The Big Exclusive

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

*

"It's the angle we've been looking for, chief. We can blow the lid off the slave industry!"

"Donna, first, what you are proposing is potentially very dangerous. If they discover that you are a reporter..."

"My alias will be iron-clad. Besides you've been saying for a while that we need a "girl inside" to get the real scoop or this supposedly "beneficial option" to erase debt and get a new start,"

"You have to admit, Donna, that from the outside it seems quite convincing. Over your head in debt? Expunge it and get a fresh start after five years of uncompensated labor usually as a sex worker. Mandatory medical checkups, mandatory downtimes, coercion kept at a minimum. In five years, you reclaim your old life with one-hundred and sixty grand to start over."

"That's just it, boss, it's too good to be true."

"But reports from people and industries that have made use of the service, seem satisfied. Amazon's bottom line has never been better. The slave workers in their warehouses actually have better working conditions than the free citizens that used to work there."

"Propaganda, boss! Surely, there must be some negative stories out there, but we never hear about them. They are probably being suppressed or eliminated!"

"Or they don't exist."

"Oh, come on, chief! No bureaucracy exists that doesn't steamroll someone at some point."

"You're probably right, Donna. Even if we get you in, how do we get you out?"

"We have me bought by a third party that can't be traced to our cable channl. I'll be able to give an accurate account of their processing and enslavement methods. Depending on how we time this thing, I'll be out of the office a week, two at tops."

"A lot could go wrong, Donna."

"True, but if everything goes right, we have the story of the year! Quite probably a Pulitzer."

"And if things go ass over teakettle, you are marooned behind enemy lines for five years."

"Ain't gonna happen, boss. I've got everything worked out."

**

The middle-aged woman at the slave induction center studied the young woman sitting across from her, although she was pretty enough, her tale of woe rang false notes with her. The woman's red hair looked like she had never missed a date at the hair salon. Her rather nice figure looked like it never missed a meal. Usually, women ended up here as a means of last resort. It seemed to the processing clerk that the beautiful redhead could have turned to lots of places for fast cash, like pole-dancing and stripping, even secretarial work, she seemed bright enough. The debt figures she supplied seemed off as well. A woman her age should not have been able to ring up such a debt load so fast. If banks and credit card companies were willing to advance her that much credit, she should at least have a house or a condo, or a fancy car to liquidate for funds. The story of a compulsive gambling addiction might have been true, but the intake clerk couldn't quite square it with the poised but nervous woman sitting across from her. Her emotions did not ring true. It almost sounded like a script. The clerk didn't get where she was without having an innate sense of reading people.

Before the new slavery laws were passed, and with it a new industry, the intake clerk had been a professional medium. She was an ace cold reader of people. The skills she used in that old job served her excellently in her new profession. Women like her were necessary to weed out the thrill-seekers, the runaways, the detectives, and undercover cops. Donna clearly was neither of those, but she was hiding something. "If you will excuse me for a moment, Donna," she said as she rose from her chair and vanished into the back office.

"We have an odd duck, Jules," she said to her supervisor as she quickly brought him up to speed.

"Fingerprints? Iris scan?"

"They come up clean."

"How far do they go back?" asked Jules.

"Ten years."

"Convenient, just at the limits of our legal inquiry reach. Let me see them, Ida"

The clerk handed over the scans.

"Let's feed these into the computer and see what happens."

A few seconds later, an electronic ping was heard.

"That's why we pay you the big bucks, Ida. There was another identity linked to these until recently."

"Who?"

"That's the 64,000-dollar question, Ida. Whoever she is, she has done a pretty good job of wiping her old identity out."

"Cop? Detective? Scam artist?"

"No, someone paid big money for this kind of erasure, cops send in rookies or transfers from other states. P.I.s don't blow the money needed for this unless they are working for the government, and we're clear in that area. We just passed the government white-glove inspection a month ago."

"Scam artist?"

"Unlikely, why would a scammer pay this kind of money when she can use it for general grifting or deluding sugar daddies with big wallets, huge libidos, and tiny brains."

"Unless she's working with a team."

"To what end? You can only sell and resell the same slave so many times before word gets around and the feds snap her up."

