Voyager

I'm flying the airplane.

A wing dips and I turn the wheel, scraping ailerons on the frozen air.

The plane yaws; I reach up and adjust the trim. It rolls; I pull back on the yoke. We level off.

I'm scared, afraid of losing control, of falling. But still, I'm flying. It's my skill that keeps us in the air, keeps the passengers safe. The passengers...

I look around the cockpit, confused. The plane starts to fall off. I correct. Concentrate, damn it! Straight and level!

What is this? I can't be the pilot. I boarded in New York as a passenger. Didn't I?

Then why am I in the hold?

I know this is the hold; I can hear the plane's joints creaking. That's not part of the "flying experience." I feel heavy duty blowers moving the air, alternately chilling and heating my bare skin like...

...My bare skin? I'm naked? Naked in a plane full of people!

My eyes spring open and I see...metal! Am I in a cage? Frightened, I try to get to my feet...can't. This is one weird dream! Naked in a small cage... I lean back and hug my legs. I look up; the cage has two compartments, another girl is in the upper.

The metal feels soft against my bare skin...soft metal? I'm confused and disoriented. "Just a dream; it's just a dream," I whisper, "I'm going to wake in a second." I hug myself more tightly. A man sits nearby under a light, watching me over the top of his magazine. Is he real? We stare at each other for a long time. He glances down. There's a metal rod at his feet. Memories return and my stomach knots. A squirt of adrenaline clears the cobwebs from my mind.

"Please, God, don't let him touch me with that thing." I lose control and start to pee. The warm liquid pools on my stomach.

How long has it been, hours, minutes? No way to tell. The girl above is angry, yelling, shaking the cage. The man walks over and runs his prod over the mesh. It sounds like a snake's rattle. She ignores him. I watch from the lower cage paralyzed with fear. He waits a few seconds, then pushes the prod inside and touches her ass. There's a loud snap and she recoils as if on springs; her face frozen in stunned disbelief.

In slow motion, she opens her mouth and screams. It's not just the pain; it's the insult. I know the feeling—like a stranger slapping your face. The guard holds his finger to his lips and then shocks her again when she fails to stop. She passes out; he opens her door, moves her into a kneeling position with her hands behind, and ties her wrists and ankles to the mesh.

The prod is leaning on the mesh near my face. I look up at him, terrified. CELTs are often punished together for disobedience. He finishes his binding and glances at me. There's no pity in his eyes, none. I stare back, petrified. He smiles, amused by my terror; then with a single motion he picks up the prod and walks back to his chair.

I'm ashamed at my fear, but also happy. Electricity hurts!

I fall asleep immediately in the silence that follows. This happens a lot; girls get so stressed, so frightened that they just shut down when it's over. It's called trancing.

That must be what happened, but I'm awake now...right? I look up through the mesh that separates us. The girl is still tied and unconscious. It's okay; these CELT-Ex people know their business. She's probably just trancing just as I had been. An electric prod doesn't do real damage. She'll be fine. That's a painful tie though; her knees are going to hurt when she wakes.

Why didn't he shock me? That's the protocol. CELT-Ex would be pissed if they knew. I shudder. Electricity... I hate it more than anything. It rips at you; at least that's what it feels like. I don't even like to think about it. Silently, I move to my knees. The guard is back to his magazine. The cage is just long enough for me to grip the front mesh with my fingers and the back mesh with my toes. He's still reading. I push myself off the cage floor and hold the position—isometric pushups. I wait until my muscles hurt and then let myself down.

I push off again.

Her name is Virginia; I read it off the shipping label. It was dumb to shock her. In fact, I wouldn't give electric prods to guards at all. Shocking her was dumb: too much potential for damage. I push off again. It feels good to be using my cramped muscles. What if she'd been hurt banging around the cage? CELT-Ex is responsible; their reputation is on the line. It would be like delivering someone's precious Ferrari with a dent in the hood.

I smile. A new Ferrari...yes, that's appropriate. We're expensive boy-toys now, just like a new Ferrari. Victoria moans. I look back over my shoulder. She moves her head and blond hair cascades over the side of her face...beautiful! I squeeze the mesh as I watch.

