The Institute: Undercover Exposé

I was naked, hands cable tied behind my back, standing on the loading dock with other women brought to The Institute in this haul. Some were crying, some were pleading. This was not the part of The Institute a casual visitor like my boss Geri Waggermann, the owner of National Blogster, a friend of Dr Philip Crenshaw, would be ordinarily allowed to see. "Even with my affectations to subordination," Geri, running her fingers through her kennel clip, wisps of light brown hair left on the top of her head advised, "play acting a slave relationship with Dr Crenshaw, in his sauna, there are boundaries I must observe."

Right now the question was where does the game begin and end. Fortunately, Geri was spared mulling the issue over standing around naked in this cold.

Weeks ago, Geri and I met in the sauna attached to the women's locker of a gym during early hours of a Sunday morning to discuss this proposed exposé.

Leaning back on the wooden bench as thick smoke bellowed in her face, long legged Geri, draped in a towel which scarcely reached her thighs, admitted, "the extent of the social change which accompanied the national retrenchment and revived indentured servitude has all the right elements of abuse: sex, humiliation, and degradation for an eye grabbing exposé. But is the story worth the risk of a one way ticket to indentured slavery?"

Right now, naked and barefoot on the loading dock feeling my body tingling in the cold, I would have gladly have exchanged my rights to the story and even acknowledge compulsory servitude under contract, an indenture, as a new form of freedom for a few moments with Geri in that steamy sauna.

The thought of the sauna beckoned me. Within those warm wooden walls, I had vowed, "Ms Waggerman, I'm Maggie Smith, star reporter. If the risk wasn't great, the story about predatory lending practices wouldn't be worth the bytes my column takes up in your E-zine. Shouldn't we explore the surmise whether the compulsory servitude under eh `voluntary' contract now heralded as a new form of economic freedom has resurrected a new form of slavery in disguise?" On the loading dock, all that seemed so far away.

I restrained myself from laughing. Whenever Geri shifted her weight, her towel's tails parted, exposing trimmed pubes shaped like a wedge suggestively pointed at her portal. Did her flimsy towel conceal a full body tan? Her neatly trimmed pubes advertised more than a casual friendship with Dr Crenshaw, the Director of The Institute which specialized in recapture of debtors in default.

Geri spoke often of her frequent visits to the Institute, "Everything in The Institute, even friendship, has a place and a ranking. To be Dr Crenshaw's friend, one must accept the bond of personal slave," Geri paused. A dreamy look came over her face as she added, "even though it's just a game."

"Your word is your bond and your bond is your person," I quoted the typical catch-phrase.

"Personal slave in the harem," Geri explained, "What a life to pick! Why would any rational person pick slavery? At the pinnacle of indentured servitude, you have access. So, to enter I have to humble myself, play act the naked supplicant."

"Subordination provides you with influence," I was skeptical.

"In The Institute," Geri explained, "complying with Dr Crenshaw's edict that all his meetings whether with freepersons or slaves be held in the natural state, the slave accepts the natural state naturally. The freeperson is on edge: Every guy's fear: will I go erect inappropriately?"

With good reason, strategic influencers like Geri enjoyed the perks of friendship with Dr Philip Crenshaw. However, I understood that to engage with Dr Crenshaw, Geri had to enter the Institute on its terms: a naked supplicant, craving a few precious moments of the master's attention. Geri described the feeling of shucking off her clothes for a few days visit with her friend Dr Crenshaw as exhilarating. "You abandon the vanities and superficialities of daily life and commit yourself to candor, openness and equality."

"Equality?" I questioned, "Now, that does seem incompatible with play -- acting an indentured relationship as a personal slave."

"A slave with a position of power, Maggie," Geri reminded me, "I can request Dr Crenshaw give me your indenture as a present. It might be the swiftest way out of the indenture."

"Exchanging one entanglement for another," I quipped.

For Geri, pay -- acting subordination had its perks: a few days visit to the Institute, presenting herself nude to Dr Crenshaws in his spa, sunbathing nude on the outdoor terrace, massages from a strapping masseur wearing nothing but a smile, an open lab coat, and a chastity device. A dreamy look peered on Geri's face when she spoke of it, "The sexual tension contributes to the intensity of the happy ending."