"Hmmm," said Ida.

"Let me take a look at her."

Jules strode over to the bank of monitors or a near wall.

"Holy shit! Do you know who that is, Ida? It's Donna Freeman of the Bowersox Cable News Channel!"

"Never heard of it, boss."

They are brand spanking new; most cable services don't carry B.C.N. yet. I have a super- premium package, however. They are a lot of bright young faces who all think they are the next Edward R. Murrow. I'd know that face and figure anywhere.

"Are you sure, Jules?"

"Yeah, she's died her hair and had the color of her eyes genetically altered and done something to her eyebrows, but that's her! What alias is she using?"

"Donna Clemens."

"Think she's Mark Twain, does she?"

"So, the bum's rush, Jules?"

"No. Let's teach the fourth estate a lesson. She wants a story? Let her tell it -- in five years after all the sass and vinegar is wiped out of her!"

"But her network..."

"Sent her deep undercover, well, what they thought was deep at any rate. Someone outside the news organization is, no doubt, waiting to buy and free her. We won't sell her here. Will sell her to the moneybags in Boston."

"But when she DOES time out of her service?"

"Who will remember her then? B.C.N., if it's still in business, will have long replaced her with some other fresh young fox."

"But they will investigate, boss."

"And admit they forged an identity for ratings? Where would they even start looking for her? She won't be sold here in Miami, and you know as well as I do, that our slaves are untraceable to the outside world. She'll go in as Donna Clemens and that will be the only identity, she will have half a decade from now. It will be next to impossible for her to prove that she ever was Donna Freeman or even if there ever was a Donna Freeman. By that time, in the eyes of the law, Donna Freeman will be deceased! Who's going to believe her five years from now if she tries to reclaim her old identity? Lazarus's situation is rather uncommon, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know, Jules."

"Oh, come on, how much do you think a piece of ass like that would sell for?"

"High six, maybe seven figures."

"Exactly! Hell of a commission, eh?"

At that moment, Ida's mind was made up. She took a deep breath and prepared to turn on the charm. She exited the back office.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Donna nervously.

"No, I just went in to verify your financials with the credit bureaus and the office roving talks-a lot-works-a little nuisance waylaid me with a bunch of meaningless drivel. Everything is in order, Donna. We'd be delighted to solve your problems. After you sign and initial these forms, follow me to the intake room."

"What will happen to my stuff?"

"We'll keep it safe for you at a long-term storage facility. We provide everything you need."

"Such as a uniform, a place to sleep, on-the-job training, and most importantly, a fresh start!"

They approached a pair of metal swinging doors. A woman dressed something like a nurse, greeted Ida by name.

"Stacy, this is Donna, she just joined our organization."

"Well, welcome to the club, Donna," said the petite blonde in a peppy voice.

"I was once like you, Donna," continued Stacy. "After my term of service ended, I found a job right here where it all began."

"You were a slave?"

"Yep, and a damn good one too!"

"What's it like?"

"You'll find out. Every woman's story is similar, yet every woman's story is also unique."

"I'll leave you in the capable hands of Stacy," Ida interrupted, "See you in five years, Donna, it was nice getting to know you."

Ida turned and headed back to her workstation, being very careful to hide her wide grin from the unsuspecting reporter.

"OK, Donna, your future is waiting behind these doors!"

Donna swallowed the lump in her throat and plunged through the door behind Stacy.

Everything was white-tiled and sterile. Stacy walked over to a cabinet and removed a sturdy plastic box with a clear lid.

"I'm sure you know what happens now, Donna," she said as she set the plastic box down on a small table. Everything comes off, including false nails and any hair extensions. Every last thing goes in this box. Once you are naked, I'm going to search you, head to toe. Then we move on to the doctor who will examine you. From there, you get a nice, long, hot shower before being assessed. After all that, we give you a uniform, a toothbrush, and a bunk. In the morning, you will be fitted with a collar and begin your rudimentary training. Three days of drilling and you hit the sales floor. I'll tell you now, that you are auctioned off butt naked save for your collar and a smile. From that point on, you are entrusted to your "owner" for the next five years. At the end of your term, you report right back here, and we reverse the process, and you walk out wearing the clothes you wore in today and a very tidy sum to get you back on your feet. Is that clear?"