The metal is soft, rubbery. These are the new cages. I know about them from the CELT-Ex ads. The mesh is actually stronger than titanium: some new kind of new nanotech alloy. It must cost a fortune...another silly BDSM toy for CELTs. Still, it saved my ass. I'm going to write CELT-Ex a note when I get back, "Dear CELT-Ex, You definitely need to do something about those dangerous electric prods, but your new Transporter cage saved my ass..."

I push off again, breathing a little heavier.

The assholes at JFK would have had themselves a piece of ass...two, if it weren't for our Transporter. Maybe I provoked it a little, but I was bored. They left us standing there for hours...no food, no water, dirty cages. When a warehouseman sticks his finger through the mesh, I playfully get to my hands and knees and suck it. I know I look good in that pose: strong long legs, a hard round ass, a flat stomach, a sexy curve in the small of my back...provocative...like a cheetah, a human cheetah.

He's turned on; I can see the bulge in his pants. He tries to open the cage; I back away, frightened. Another few seconds of frustration and then he grabs the fire ax. I watch the muscles in his neck bulge as he tries to pry open the cage door, imagining what happens to me when it pops, but it never does. Exhausted, he steps back and looks at me. I cock my head to the side and smile sympathetically. He walks away, embarrassed.

Most men are rapists and sadists. It's the testosterone. It's what makes a man a man. They suppress the urge of course, but under the right circumstances...

My muscles start to tremble and I lower myself to the floor.

Women want to cuddle with a strong man. It's the estrogen. Me too, I like being dominated by a strong man, even though I'm smarter, stronger, and a lot more capable than most of them.

Maybe we should be dominating them? Somehow, this idea doesn't resonate. A man is always going to be the sword and a woman, his scabbard...and that's not just a metaphor for fucking. It's nature's design that men rule, not women, no matter how un-fucking-worthy they are.

What about Howard? Where does he fit?

I glance back at Victoria again and push off. Exercise is necessary when you're caged like this. I'm straight, but she takes my breath away. I've been staring at her for hours. Her body is built for sex. It's as if she has "Please Fuck Me" tattooed on her forehead. She's a sex kitten: her hair, face, lips, eyes, tits, waist, hips, legs, feet, toes, skin...everything, everything about her screams pussy! Men will just strap her on to their dicks and never want to take her off.

My first reaction is jealousy. I know I'm beautiful, but my beauty is hard edged, athletic. Men like to dominate me for the sport of it. With an exotic, erotic beauty it's different; they will get off on making her suffer. Her pain will excite them like blood excites a shark.

I push myself off the floor again.

I'm glad for the girl's company, but being paired with another CELT, especially a bondage virgin, could mean trouble. Peer pressure is an important tool for keeping CELTs in line; everyone around her will suffer when she acts up.

I glance over at the guard. He's back to his magazine. It's probably a comic book. What other kind of intellect would take a job guarding women in a fucking cargo hold? I fall to the floor, my arms shaking.

Relax...relax! It's this fucking cargo hold; it's driving me nuts. We should be with the passengers! There's no logical reason for us to be caged down here other than to soften us up: most men don't have the balls to have their CELT show up on the front doorstep. It's easier if she is delivered naked and cowed in a cage. CELT-Ex is being paid to both transport and condition up. Despite their Fortune-100 ranking, they're just a bunch of pimps.

What about Howard? Was he like most men? A cool breeze blew over my wet midsection as the ventilation system kicked in again. "Oh, Howard, what have I done to us?" I whisper. The words just slip out. I quickly push off again, trying to block his memory, but it doesn't work.

I love him and he loves me. Well, maybe love isn't exactly the right word, but we did have our moments: indescribably tender moments that certainly qualify as love. Then there were the times he disciplined me, disciplined me so harshly that...that what? Get over yourself, Jesse! You choose this life, it was consensual; no one forced you into it.

I let myself down and almost immediately push off again, straining hard. Disciplining me was his right! I was a CELT, a Contracted-Escort Long-Term, a Contract Girl...whatever name you wanted to use. We agreed to the no-holds-barred discipline. It was part of the deal, written into our contracts, notarized and certified by lawyers. It's why a CELT contract is so valuable. Men loved the idea of it and paid huge sums to "own" their own girl. Without the discipline though, we'd just be expensive mistresses.

My arms and legs are shaking again. I let myself down and curl up on the cage bottom.

