the name on the piece of paper that one client had given her on his last visit. She double checked and triple checked that they were definitely the same. They were. Her heart pounding in her chest, she pressed the button. "Hello?" asked a voice through the intercom. It was a man's voice, and judging by the accent, he sounded well educated. "Hi. My name's Jane. I have an appointment." She sounded more nervous than she'd intended to. "Please, come up," enthused the voice. The door clicked open, and Jane crept inside. "How did you hear about me?" asked the man Jane had spoken to on the intercom, a respectable looking man in his late thirties. He had a full beard which was already starting to get a few white hairs, and wore oldfashioned glasses. He sat down in front of her, motioning for her to do the same. Jane looked around at the surprisingly normal looking office. The walls were painted beige, the floor carpeted. A few tasteful pictures hung on the walls, and there was a large potted plant in the corner. She could hear classical music being played from a speaker she couldn't see. She couldn't name any such music, but the violins played melodies together that seemed pleasant enough. She sat down on a leather seat that creaked as she shifted her weight. It didn't feel very comfortable compared to the soft old sofas she was used to, but she didn't want to say anything negative. "From a client. He said he'd set up an appointment for me, and he'd even pay, I just needed to turn up here at this exact time." "You know this man's name?" the man asked, his tone of voice soft and reassuring. Jane shook her head. "Well, you're right. I don't know how you managed to make such an impression on him, but he has indeed offered to pay for this procedure. All I need from you is your consent and an hour or two of your time. Do you have any questions?" "What does it actually... involve?" she asked. The man smiled, revealing wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt at all, if that's what you're thinking. We just need to perform an analysis of your specific belt, then make a matching key. It's not at all intrusive to your body or anything like that. You just gain the ability to take your belt off in the normal way you already do whenever you pay for sex. I'm assuming you've indulged in such services?" She nodded slightly, looking down at the fuzzy carpet. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, let me assure you! Many people get sexual urges, and although it's somewhat rarer in women, it's certainly not unheard of. I've performed this procedure many times before, so there's no risk involved. The only thing that might seem a bit odd at first is that I need you to be asleep for the procedure, as all the uncomfortable shifting a nervous person invariably does makes it harder for the machine to analyse the belt." "The last thing I feel like doing now is sleeping." "Don't worry, I have a pill for that. As I say, your body won't be violated or harmed at all. The pill's just to stop you from hindering the equipment in any way. It makes the process much quicker." "OK." Jane wasn't sure if she understood exactly what he was saying, but she felt naive enough as it was without asking stupid questions. "Please, come this way," said the man. They both stood up, and she followed him into the next room, where there was what looked like a hospital bed with a large electronic machine looming above it. The machine was attached via leads to several computer screens on a desk. It looked intimidating. "Please, take a seat." "On here?" she asked, gesturing at the bed. "That's right," said the man, fetching a cup of water from the cooler in the corner of the room. "The pill works quite quickly, and it's easier if I don't have to carry you once you fall asleep. Here you go." He stretched his arms out, offering her a plastic cup of water in one hand and a small, light pink pill in the other. "Thanks," she said, accepting them. "Before you take that," suggested the man, "just think for a second about what you're doing. I've never had any complaints from any of my customers, and as I say, there's no risk involved, at least not in the procedure itself. But you must understand this isn't exactly something I advertise in the newspapers. If you ever get caught without your belt on, you can go to jail, or worse. Please, just take a moment to think about that. I won't mind at all if you change your mind. You can walk out of here right now, a free woman, and never have to worry about getting caught without your belt." "Thanks," said Jane, "but I'm sure. I wouldn't have come here if I hadn't already given it a lot of thought. I hardly even slept last night." She rubbed her eyes. "The truth is, if I can't do what I want with my own body, it's not really freedom anyway. As you pointed out, these are natural urges. I'm sick of having to pay every time I just want to... you know." "Have sex?" offered the man. "I meant pleasuring yourself, but yes, that too." The man smiled an approving smile, not in a