Donna nodded.

Stacy's countenance took on that of a military drill instructor and she barked, "Strip!"

Donna swallowed hard and stepped out of her shoes. She knew full well that nudity and humiliation were going to be a part of this assignment. There was, of course, no way to avoid it. Part of her brain was wondering how to cover this aspect of her processing; play up the salaciousness, or be clinical and matter-of-fact? She had three days to decide.

"I haven't got all day, Donna."

The trim and lithe reporter hurried her pace, removing her pink sweatshirt, jeans, white brassiere, and black panties, carefully folding, and placing them in the box. Next, off came the gaudy-looking cheap earrings and the charm bracelet and inexpensive rings she wore to give verisimilitude to the fact that she had little money left. Donna sealed the box, Stacy printed out a label, affixed it to the box, and sent the box onto its next destination via conveyor belt.

Donna had never felt more naked than when she spied her last link to freedom roll out of sight.

Stacy pulled out a pair of latex gloves, "Every part of you will be subjected to a search, Donna. You'd be amazed at the things some girls try to smuggle in! I've found cell phones, bags of cash, drugs, weapons, you name it."

Donna looked blankly at her in response.

"OK, Donna, hands on your head, I'm going to examine under your boobs first."

Stacy considered the naked woman before her. She decided that Donna was far prettier than the average inductee. Girls this pretty were usually able to snag a sugar daddy or a sugar momma. Had she really explored all her options before deciding that five years of chattel was better than sucking some obese rich guy's micro-penis or some hag's nest for an undetermined length of time? Stacy wondered if Donna was one of those ninnies who devoured TV movies about slavery on the Hallmark Channel, where every owner turns out to be a prince in disguise or a business executive who is broken out of his crippling shyness by the beautiful slave he bought on a lark? In those movies, the hunky slave master always freed his new purchase to marry her and settle down to domestic bliss. Stacy knew from personal experience that things NEVER went that way. Despite this, she often spent rainy Sunday afternoons splurging on those same movies while devouring a bag of popcorn. Those movies, as inaccurate as they were, were simply irresistible!

Stacy lifted and examined each of Donna's firm, full breasts. She hated it when an inductee had better tits than she did, as those were Stacy's best features and her owner had adored them.

"Open your mouth and raise your tongue to the roof of your mouth,"

Donna complied.

Stacy ran her fingers through Donna's thick hair, seeking out any foreign material, such as a bobby pin or a needle.

"All right, Donna, I'm going to ask you to squat and cough. I'm going to shine a light into your hoo-ha afterward. Then, we check the back door. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Those indignities completed, Stacy donned a fresh pair of gloves and, with a magnifying glass, examined Donna's skin minutely for signs of needle marks or self-injury, even between her toes.

"Did I pass?" asked Donna trying to inject a little levity into the humiliating situation.

"A-one! I'm going to conduct you to the doctor now for your physical and gynecological exam."

The doctor was a young African American man, not much older than Donna. He was handsome, had a wicked smile and an astounding bedside manner. The exams both physical and gynecological were mare more tolerable than they had any right to be.

"You are all finished, Donna. You are in excellent health. If your owner decides to breed you, you should sail through childbirth."

"Hold on! Breed?"

Stacy interjected, "Once you are sold, you won't even own your own skin, Donna. Some masters have a thing for pregnant women. The company will take possession of your child if your master chooses. They'll go to a wonderful foster home and have a wonderful life."

"Please tell me that both of you are joking."

"What did you think you were signing up for, Donna? You signed forms that said you read all the assigned literature that was sent to you the week before you walked into the building. The company leaves nothing out. Don't tell me that you didn't read the literature?"

"I skimmed it," Donna confessed.

"It's not like agreeing to a EUA on a computer program, Donna, this is slavery!"

The doctor said, "I thought you vetted these people better, Stacy."

"Vetting them isn't my job, Jamal, processing them is."