Most men would be eating out of "our" hands in a week without the discipline!

Howard was different. His discipline made our relationship stronger, more intimate. It's hard to explain. I loved him and feared him at the same time with equal intensity. He was my lover, but we slept in separate rooms. He was my companion, my best friend, but most of the time I called him Sir. He was often kind, but he was also my torturer. Was this love? Maybe there's no word for it. All I know is that my time with him was the happiest of my life. How fucked up is that; he hurt me more than any man, yet all I ever wanted to do was to make him happy.

CELT-ic slave love... It certainly seems to be catching on. The old kinds of relationships just don't seem to work anymore. Sure, there are some abuses, but for the most part the legal protections provided by the CELT laws keep things in check. People seem willing to accept CELTs as long as there are civilized controls in place.

CELT contracts have become big business. Nowadays, beautiful girls from all economic classes, not just the poor, sign up. It's an adventure, an easy way to make ten year's salary in three, at least for some.

Howard and I had had a lot more than an adventure. Our...relationship was special, filled with real intimacy and intensity...rare.

Then why is it over?

It's over because I needed the money! I feel suddenly nauseous

...I needed the money.

Bullshit! It was never about the money! I would have stayed with him for nothing, even as his contract girl...maybe "especially" as his contract girl.

So tell the truth, bitch, at least to yourself!

I feel tears forming. Pride! It was my fucking pride.

Howard had saved enough to renew my contract--about $300,000. He didn't talk about it, but I knew it was a done deal. We were both happy: my brother would get the money for his therapy and Howard would get me as his CELT slave for another three years. I had had the dumb idea that he might just ask me to be his girlfriend, but continuing as his CELT was just as good. Anyway, my brother really needed the money; this was better.

Then we got the offer. Someone wanted to pay $450,000 for my contract. I was dazzled and flattered. Here was concrete proof of my value, my value... How fucking ridiculous that sounds now. At the time though, it seemed important. Somebody wants me, a lot!

I start joking around, teasing him about accepting the new offer, asking him when he would be able to come up with the extra cash. It was a joke! I would never have left him. A joke...

But he didn't think it was funny and went on the attack, belittling my sense of obligation, calling it stupid, absurd. "Haven't you given up your life for that useless brother of yours; what kind of moron are you anyway to throw your life away?"

Given up my life... useless brother... moron... I knew he felt betrayed, but those words hurt and I fought back. This was a different kind of pain: the more he hurt me, the more I tried to hurt him. How fucking stupid! I shift my position and wipe away the tears. I should have backed down. He was right. I had given up my life, become a CELT...for my family. Did that make sense? Did it make sense to even joke about giving up our love? But pride held me back.

Even when, despite his anger, Howard asked his high born Mother for a loan, I refused to relent. (She'd turned him down of course when she discovered it was for a contract-girl, even threatening to cut him out of her will.)

It wasn't until our last night together that I finally swallowed my pride. I couldn't leave Howard, not for any amount of money! I was going to tell him that evening. I'd been hurt; he would understand. I had it all worked out. I would tell him as soon as he got home.

I never got the chance. He had me gagged and hanging from our whipping post within second of bursting through the door. Then he whipped me like I had never been whipped before. I welcomed the pain; I deserved it. My apology could wait; maybe afterwards, when we made love, when I was sucking his cock.

Only this time, we didn't make love. He stopped his whipping on the stroke of midnight, the moment his ownership ended, and carried me stiffly into my room. I was still in the zone when he laid me in my bed and removed my gag. Later, when I went to his room, he was gone. Gone! We had ended accidentally...it was all just a tragic accident.

I left in the morning with tears in my eyes and a terrible ache in my gut. What else could I do? I had missed my opportunity. Technically, I didn't belong to him anymore. People stared at me as I walked like a zombie to the CELT-Ex office. Mercifully they were all business, hustling me to a back room and into a Transporter. I was in a fog. Howard had left. Nothing else seemed to matter.

Maybe it was all for the best. I didn't deserve him. He could buy another girl, someone better; someone who would appreciate him. As for me, I was now committed to a new owner. It wouldn't be so bad. He was obviously rich; maybe he would be someone like Howard. I probably should have checked him out more carefully, but after all the shit with Howard, it just wasn't a priority. Anyway, my lawyer would have done that.