perverted way, just in comradeship. She swallowed the pill, washing it down with a mouthful of water. The man took the cup from her and set it down on the desk. "Just give it a few seconds to kick in. Please, lie down." Jane made herself comfortable on the bed. It felt good to lie down again after the previous night. After an uncomfortable silence, he added, "So I hear you're going to marry this man. Quite a bold step for someone you don't really know." "It's the only way I could afford this," she said, gesturing at the machine looming ominously above her. "I'm sure I'll be fine." "Still, committing yourself to spending the rest of your life with this man. I just hope you know what you're doing. I'd hate to think you didn't know what you were getting yourself into." It began to sound less like he was just making conversation to pass the time, and more like a subtle warning, or perhaps a threat. "What do you mean?" asked Jane, but it was too late. She didn't hear the reply. Instead, she felt the warm embrace of long sought after peace. There were distant voices. Slowly, consciousness settled in. Jane tried to think of the last thing that had happened to her. She was in a room with beige walls, soft carpets... She was having some sort of procedure done... Then she remembered. She was having a key made for her chastity belt. A personal key. An illegal key. Something must have gone wrong. She wasn't in the office anymore. She was lying on a stiff bed of some kind, not like the one underneath the machine. The sounds were all harsh, as if bouncing off bare concrete. The voices were unfamiliar. She opened her eyes. She was lying down on a mattress covered in stained white cotton, the room around her a featureless slab of grey concrete. The wall to her left had a stainless steel toilet bowl protruding from it, and the one to her right had a heavy looking door set into it. The door had no handle. It wasn't anything like the one at work, however. Whereas the familiar door of her workplace had consisted of white, vertical, metal bars and an oversized lock, this one was a featureless metal rectangle. Clearly, it wasn't for show, to merely _look_ like it was secure. It was purely functional, offering her nothing to grab onto. It took a few seconds for her to realise where she was. She was in a prison. A _real_ prison. "Hey!" she said, much weaker than she'd intended to. Her throat was dry. She let out a cough and tried to sit upright. She was barefoot, wearing only a dull coloured jumpsuit, featureless save for a number embroided into it, covering her right breast, and a miniature zip at the front that led from her neck all the way down to her crotch. No, she was wearing more than just the jumpsuit. She reached down tentatively to feel her crotch. She was still in the belt! In prison, she wouldn't even be able to pay to have it removed, she realised, not even for a few minutes. It was now essentially a permanent fixture of her body. She walked up to the door, trying not to let herself get emotional. "Hey!" she repeated, louder this time. She listened patiently to the voices coming through from the other side of the door. They changed tone, as if broken off from their monotonous conversation to talk about how the new prisoner must have woken up. Or maybe she was flattering herself that they even noticed her, or cared. She jumped back, startled, as clanging sounds came from the door, the loud scraping of metal on metal as someone turned a heavy duty deadbolt lock. She kept a safe distance as the door swung open and two authoritative looking men with short haircuts and narrow gazes strode into the room. She peered past them to see more men standing outside, but none were looking into her cell. "Prisoner number thirty-two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-eight," said one of the men to her, practically shouting, "you are hereby formally charged with attempting to create or otherwise obtain an unauthorised key in order to circumnavigate the fair commerce protection device installed on your person." He took in a deep breath. "As a substantial amount of footage was taken of you complying with this suggestion in your place of work, as well as attempting to undertake said act at an agreed unauthorised commercial venue, it has been deemed by the court that no trial is necessary. You are therefore hereby subject to mandatory integration into the class of unpaid servicing persons, known colloquially as slaves. A suitable owner has been found for you, and you are to be delivered to said owner immediately." "What?" Jane tried to grasp the implication of what the man had just said. "There must be some mistake--" The other man walked behind her. Before she could turn around to see what he was doing, he grabbed her arms and held them in place behind her back as the first man unzipped her jumpsuit, exposing a thin sliver of her naked skin. She struggled, but the man behind her just pulled her arms tighter together. Intense pain seared through her shoulders, and for a moment she thought