"Happy ending?" I questioned, "Monsieur masseur can't risk coping a feel, with his hoscus immobilized, caged in stainless steel."

"It's more than legend!" Geri exclaimed, "Nothing exceeds the fury unleashed by manipulation of a frustrated man."

Stood about midpoint in the line of repossessed indentured slaves, I looked at the head of the line. There, a naked prisoner stood head bowed fighting back tears. A blue jacketed security officer, in front of the teary eyed prisoner, holding a police baton in one hand menacingly counted the moments by striking the palm of her other hand with the truncheon. Did I need to be here?

The blue jacketed guard stepped aside to allow a tall, lean woman with a soccer ball shaped belly protruding from the flaps of her blue blazer take a position at the head of the line. "Good morning, Ladies, My name is Angie, I'm the administrative assistant to Dr Crenshaw, Director of The Institute. Welcome to the Institute. Not long ago, I stood right here on the loading dock among you, naked, cold, bruised from capture, and cramping. I was so upset being taken, I went on my period. Bad time to be bagged. Would you agree?"

The girl next to me on line, nudging up to me for the companionship of warmth whispered, "Second time around, you shouldn't be so shocked--hmm."

"First your legal status: upon," Angie intoned the official line, "execution of the commitment you gave when you secured a loan with your person, you underwent a conversion, a change of status. Free labor can come and go as it pleases; upon apprehension and bodily execution of your indenture, you became bound in labor for a chain of years provided in your indenture. That's seems like an enormity. Doesn't it?"

"Yet," My companion interjected in a whisper, "I can make it seem oh -- not -- so bad."

"Yet," continued Angie, "I survived the transformation from an unstructured life to one of discipline and order and you will too." Angie paused for emphasis. "For those of you previously released and returned to the Institute and now bear the Institute's sundial brand on your hide, you know the drill."

I wish, I mused, I recalled all that Geri told me in our early morning locker room discussions and what Peter learned from run -- always whom he helped re-invent themselves to avoid recapture. Wisdom dictated that I kept silent grimacing and nodding whenever my companion voiced one of her sizzling gratuitous comments.

"Each of you have undergone," Angie asserted, "the first stage of transformation -- apprehension and detention. For most, apprehension shatters the illusive concept of freedom which underlies prosaic, daily life... "

"If by transformation, Angie means, forcibly stripped and held naked for several days huddled in a cage with other women for warmth," my companion quipped in a whisper.

"Plucked, pruned, probed and then penned,..." I quipped.

"Plucked and prepared to be fucked," my companion suggestively smiled.

A pity, I mused, unable to make notes, I would have to rely on memory to recall this delicious banter.

"The next step is verification of your identity," Angie continued to explain in -- processing. "Following identification, you will be showered and groomed with the kennel clip, the closely cropped scalp up top." Angie flicked a small curl of her blonde hair across her forehead, "despite The Institute's preference for uniformity, yet there is some room for individuality."

"Holding women together in the natural state," my companion, raising her eyebrows observed, "provides little opportunity for creativity."

"To the those," Angie continued, "for whom this is the first time here at the Institute, your loans required bar-coding. Before your evaluation for the three Rs, retention by the Institute, referral to auction or reinstatement, you will be branded and chipped. Even those of you selected for reinstatement of your note and restoration to a measure of freedom will bear that mark of distinction, the sundial brand..."

Back in the sauna, Geri had offered me a painless insertion. "With a little subtle manipulation, I can sweettalk Dr Crenshaw, into accepting you at the Institute as a phony slave. He'd place you somewhere in his apparatus. Of course you'd still need to be branded, bar coded, and implanted with a chip, a tracking device. It'd leave a permanent mark on your butt."

"Some might not like to wear a thong to the beach, although you do see branded girls at the beach," I acknowledged, "many women get bar coded and chipped to enable rescue from and prevent abduction into slavery."

Leaning forward with a smile, attempting to hold the towel in place across her breasts, Geri suggested, "We'd make you a Voluntary Indenture for years. That way you'd leave with permission. No worse for the wear, you'd simply suffer no more than forfeiture of accumulated pay."

"Such an insertion would minimize pain," I considered the prospect, "but it wouldn't convey the authentic experience of being repossessed and processed for auction. Voluntary indentures are treated with kid gloves. With word spread of my purpose, I'd be able to see and say only what others want known."

