To The Manor Borne Pt 01 Time Out

I had started out on a new adventure this morning riding in a rickety truck driven by my new boss Charlie, the Estate Manager at Mugglin Manor. "Charlie," I complained, "must you hit every bump along the way? By the time we reach the Manor to begin serving out my second `hitch,' my brains will be scrambled eggs!"

What put me on this rocky road to anew Indenture at Mugglin Manor? It was my husband Jack.

"I'll try to get us back together," I promised my husband Jack when we parted at Exeter Pond Manor. Jack still owed three years on his 10 year indenture as Estate Agent at Exeter Pond Manor when I was returned to the Institute for out -- processing or recycling at the expiration of my seven year indenture. I don't know why guys commit for 10 years and gals for seven.

The solution the Institute proposed to put Jack and me back together was a non - professional caste indenture as Property Supervisor at Mugglin Manor for me. Jack would be put in line to succeed Charlie as Estate Agent at Mugglin Manor in three short years.

The Institute director explained mutual advantages of this Indenture, "A working husband wife team fits within the Lord of Mugglin Manor's design. His Lordship prefers to present the caretakers of the estate as a loving, working couple."

"Mugglin Manor is a Potemkin village, a world of smoke and mirrors, a fantasy land?" I questioned.

"Not at least when Jack rejoins you. Within the Mugglin Manor's desired parameters of presenting a loving working couple," the Director advised, "it is unnecessary to grant you private quarters. Mugglin Manor's eunuch Charlie may be quartered with either sex. You will be allowed time off during weekends to rendez -- vous with your loving husband and to engage in reproductive sex with Jack if you wish."

The Institute Director laughed when I scowled, "Who else?" The director was shocked when I added to my response, "after playing games with an empty sac, I suppose during a weekend with a real man in fact it's apropos to feel entitled to hearts pounding in unison; breathing in synch, a pulsating scrotum with nuggets still attached,"

Was Charlie hitting every chug hole in this rocky road to Mugglin Manor to prove a point?

"How much longer will this gut-wrenching trip to my new home take?" I inquired with annoyance creeping into my voice.

"Not long," Charlie assured me as the vehicle hit a crater in the road that sent my head bouncing against the roof of the cab of the truck, "But I have to stop by auction to pick up a few more field hands."

The vehicle hit a series of bumps that tossed me around the cab of the truck.

Unperturbed by the pitted roadway, Charley mused, "Is it appropriate for a non-professional caste indenturee to treat Mugglin Manor as home? A manor property supervisor who indentures herself in the non-professional caste, even one with individual concessions, is attached to the Mugglin Estate as property."

"You are required to recognize the reservations written into my indenture which give me privileges normally accorded the professional caste," I retorted, "including the unconditional right to wear clothing appropriate to the activity on and off duty."

Minutes later I found myself naked, bare bottom seated on an ornamental curved concrete garden bench in `Time Out,' the reception area next to the auction where indentured servants are bought, sold and traded. How did this happen? What happened to my protections?

Located behind the mall out of the way of the prying eyes of casual shoppers in the general public, `Time Out,' reception had been at one time the garden center of the shopping mall. Fortunately, though the equipment, plants and seeds were gone, the mall left behind some garden furniture, like the bench where my bare butt and those of the girls sitting with me watching the ebb and flow of life landed.

"Imagine!" declared Roxanne, although nearing middle age still boasting firm breasts, "at my age, locked up like a small child placed in childcare at the mall with a claim tag on my wrist -- what did they call them in the old days, time out? -- while parents strolled through the mall shopping."

I sighed my new boss Charley, tall robust in a sweat stained long sleeve shirt, had dropped me off here while he visited the auction to pick up a few more field hands for the manor. As the vehicle approached a barrier in the Mall parking lot marked: Auction Parking: PICK UP AND RECEIVING ONLY.

A blue jacketed security officer reviewing Charlie's pass asked, "your passenger?"

"Mugglin Manor Property Supervisor," Charlie identified me, "newly acquired, in transit to Mugglin Manor."

"You can't leave an indenturee in your vehicle in the lot unattended. Too much risk of theft," the guard advised, "you'll have to put her in `Time Out,' the secure holding area -- for the protection of her Master's property."