she was going to pass out. "What are you doing?" yelled Jane. "Get off of me!" She tried to kick reflexively, but the man in front of her just bent down and grabbed her ankles, his grip so tight that she imagined it might leave a mark. "We've got a kicker here!" he said. Some of the men from outside immediately trickled into the room, as if she posed a threat to merely two of them. These ones were carrying things. Gleaming metal things. She could barely take it all in, but it looked like one was carrying heavy metal chains of some kind. She went wide-eyed at the sight of what one of the other men was carrying: it looked like a device modeled after a giant earwig, a long stick with two menacing looking prongs at the end. Without any kind of introduction, the man with the device walked up to her and thrust it into her stomach. An electric shock overwhelmed her. Her whole body instantly went tense then limp as she screamed in pain. She would have fallen to the floor had her arms not been held up behind her. Instead, she just doubled over, letting her body hang limply in the man's arms. She suddenly realised she was crying, her breath short and jagged as tears streaked down her face. "That should calm her down," sneered the man with the device. He spat on the floor. Jane watched helplessly as the men got to work. They removed her jumpsuit - they'd doubltessly dressed her in it in the first place anyway, she realised - and laid her down. Not on the hard mattress, as if that would have been too considerate, but on the cold, hard, concrete floor. Its little bumps and imperfections, its thin layer of filth pressed against her naked flesh, made her wish for something she'd never thought possible. She wished she was back in her former employer's cell, crawling on her hands and knees on the smooth, tiled floor where she'd spent countless hours servicing the desires of ugly, perverted men. She fought the urge to struggle as the men encased her wrists and ankles in gleaming metal cuffs. One of the men, she couldn't see which one, pulled violently on her hair to yank her head up off the floor as a matching collar was snapped in place around her neck. He let go suddenly, and she only just managed to keep her head held up long enough to let it fall at least somewhat gently back onto the cold, hard floor. She tried not to think about what they were doing or why, or to look directly into the eyes that were looking her exposed body up and down. She tried to think of something else as they locked the restraints shut with strange devices that looked like a cross between screwdrivers and electric drills, making a whirring sound that set her teeth on edge. The restraints evidently weren't designed to be removed again once they were locked in place. She wanted desperately to get up off the filthy floor and run away, but the men completely blocked the doorway. Instead, she just looked at the man with the device. He grinned down at her, as if to indicate that he was itching for the chance to use it again. The pain in her stomach intensified as if telling her not to try her luck. Jane felt her new wrist cuffs being locked together behind her with what must have been a very short length of chain. She looked down as her ankle cuffs were padlocked together with an old chain that looked equally short. Finally, the man behind her loosened his grip a little bit, fully aware that any attempt to escape on her part was now clearly futile. There was a squeaking noise from the next room, the sound of small metal wheels in need of oiling. The men blocking the doorway moved out of the way as a large device was wheeled into the cell. Jane's eyes went wide again as she saw what it was, glimpsing it first from behind the bodies, then staring at it in horror as the men parted to let her get a good look at it. "What are you doing?" she said, her tone of voice more pleading than demanding, as she looked at the cage in front of her, barely big enough to accomodate a fully grown human. "No!" she screamed as she was lifted up, a desperate plea that fell upon deaf ears. She tried another reflexive kick in spite of the grinning man's unspoken promise, but her legs just spasmed pathetically together, her ankles joined by the chain, as more hands grabbed her. She tried to make another conscious effort not to fight back, letting the six or eight hands shape her body into the position they wanted. Her legs were tucked into a kneeling position as she was lowered into the cage, her hands pressed hard against her bottom. She spread her legs as her head was shoved down onto the floor of the cage, her shoulders touching her knees and her breasts pressing against her thighs. The metal bars that comprised the cage's lid were lowered down above her, sealing her in with a definitive clank that echoed in her mind. Jane listened to the men attaching a heavy padlock in place at each of the cage's top four corners, snapping each one shut. Finally, they took their hands off her body. She stared out of the side of the cage, watching