Up ahead, the blue jacketed guard stepped aside. A pregnant woman in medical scrubs took the guard's place. The female detainee at the head of the line rubbed her wrists when the cable ties were cut away. A cursory physical exam followed. The detainee jumped when the cold stainless steel stethoscope was held to her bare breast. The cursory medical exam concluded, culminating in an order to squat and pee. The first prisoner was passed to the right.

When I was finally reached, Doc addressed me, "Girl, despite your financial problems, in conformance with your bond, you kept yourself in shape, gleaming teeth, thin waist, full breasts, unblemished skin." Pausing to give me the once over, Doc ordered, "off to the left for evaluation."

Once all the girls received the initial medical exam, the evaluation of my group began. I can't say Geri hadn't warned me about evaluation and potential disposition of the girl too pretty.

In the locker, Geri Waggerman shook her head. She could offer little encouragement. "Muck raking is a risky adventure," Geri cautioned, "Major lenders rarely employ free labor. Who from the inside will open up to you to admit what happens when the person is seized and taken away? How does the expression go? A person's word is their bond and their bond is their person. They remain a person," Geri chuckled, "that is, a real person a free person at liberty, only so long as the debt is serviced and loan payments made. Fall behind, the debt is called and the person reduced to service."

"Up," Geri ordered. She led me over to the sheet of aluminum which functioned as a mirror in this smokey hell. Grabbing my jaw with her right hand, Geri stared at my face. A wild look filled her face. Her eyes penetrated mine. Was she reading my mind?

With her left hand, Geri swept my towel away. Instantaneously, I felt my nipples go erect and my trimmed pubes stand up. Before I could instinctively position my hands over my breasts, Geri, contemptuously wrinkling her nose, barked, "Hands at your sides," Geri barked, "I need to appraise the value of my property, slave."

"Geri, you know," I protested, "I've been at risk before this exposé. You may recall my investigative piece on women of porn..."

"Silence, slave," Geri growled still with her hand clasping my chin. "I ought to order a paddling for your insolence." After a pause, Geri ordered, "Open your mouth." When I complied, Geri, squinting as she stared at my teeth, noted, "full mouth of teeth."

Jerking my chin as she released it, Geri squelched my protest, "Worry not slave. I'll leave no mark nor cause no damage that will lower my property's value on the block." Pausing for a second, Geri shouted, "Arms out." Feeling my underarms, Geri commented, "clean shaven pits." Kneading my breasts, Geri noted, "natural breasts. cup C?" Receiving a nod, Geri ordered, "About face, feet apart, bend at waist touch your toes."

Massaging my shoulders, proceeding down my back in ever greater circular motions, Geri observed, "good muscular structure." With a playful pat on my butt, Geri reverting to a normal tone, told me to right myself. "Too bad, I don't have any latex gloves in sight. I'd test you to see how much of a virgin you are. if your hymen is intact and your sphincter is firm, the value of my investment could be off the scale."

"Geri, you know I played in porn during my last undercover investigation," I reminded Geri.

"Silence girl, you ought to know better than to familiarly address a free born woman," Geri reproved me, "I ought to take a switch to that fleshy butt."

Answering my startled expression, Geri laughed so hard it rang off the walls of the locker room, "The Master or Mistress holds total power over the slave. Total submission is required of the slave. The slave enjoys no guarantee of physical integrity of her person."

Her laughter rang off the walls like an alarm bell carrying a terrifying warning. "Do I have to finger -- fuck you to prove the extent of the power I would have over your body?"

On the loading dock at the institute, the girl next to me who had become my companion asked, "What comes next?" the girl paused rocking her head as if considering the answer, "Probably to be searched, shorn, showered, scented, and sorted for selection for retention or reinstatement and restoration," commented my companion..

"Retention or reinstatement and restoration?" I questioned.

"Sex sells, sweet stuff," my companion smirked. The sun dial brand burnished into her butt, and the attitude proved her status as a returnee, "You've been here before you know. A girl too pretty gets held, retained by The Institute for resale. Others depending on how bad the default was stand a good chance at reinstatement of their loan or even sale of their note back to their former employer. If their luck holds, they could be back home tomorrow or day after -- before anyone realizes they've been gone. It's all about profit."

"Pays to be plain," I observed.