Now seated in `Time Out,' the detention area with seasoned buxom Roxanne and giddy, flat chested Sherry awaiting return of our Bosses or Owners, I exclaimed with mock enthusiasm as my companions snickered, "The thought of how much better it used to be is too depressing. Today I'm celebrating," "I had just completed a teaching indenture. Today I began my first day of my new indenture as a Property Supervisor."

"Ms Importance! Supervisory, but not quite professional caste!" Roxanne declared.

"Professional indentures are more like regular jobs than indentured slavery," Sherry noted.

"For a professional caste indenturee, the order to strip must have come as a cultural shock," Roxanne teased me, "What went through your mind? Did you protest the guards' order to strip?"

"Actually," I recalled, "when I was checked into `Time Out,' reception, my muscle-bound boss Charlie had advised the male guard, `Ellie's indenture provides for certain upper caste protections.'"

"Get your clothes off," the male guard was brusk, "I'll have to read your bar code to see if you can retain clothes on your person while you held temporarily in detention in `Time Out,."

I grumbled about having to undress to show I had a right to remain clothed. Once my clothes were off and my bare body was bent at the waist for a reading of my bar code, the guard announced, "Special privileges, not noted in the file, are not binding."

Oh, I knew the binding nature and supreme importance of the indenture defining the rights of the servant. "On my first indenture at Exeter Pond, I had been professional caste, a tutor to the children," I cursed myself, under my breath, "When the children were sent away to school, I accepted general household duties as a domestic, serving breakfast at the master's able and cleaning the premises.."

Young Sherry interjected straight from a text book, "We're taught in school that the revival of the Manor system created compact self -sustaining economic systems bound together for mutual benefit and protection by voluntary contracts called indentures."

"Mutual benefit?" I snorted, "I adamantly declined to renounce my professional caste indenture. My assistant who helped me manage the children wasn't so lucky: Stripped naked, head shaved, hands bound, she was shuttled off to auction."

I understood an indenture was a contract, but how would I know special provisions had to be written into my electronic file?

As if answering my unvoiced question, the guard observed, "If special provisos are not inscribed in the file, how am I supposed to know of them?" Taking a breath, the guard proceeded to read my file aloud, "Ellen, female, age 27, re-indentured," the guard, looking up raising his eyebrows, taunted, "today! as a Manor Property Supervisor! Congratulations and welcome back, First indenture completed: professional occupation teacher, current indenture, non -- professional working class. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!"

The vulgar term in service for an indenturee who put up an argument about his rights was "shit house lawyer." I guess the teacher in me preferred the kinder, gentler term "servant's quarters barrister." By either measure, had I outsmarted myself?

Commenting on the provisos I inscribed into my non-professional indenture, the director of the Institute which sold my indenture to Mugglin Manor where Charlie was Agent applauded my talent, "Perhaps I should hold onto sly little Ellen for the Institute's legal department. Shouldn't we look for a law school worthy of Ellen's talent? She'd become a suitable acquisition for The Institute as a master at Indenture Law."

Despite the accolade, only an hour later at the Institute's ritualistic private sale, over my protest, Charlie as agent for his Estate insisted I be exhibited nude. "Presenting an indenturee in the natural state for purchase," Charlie remaining circumspect as he circled around me during the full body assessment, justified the inspection, "does not violate the proviso granting a right to wear clothing on and off duty. Inspection of the undraped body in connection with sale may symbolize subordination to the will of the master. More importantly, presentation of the unadorned full body completely exposed assures the purchaser of the indenturee's state of health, physical attractiveness and strength."

At the Mall, bidders passing by entering the auction, stopped to stare at Roxanne's bare chest. "I should be proud my boy magnets draw more attention than those of girls half my age."

Like me, Roxanne and Sherry had come to the mall with their owner or an estate or household agent who was visiting the auction to pick up new indenturees to work the household, gardens and fields of the Manor. "I used to be allowed to accompany my boss shop for talent. New procedure, slaves not being surrendered for auction must be held in `Time Out,' reception until the owner's business is concluded. Now, I get held naked. I'm a 48 year old worker -- bee on my fourth hitch. Where am I going?" the freckles on Rachel's face danced as she spoke.