For some strange reason though, Shakespeare's words that "first, we kill all the lawyers" kept repeating in my mind.

++++++++++++

Welcome

Air travel is a subtle form of torture. It's the seatbelt, the confinement, the noise, the stale air, the lack of privacy...and those are just the passengers' woes. Imagine what it's like for cargo.

Our guard is losing it, pacing the narrow corridor like a trapped bear. His boredom has put him in a real dilemma—does he remain professional or play with the cargo. Who's going to know? Every once in a while, he looks at us like a mean child and starts fingering his prod.

Victoria is scared and hurting. She's still on her knees with her wrists tied behind to the top of the cage. If she rests on her haunches, the agony is in her shoulders; if she pushes herself up, it's in her legs and knees. I keep signaling her to stay quiet, but she can't. It's just a matter of time before the guard uses her whining as an excuse.

We all let out a sigh of relief when the plane starts to decent.

Terra firma! I've never been so happy to be on the ground. Three men manhandle the cage to the doorway as soon as the plane stops moving and load it into a small truck. I can see the guard signing papers. No one bothers to untie the girl. I catch the guard's eye just before the door closes and blow him a kiss then I give him the finger. He just smiles and turns away. We immediately forget each other forever.

The trip is hard on the girl, but thankfully short. I want to talk to her, but resist the temptation. I'm sure the driver has his own prod.

The driver unlocks my gate when we arrive.

"...Out!" Surprising, his tone is polite. I obey immediately, pleasantly surprised. "...Stomach!" I drop down and cross my wrists in the small of my back. Ah, space! It's all I can think about as I stretch my legs to their limits. The night air is warm; that's good. Cold weather is a problem for naked slaves. I'm lying on soft lush grass. That's also good since it means that we're probably not in the Middle East. CELTs are not treated well there. Warmth and grass, things could be worse.

The driver unties Victoria and lays her next to me. I can see buildings, but it's too dark to make out details. He handcuffs my wrists, slipping his hand between my legs in the process: a groper. I remain still. He moves back to the truck and lights up, watching us stretch. Despite the hand action, he seems more disciplined than usual and he's wearing fatigues...a soldier?

After a few minutes, another man walks over and snaps an order. Is he speaking Russian? Are we in Russia? The driver puts a leather collar on my neck and effortlessly lifts me to my feet. A man's strength...for the millionth time, I'm jealous. He connects our collars with a short length of chain, creating a two-girl slave coffle.

We stand there naked and quiet. As I've been trained, I keep my back straight, shoulders back, and my head bowed. Coffle girls who slouch or make disrespectful eye contact often end up doing a jig to someone's whip. I hope the girl is picking this up.

The driver moves to my front and leans over me as if to check my cuffs. Hidden from the other man, he grabs my breast. I'm surprised, but don't pull away. There's a sharp command and he backs away, smiling. His hand felt good. I flash my eyes at him and show him a little tongue. He hesitates and then walks away.

That was a funny little hesitation... CELT's learn how to read such things. He'd be fucking me right now if his boss wasn't watching...too bad. It's hard for men, even well disciplined soldiers, to handle CELTs, especially when they're naked and bound. Why they don't use more women guards?

The commander takes a chain from the van and hooks it to the front of my collar. He looks strong and tough, but I can't see him very well in the dim light. His hand brushes a breast...nothing. I push them out a little farther and glance back at the driver. He's watching of course and I...

The shit jerks my chain hard. I follow.

Too bad, I'm horny and wet; what would it matter if he had given me to the driver for a few minutes? I think about his hard cock between my legs and come softly as we walk. It doesn't take much when you're chained like this.

We near one of the buildings. A group of men are loitering by the door...more soldiers? The man holding the chain barks an order and magically a path opens; still, one of them grabs my ass as we pass by. I twist away, but stay quiet.

I hope Victoria is catching on. We're chattel now, property. As such, we need to protect our bodies from abuse, but not insult the abuser. A CELT who wiggles away from a stranger, for example, is doing the right thing; but one who screams at a man sticking his finger up her cunt is not. It's obvious that she knows none of this as she starts swearing at the men touching her. The chain jerks hard and a flurry of words are directed at the crowd. The touching stops instantly and we move on amidst smiles and barely stifled guffaws.