Stacy turned to Donna and said, "There's no turning back now, Donna, your ass is the company's until you are sold, and then your ass is your owner's. There will be guidebooks in your dormitory. Before lights out, I advise you to read them thoroughly."

Donna swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. She was relieved that such a scenario would not be happening to her! How many other volunteers for slavery, didn't bother to read the fine print?

"Let's hit the showers, Donna. Then you get assessed and photographed and get a uniform, a meal, and a cot."

The shower was fantastic, with adjustable temperature settings and the finest of body washes, conditioners, and shampoos to select from. Donna left the shower with elevated spirits. That detail of possible impregnation would make a neat bit of scandal to share with her viewers. She wondered how many other goodies she would find in the manuals and guides. True, Donna should have read them more carefully, but between getting her hair dyed and irises altered and constructing her alias, there was precious little time to absorb the novel-length company-issued guide. She'd be out of her in three or four days anyway. Brenda Powell, the C.E.O. of an ancillary company Of B.C.N. would spring her with Donna's purchase price being a tax write-off. Donna could not help that she would be displayed in front of gawking men, but that was the price of getting the exclusive story.

Once Donna's hair and skin were completely dry, Stacy led her to a room abuzz with men and women toting tablet computers. Donna was placed or a rolling treadmill that took her past the men and women who entered data into their tablets. Off the treadmill she was led to an alcove with a silk-draped couch and a photographic background.

"Time for your catalog pictures, Donna. No one likes to buy a pig in a poke and some of the seats or the bidding floor are a bit distant."

The photographer was an apple-cheeked, somewhat plump, middle-aged woman who extolled Donna's beauty. In a short time, she had the undercover reporter completely relaxed as she captured her in a series of poses, nothing too graphic. As the photo session wound down, Donna was overjoyed that the pictures would be linked to Donna Clemens and could never be tied to Donna Freeman.

Donna was handed a short tartan kilt, a thong, and white crop top and led to a dining room. Other girls had preceded her, and it was clear that they were very hungry. Three more girls followed Donna in short order filling all the eighteen chairs around the big table. Dinner was stupendous, a vegetarian meal that was both savory and filling accompanied by a choice of wine or cider. There were even cute waiters in buttocks clinging trousers! Donna conversed with some of her tablemates. She wanted to learn their stories for her exclusive.

"I ran out of options after my divorce," said a pretty, dirty blonde. "I got married young and never developed any real skills. I can't even type! After losing my sixth job in three months, I was up against the wall. Creditors started hounding me and my family refused to lend a hand. I saw the company's advertisements and wondered, 'how bad could it be?' I've always liked fucking, and I'm good at housework. The money they promised me at the end of my service should really get me back on my feet."

"I need money for college," input a pretty brunette. "I want to study overseas. I've saved a bit of money, but not nearly enough. What I've already saved will collect interest while I'm spreading my legs. With that and what I'll earn, I can study in Europe, get an education, and live pretty high on the hog. I'll have more than enough time to snag some rich Spanish hunk."

All the girls within earshot laughed at that.

"I washed out of the army," supplied a dark-haired girl. "It was just my mom and me. What little money we had was eaten up by her rare form of cancer. Even with national healthcare, it bankrupted us, and my mom still passed away. I need a way to get some substantial cash, but a conventional job just won't do that fast enough."

The other girls Donna interviewed told similar stories. Compensated slavery paid better than the same amount a woman could make as a call girl or a stripper with none of the dangers. The company protected its investments while ensuring that its customers were kept supremely happy.

Dinner ended, the hunky waiters cleared the tables, and the new inductees were led down a hallway to a dormitory with bunk beds and an attached bathroom. A young woman in a company uniform entered the dormitory, "Girls lights out is in two hours. Select a bunk. We don't want you sleeping in your clothes, so strip off and put them in the bin hanging from the foot of your bed. Tomorrow you receive your collars, lose your names, become a number and learn what is to be expected of you."

There were board games and magazines, but Donna dug into the slave manual. It was eye-opening in the extreme, how had she not paid closer attention? The things that could happen to her was the stuff of nightmares! Fortunately, Barbara would come to her rescue. Donna's mind was spinning as the lights went out and she snuggled naked under the sheets in a top bunk.