"We call ourselves slaves. We're subject to bondage for years. Still, common non - professional caste indenturees are subject to a great deal of whim and caprice, It depends on the owner and the owner's mood. So said Charlie my estate manager," I quoted my new boss.

"Charlie, that tall, blond feller with powerful hands who brought you here," Roxanne chuckled, "I'd give a fifth indenture to sack with him. You're one lucky serving wench, Ellie, shacked up with a hunk! Imagine you two out on a manor out in the hills somewhere by yourselves, all winter. A distant dreamy smile blossomed on her face. "Someone is going to keep herself warm those long cold nights up in the hill country."

"But I'm a married lady," I protested. My objection met with derisive laughter in the lively banter among the girls which followed. The laughter increased when I added, "And I even get one full weekend per month in the summer months while the family is in residence to sack out with my guy."

"Did you see the way Charlie gawked at Ellie once she took her clothes off?" Excitement appeared in Sherry's eyes when Sherry asked Roxanne. "I thought his eyes would be ejected from his skull."

"True, Charlie comes with the tool," I argued, "but batteries are not included." Merry cackling ensued.

"All the better!" Roxanne quipped, "Charlie comes with 10 fingers and a tongue, Doesn't he? Good safe fun!"

Despite opportunity, Charlie respected my person during the full body appraisal. Yet with an evil grin, Charlie demanded that astonished Institute personnel keep me, a non - professional indenturee naked for transit. "Load her aboard my open truck," Charlie ordered, "blindfolded standing upright secured bare assed as she is to the rails open to view."

We drove for a few minutes, choking from soot and chilled by the gust of wind blowing up my crack when the truck ground to a screeching halt. The stomping sounds of Charley's booted feet on the bed of the truck announced his approach. My hood was lifted. My wrists were freed. Hard hands gripped my hands as his eyes scrutinized me. Did Charlie intend to rape me? Even if he'd like to try, could he? I was told Charlie's derrick was intact, but lacked a power pack.

Thrown my clothes, I asked as I started to step into the red panties and latch the matching red bra my former mistress had given me, "Why are you suddenly being nice to me? What do you expect in return?"

"You'll be no use to me suffering from sun poisoning," Charlie watched me dress.

In my first indenture at Exeter Pond with my husband Jack, I worked long hours but always found a few moments to develop a full body tan. In whatever daylight time Jack and I found we ha game played out in the altogether. "Off with your clothes," Jack demanded.

I protested, "That's a game I suppose I fear for pure innocents. I ought first see you without clothes to check your scrotal sac, it's apropos, Can you launch a sweet attack propelled by a power pack still attached? Why not just go skinny dipping in Exeter Pond?"

"We play this game by certain rules," Jack declared.

Hands behind my back, I suggested, "skinny dipping in Exeter Pond sounds like clean fun." Whipping off my blouse and unhooking my bra throwing it in his face, I rocked side - to - side seductively dangling my tits in his face, taunting Jack, "Wouldn't you love to take a nip." I laughed. "A real man uses his wand to take me if he can." His eyes followed my breasts as I bowed before him to remove my slacks. Swaying in polka dot panties, I enticed him, "I need to see if you still care, You'll go erect if your nuts are still there."

I turned to run. Would I reach the pond before him? We played the game by rules. If I did, I had the choice of riding him or making him jerk off and play the fool. A few more feet was all I needed.

Victory within my grasp, I felt a grip around my hips. My legs were moving but I found myself running in place. The elastic band stretched; my panties slipped away. I crashed to the muddy ground on the edge of Exeter Pond with Jack on top of me. Wiggling to free myself from Jack's grasp, I found myself wallowing face down in the mud.

With Jack atop, I pled, "Fuck me hard, my dear, make it worth my while, prove you're a man still virile, a raging bull un-sterilized, not a steer..."

At the mall awaiting the return of our Masters, my companions and I watched life passing us by as bidders entered and left the auctions. Suddenly pointing to the entrance, Sherry called our attention to three cherubic faced girls and two young guys hesitating to approach the check -- in point, "Looks like loan applicants."

After the guys were separated and sent to a holding cell inside the old garden shop, the male guard took the loan application from the girls. After examining the document, the guard asked, "you're here to appraise the value of your person pledged as security for a loan." Receiving nods, the guard advised, "the loan procedure requires a physical examination, photographs, and bar coding. Get your clothes off."