helplessly as anonymous feet walked out of the room. She tried to move her head to look out the other side of the cage, but she couldn't tilt it up high enough to scrape her chin against its smooth, metal floor. As far as she could see, the men no longer had faces, just strong hands, and weapons. One pair of feet remained, and when she strained to look up as high as she could, compounding her neck ache, she saw the familiar earwig prongs in the man's hands. "Please, no," she begged, fresh tears dripping onto the cage floor, but it was too late. He'd made his decision. Her back felt like it was on fire as electricity cursed through her helpless naked body once more. "That's for trying to kick us," said the man. Unaccustomed to the shock, she felt herself do something she hadn't done since she was a child. "Hey, looky here," said the man. "She's pissin' herself!" Slowly but surely, as she felt the only kind of relief she could have, a small puddle formed on the cage's metal floor, creeping along from her feet, past her legs, finally making its way to her cheek and hair. Her empty bladder offered little comfort; the other feet turned around, and she heard all the men laughing at her. She felt like she could die from embarrassment, but in a way, the person she was had already died. In her place would be an obedient little slave. Not right away, of course. She still hated the idea of being made to do whatever someone else told her to. Admittedly, this was what she'd alawys done, but now she no longer had the right to say no. She'd have to do everything she was told, no matter how much she hated it. Eventually she'd wear down until doing what was necessary to avoid being punished would become doing what was expected of her to avoid displeasing someone. Her master. "Wait until she's stopped dripping," one of the men said, his tone of voice suddenly cheerful, "then bring her out back for hosing down. Then we can box her up and ship her off." Jane winced, but no one saw her face. Jane stared helplessly at the side of her cage, its metal bars and the cloth draped over it. She was packed too tightly to move, and her whole body ached. She would have given anything just to be able to lie down on the floor outside, but she had nothing to give anyway. Whatever kind of vehicle she was in, some kid of van or lorry, it had been moving fast for what seemed like forever, violently jerking her around with each turn and change in speed. There were no voices here, just the deafening sound of the engine. The roaring eased into a low rumbling as it had at every traffic light so far, but this time was different. After a few seconds, it finally turned off, silence returning to her at last. She fought the urge to shout. It was highly unlikely that the driver or his assisant would have forgotten about their cargo, however much they might have got a kick out of her imagining otherwise. With slavery legalised again, there was no point crying for help either. No one would dare come to her rescue even if they wanted to. At best, such an attempt would get any wannabe hero a stern talking to, and at worst, he would end up a slave himself. So people played it safe, and Jane ruled out that line of possible escape. She listened carefully. Eventaully, she could make out the rattling of keys, shortly followed by the opening of the lorry's back padlock and the almost deafening noise of the whole back section rolling up overhead. At last she could hear her captors talking again. She could feel her cage being let loose of the taut straps that had held it in place during the journey, then lifted up by the two men and lowered onto the road. She just barely managed to lift her head up off the cage's damp metal floor in time to avoid taking the brunt of the impact. She let out an involuntary whimper as the two men hoisted the cage again. "Shut up," said one of them, as if talking to a pet dog that couldn't stop barking. Jane tried her best to keep quiet, but she started sobbing uncontrollably again, the tears running down her cheeks and joining the puddle of hosewater on the cage's floor. The men put her down again and rang the doorbell. After a short while, another man answered. "So _this_ is the package," she heard him say. His voice was all nasal and pinched. She didn't recognise it. "Sign here, please," said one of the other men. Then there was a brief silence. "Have a good day, sir." She heard footsteps walking away, back to the van or lorry or whatever it was, then the doors opening and closing. Another momentary silence. Her cheeks were wet and cold. For that matter, the lower half of her body, which at the moment was her feet, shins, and face, were _all_ wet. Her whole body was cold, and ached, and she just wanted to go home and make herself a hot cocoa and have a bath. The engine started. Jane tried to convince herself that it was all some elaborate practical joke, that any minute now one of her friends woud turn out to be right next to her, one of her cute guy friends who gave her tips when she was practicing