"Silence," a blue jacketed guard ordered as a woman in scrubs moved for girl to girl. Each girl shrieked when a cold ointment was spread first under the nose. "It will warm you up soon enough," the woman in scrubs snickered.

Ordered to extend our arms, the girls giggled when the goo was spread into our pits. The goo was warming when it was worked into a pattern over my pubes. My nose wrinkled when the goo under it stared to sizzle.

Ordered to bend over I felt the goo worked into my groin, vaginal lips and anus. Some girls started to audibly breathe deeper and sigh. Did I? I'm not sure. The excitement faded when the woman in scrubs moved away from my clit to start working her way down my legs.

I was feeling the ointment warm. Some were complaining that their skin was burning. A blue jacketed guard ordered silence. "Soon you'll be complaining about the cold water in the shower."

When we were led into the shower our bar codes were scanned. "Margret Marin," the blue jacketed guard turned me over to a bare breasted woman sporting a grey thong. Droplets speckled her breasts. Her left butt cheek bore the Institute's brand, the sundial. I knew this meant the grey thonged guard had been processed through the Institute.

"What you looking at, slave?" her breasts and neck reddening as she growled at me, "I see from your brand you've been through here before. Muffed up a reinstatement agreement, chickie?" the bare chested guard in the grey thong screeched, "Your rose water and tantric shower awaits you, sweet stuff." At that I screamed as I was pushed under a cold torrent.

When Geri finally agreed to underwrite the project, she, giving me a glimpse at her bare left butt cheek, noted, "The sundial imprint, the mark of elegance given only to voluntary bondsmen and others retained for service to The Institute. Oh, by the way," Geri added, "I will assume you are legitimately burdening yourself with debt to default on."

"Of course," I responded in a tone mocking reassurance.

Allowed to trace with the pad on my finger the hardened ridges of the sundial emblazoned on Geri's soft hide, I asked why she treated a badge of slavery as a marque d'honeur. "I also have the bar code," Geri guided my hand to her right cheek just under the hip, "together with a chip," she guided my hand to her breast and allowed me to massage it until I felt the chip. "It's a gift from Phil, Dr Crenshaw. I'm one of his odaliques, an honorary harem girl. I am identified as property protected by the Institute. Phil, eh -- Dr Crenshaw -- thought branding might discourage kidnapping."

"And yet you would allow me to go in undercover and violate your oath you took as harem girl when the brand was seared into your butt?" I asked.

After the intake shower at the Institute, Angie, the tall lean administrative assistant, returned. "Good morning, once again, ladies, welcome back to the Institute. That you've been returned here, ie recycled, after a prior reinstatement does not prohibit selection for reinstatement of your note and restoration to a measure of personal autonomy. Like all business decisions, it all depends... For that reason cooperate fully with our HR specialist on your placement..."

Geri having pledged to bankroll my investigation, her eyes followed me into the shower. Splashing soapy water at her, I taunted her with the promise to get her a tape of my performance in `Lesbian Sisters' a film I made during my investigation into the women of porn. Quickly showering and throwing on clothes, I paid a visit to Peter Ferrier.

Bright carrot topped Peter, even today with all the fail-safes built into the modern system of identity, could sculpt a new persona for the right price. "I get plenty of requests for a new identity from freedom -- seekers, people on the run facing repossession on their bonds. I've never had a request to assume the identity of a defaulting bondsperson about to be repossessed. Weird requests are my business. Ok get your clothes off, Maggie."

"Everything off, huh?" I questioned, "You want a free show, that'll be the day! All I need is a bar code on my hip. To see the whole girl. You'll have to pay! Go buy one of the porn films I did during my undercover probe into the women of porn. Otherwise, no way!"

"As luck would have it," Peter explained, "I have a good match for you, Margret Marlin, age 28, 5 foot 7 inches, an up -- and -- coming entrepreneur dragged down by an embezzling employee. Rounded up, bar -- coded, branded and chipped, but released and reinstated, Margret got her notice, figured she'd never be recycled and make it out a second time and decided to run."

"Same general description," Though intrigued, I voiced some reservations, "but if some gal was in -- processed through the Institute, they have full -- length nudes of her. A general description that matches won't do."

"Oh, that's why I say," Peter reflected, "the match is too good, a perfect double."