The girls looked at each other stunned. The guard noted, "You want the loan. The clothes come off. The doctor is waiting."

With a wistful sigh, Roxanne remarked, "Long ago a person's word was their bond. Then we went through a period of time when credit became easy and bankruptcy was liberally available. Spending was encouraged until the bubble burst. Now today the bond is their person."

"Why is watching other people humiliated so entertaining?" I asked.

Sherry in her high-pitched school- girl voice offered the explanation, "it takes our mind off our own sad state of affairs."

As the girls undressed the female guard standing behind them questioned why they sought a loan. The two at either end, slipping silk panties down slick legs to reveal plum shaped fleshy butts, grunted, "sports car."

Roxanne snickered, "Soft alabaster skin. The bar codes will stand out, when they're burnt into those soft, round butts."

The angular shaped girl standing in the middle still in her underwear turning to respond to her questioner, was forcibly faced forward. "You need to hurry it along sweet thing," roared the female guard as the guard unclasped the girl's bra and tugged at her panties, sweeping them off the girl's flat butt, "the doc won't wait all day."

Roxanne snickered, "Doc won't wait all day, but you will." Shaking her head, Roxanne sighed, "Brings back memories."

"Frivolous purchase?" I asked.

"No, more like," A wistful tone entered Roxanne's voice, "balls bigger than our brains."

"An overextension is the polite term," I suggested.

"Quite! It was an investment that produced unanticipated risks and, as sure as my bare ass is perched on this stone bench, long-lasting consequences," Roxanne rued.

The three loan applicants were instructed to wait on a seat. Next up was a surrendering female on an unpaid indenture. Stood in front of the checkpoint, the woman held back tears as she undressed.

"Decent figure, pretty face," I commented. Turning to my companions, I asked, "Adult films, surrogacy, or courtesan."

Legs spread, the indenturee was bent at the waist for a reading of the barcode.

After reading the indenture off her bar code, the male guard offered his opinion, "Capture team had mercy. The capture team saved you three years additional when it issued you this TP, Transportation Pass instead of hauling you in buck naked on an open deuce-n-half. OK, wait on the bench over there."

"Like her," Roxanne shook her head as the indenture joined the group on the bench waiting to see the doctor, "My husband and I owned a house. We ran a business. I was young with twins. My husband persuaded me, the loving wife, to go for a loan secured by my person to get the capital needed to expand our business."

"You were young, a new mother," Sherry asked, "Your husband was running a business. Why did your husband need you to apply for a business loan?"

"Women are more versatile?" Roxanne replied, "Good looking females can be used in entertainment, adult films, personal companions ..."

"Then when you can no longer stir up a storm posed on the flat of your back," I continued the thought, "and your image doesn't sell, it's back on your back for insemination and surrogacy."

"Pregnancy, childbirth and milk," Looking up at the girl at the checkpoint, Sherry noted, "nice rack, good set of milkers."

"We -- my husband and I -- came down to a place like this one here." Roxanne recalled, "Though I had just delivered twins, I was in great shape and appraised high -- too high."

"Too high," I observed, "beyond your ability to re-finance the debt."

"I was still recovering," Rebecca recounted her descent into slavery, "from the barcoding seared into my hide when the economy collapsed, the business was gone, the house foreclosed. My husband ran off, leaving me, the loving wife, with the kids to clear away the wreckage. And I lost everything."

Looking up at the activity at the entrance, Sherry asked, "What time is it?"

"What difference does it make? We remain here at our Master's convenience until our Master decides to return to collect us," Rebecca reminded.

"It's probably around 11," Sherry took note, "that's when they start bringing in the shoplifters. It looks like they're starting to bring them in here." Sherry pointed at the entrance where a varied collection of prisoners were queued up awaiting reception, hands cable-tied behind their backs and ankles chained. "They'll take the young ones first," Shiley predicted.

In came the first one in tears, pleading not to have her mother informed. In a soft voice, the female guard asked the weaping prisoner, "Barcoded?" Receiving a denial, the guard promised the prisoner not to call the prisoner's mother, "if that's what you want."

"Bad move," snickered Roxanne, "from a slap on the wrist for shoplifting to eh -- a `voluntary' seven-year hitch."