going down on mannequins on weekends that suddenly seemed so distant now. Even the guy she'd gone to in order to try to remove her belt. _Anyone_. She just wanted to be hoisted inside the house, for the cloth draped over the cage to be pulled off, and for her friends to exclaim "Surprise!" At this point, she wouldn't even mind. She'd forgive them. She just wanted it to be over. She heard the other man struggling as he tried to lift the cage. "Jesus Christ, what've they got in here?" he asked. The cage's cover was lifted back, and crouching down to look at her was a middle-aged man with a goatee. "Oh!" he exclaimed. Not disapproving, nor excited, just taken aback. Whoever he was, he seemed genuinely surprised, as if ordering a real live slavegirl had slipped his mind. He looked around the street, then dropped the cover again. Maybe he'd bought her online while he was drunk, she realised. How embarrassing. How pathetic that would be, to be owned by someone who didn't even really want you. What was she saying? Being owned, being someone else's property, was embarrassing enough! She was _not_ going to start thinking of herself that way, to just accept what had happened to her, who she'd become. It was something that had been forced upon her. It's not like it was a choice or anything. She heard him walk away. Without meaning to, she started screaming and hyperventilating all at the same time, which was no small feat. "Quiet," he said in a casual voice, that same mindset of talking to a mischevous pet. "I'm coming back." Jane briefly wondered if that's how everyone had always talked to slaves and she'd just never noticed before. She always tried to avoid them as best she could, which was pretty easy given that hardly any masters let their slaves go outside with them, and none of her friends were rich enough to own any slaves by a long shot. This was a complete change of setting for her, a brutal introduction to a whole new world that had been secretly intermingled with her own all this time, always just out of view. The door opened again. "Listen," said the man, "you're not gonna try anything funny, are you? Because I'm fully dressed and you're not even wearing any shoes. With those chains on you, you can't outrun me, plus I'm guessing you're no more thrilled about the neighbours seeing you than I am. So if I pop open that lid, can I trust you to come with me like a good girl?" _Like a good girl._ No one had talked to her like that since her father had last admonished her as a child. She felt the urge to protest, but thought better of it. "OK," she said in between sobs, as calmly as she could. "Good." The cage's cover was lifted again, and this time the man unlocked the padlocks to the lid, and swung it open. She could see he was holding a leash. "Come on, let's make it quick." Jane carefully arched her back, sat up on her knees, then got to her feet. She felt dizzy. "There's a good girl, come on," said the man. He clipped the leash onto her collar. Jane looked down at the chain dangling from the man's hand all the way down to her neck, and tentatively touched her collar. Sure enough, there was a semicircular ring fixed to it, like a big, metal letter D. "Come on, I'm not kidding." The man tugged at the leash, pulling her towards the door. It was all Jane could do not to fall over, tripping over the cage. She tried to step over it, but the chain between her ankles prevented her from raising either foot more than a few inches up off the floor. "Here," said the man, "let me help you." He let go of the leash, letting the chain drape down between her breasts as the handle swung around her hips, brushing against her chastity belt. He lifted her up over the side of the cage and put her back down on the gravel of the driveway next to it, little pieces of grit sticking to her naked buttocks and feet. Great, she thought. The last of the true gentlemen. She tried to get back on her feet. "No," said the man, "stay on the floor. I think it'd be better that way, start to teach you your place. You're clearly new at this. Here, just follow me." He picked her leash back up and tugged on it again. Jane wiped the pieces of grit off her bottom in one swift motion, then crawled along after him on her knees, trying not to think about how much the grit now sticking to her knees hurt, and trying not to wonder if any of his neighbours could see her. "That's better." The man grinned. "See? It's not that difficult." He led her inside, then into the lounge of what seemed to Jane like a luxurious house, practically a mansion. The floor was made of a finely varnished wood, and the seats looked like expensive leather. Once they stopped in the middle of the room, the man walked behind her and lifted her hair up. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to look at the back of her neck. Then he mumbled some numbers as if trying to memorise them. "Stay," he said. No "wait here" or anything so friendly; evidently he was used to treating people like he was treating her. He went back to the front door, and Jane heared several beeping noises. When he came back, he looked somewhat relieved. "Maybe there's been some kind of mistake," he said. "I didn't order any more slaves. I've already got one, see?" He shouted into the next room. "Hey, Lanny!" Jane turned around to see another woman enter the room. She looked like she was barely an adult. She wore a cami top -- the lingerie kind, not the outer wear kind -- and a microskirt that revealed almost as much of her chastity belt as it covered. If it wasn't for the metal enclosing her vulva, Jane would actually have been able to glimpse the bottom of her labia peeping out from under the skirt. Then again, if it weren't for the chastity belt, she'd probably have been wearing a thong or something to cover herself. At least, Jane hoped she would. With an outfit like that, it was hard to tell what her master considered the boundaries of decent taste. The only thing working towards Lanny's sense of dignity appeared to be the fact that, apparently unlike Jane, she was allowed to walk upright. Lanny kept her gaze on the floor, only daring to glance in Jane's direction for a brief moment. There was a look in her eyes that Jane pitied, but it wasn't a look that begged for help. It was just a look that meant she was hard done by but there was nothing she could do about it. She knew her place. "I guess that means you can go now, huh?" said the man to Jane. He motioned for Lanny to come up to him, which she did. "I would give ya some clothes, but I only have _decent_ clothes in men's styles. Sorry. No hard feelings, huh?" As he talked, grinning like an idiot all the while, he started fondling one of Lanny's breasts, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do during polite discourse and didn't warrant mentioning or even looking at her. Jane must have looked nervous. She certainly felt it. She just looked up at the man. "No, go ahead," he insisted. "You can go." Jane looked at Lanny's eyes. She kept them cast on the floor, but glanced up for another brief second. Jane could have sworn she looked nervous too. "You won't chase me?" asked Jane. "I won't chase you," agreed the man. "Don't--" said Lenny in a pathetic, pleading tone of voice before being abruptly cut off by the man pinching her nipple hard. She winced, then remained silent. "Go ahead," insisted the man. Jane glanced at Lanny, the man, and the door. She had no idea where she could go, or how far she could get before someone turned her in. She didn't even know where she _was_. She could have been miles away from her old neighbourhood or just a few streets. There was no way she'd make it as far as her home or any of her friends. For all she knew, someone else was renting her flat already, her clothes and posessions sold off by the government to pay the fees of her captors. There was always a chance, though, however slim, that _someone_ nearby might pity her and take her in. Maybe he'd be nice to her, keep her hidden away, and she'd only have to give him the occasional favour. Yeah, right. Before she realised what she was doing, Jane was on her feet and running towards the door, the leash flailing around her groin. She didn't look back, but she couldn't hear anything. She pictured Lanny and the man with their eyes fixed on her naked buttocks protruding out from her belt, watching her in amusement. _His_ amusement, at least. She ran towards the door and opened it. It opened. She glanced around the street. It seemed empty. She took a deep breath, and stepped back out onto the driveway, the gravel sticking to the souls of her feet once more. Suddenly, her neck seemed to practically catch fire with all the pain she felt. She screamed in pain, falling to the hard floor until she was writhing around in a foetal position, gravel sticking to her thighs and arms. The next thing she knew, the man was tugging at her leash, laughing as he pulled her inside again. It took all her conscious effort to follow him. This time she crawled on her hands and knees less out of a sense of self preservation by means of doing what she was told so much as her suspicion that she couldn't concentrate enough to walk without falling over. "I can't believe you actually did that." He closed the door again, and the pain started to subside. "I didn't think you would actually go through with it." "What..." said Jane in between short breaths. "What just happened?" "I didn't realise there was anyone left who didn't know. It's that collar they gave you. The house's security system charges it wirelessly, and it tells it your limits. I punched your number into the house's system so it recognises you as the property of your new master, so it's confined you to his household." He grinned again, that stupid grin. "You can't leave." "So I'm stuck here?" asked Jane. "Of course!" The man laughed again. "What, you didn't really think I was gonna let you go, did you?" "But you said you already had a slavegirl, that you didn't... you know..." "What?" It was Jane's turn to look down at the floor, embarrassed. "_Order_ me." "Technically, I wasn't lying," said the man. "I _do_ have a slavegirl. She's at home right now, though." "_What?_" Nothing this guy said made any sense. "This isn't my house. It's my friend's. He asked me to stay here this morning while he was at work, said he was expecting a package. Didn't tell me what _kind_ of package it was, though." He looked her up and down as if picturing all the lurid things he wanted to do to her, and which her new master would no doubt let him. Jane resisted the urge to hit him. Guys leering at her were a pet peeve of hers, although she couldn't remember if that had been before or after she'd started her job. She made an effort to keep calm and not say anything, even if she couldn't quite bring herself to accept her new role in life. "They're an interesting thing, slavegirls such as yourself. I guess you're new to the whole idea, huh? Well let me fill you in on a few facts. Legally, there's no such thing as raping a slavegirl. A slave doesn't have a choice." He looked down at her expectantly. "You want me to suck you off?" asked Jane. She knew it was far too optimistic to ask if he wanted to take her chastity belt off and outright fuck her brains out. That would give _her_ some pleasure, after all, however vile the prospect of him having his way with her was. She assumed he'd had his own belt removed. There were rumours that pretty much all the rich people did. The law was just a way of legalising slavery, of enforcing the poor to become their complete and utter playthings if only they'd slip up, and boy had she slipped up. "Nah, I'm not in the mood," said the man. That was hard to believe, watching him kneading the poor girl's breast. "Try her." "What?" asked Jane. "Kiss her," said the man. Lanny turned around to glance at the man, as if to work out if she should crawl down to Jane's level or not. She stayed standing. "Please," she said to Jane, "just do as he says." She had a thick accent. Slowly, tentatively, Jane got back on her feet. With her arms still locked behind her back, she walked towards the girl with strides as big as her ankle's chain would allow -- short, silly footsteps that would have looked rediculous to any outside observer. She leaned in to kiss Lanny, then stopped. "I'm sorry, I can't," she said. "I'm not into girls. It's creepy." "That's another thing about slaves," said the man. "They don't _have_ any preferences, sexual or otherwise, just like they don't have anything else. They do what they're told, and they enjoy the opportunity to please their masters." He reached into his pocket as if to grab something. Jane yelped, a short, loud burst of noise to match the momentary spark of electricity that had cursed through her neck, just like before except only there for a split second. "Remote control," explained the man. "You've got a lot of learning to do." He kept fondling Lanny's breasts, now alternating between the two, as if she was some kind of stress relieving toy. "Kiss her." Jane leaned in again, as slowly as she could to put off the inevitable, but she didn't back out. Lanny glanced briefly at her, her eyes seeming to tell her that she'd get used to it, that it's not that bad, and as their heads tilted to opposite sides, they wrapped their tongues around each other's, exploring each other's mouths. At that moment, someone unlocked the door and swung it open. Jane fought the urge to break off the kiss and look around to see who it was. "Ah, you're back," said the man, still fondling Lanny's breasts as she kissed Jane. Lanny let out a slight moan, a whimper that could have almost been approval. Jane dreaded to contemplate whether she was acting or actually enjoying any of what she was being made to do. Was she a lesbian? Was she content to be a slave? Was she just a slut who loved the pleasure of the sensations, circumstances be damned? Jane wasn't any of those things, and didn't relish the thought of becoming any of them. "Ah, good. I see my package has arrived." The voice sounded familiar. "Let's get a good look at her." Lanny broke off the kiss, wiping a small bead of spit from between their lips with the back of her hand, and Jane turned around to see who had bought her, who would be her new master for the rest of her life. Who would decide if she would ever get to have another orgasm again. Obviously freedom was out of the question, but just the ability to have regular orgasms might have made it OK. If it was someone she could trust, someone she liked. If only any of her friends could have afforded to buy her. But they couldn't. Even if they hadn't let her go, she would have almost been happy to service them in any way they wanted. But no. She remembered the voice. She worked out who it was just in time to turn around and face him, to face the man who'd first suggested she get her chastity belt removed. She looked up into his eyes, the middle-aged, balding man in the smart business suit, repulsive in both his looks and his mannerisms. He grinned back at her, his breath stinking of God knew what. "Welcome home."