Chapter 3 - Preparations
The Hotel Yorotani - Runner Section (Two Days to the Hunt)
Amelia paced in her room. The two hours before they had to prepare for the showcase was almost up. She'd gotten a good look at the competition. They were timid, scared, but like her they all wanted a chance at freedom that might otherwise be denied to them. She knew she could do this, she'd trained for it. Her family wasn't rich, she wasn't smart enough to get a decent job, and she didn't fancy the usual shop assistant job that had you taking it in the ass with a smile both literally and figuratively.
Ever since she'd heard about the Yorotani, and its regular hunts she'd trained every single day. Speed, agility, everything she could think of. Anything that might be useful to evade captors for long periods of time. A few weeks ago that had landed her in a Bureau of Female Affairs cell briefly as her reading list had triggered some kind alert they had for potential Female Liberation Front recruits. She'd just got home and was preparing dinner with her mother when a small troupe of slavecops had turned up. She'd been placed in an armbinder alongside her mother, and was left on her knees in the kitchen, a huge ballgag nearly breaking her jaw under the watchful eye of a Master-Agent while the rest of the men and all the Slave-Agents searched their home. It had taken them only a few minutes to find the books she'd been reading, the notes she'd written, and take them both into custody.
24 hours she'd been in the local BFA building. At first it was just questions. What did she know about the FLF, did she know about the local cell, had she ever met a woman going by the name Lidia Gulfer, or Emma Seymour? She didn't know how long it had lasted. At first it was a friendly conversation, the agent on the other side of the table corrected her a lot, though, interrupted her, made her doubt herself. Clearly her answers hadn't been what they wanted, though, so next came a mandatory Primary Inspection re-evaluation and cavity search. Her initial PI had been humiliating enough but this was worse...she'd had her hole depth and capacity measured before but what those bastards had used worked at higher pressures with harder rubber, and they'd gone from measuring her ass right to her mouth. She'd foolishly tried to fight that one off and had taken some boots to the ribs by way of persuasion to submit.
Then came the beatings. She was already naked, and in an armbinder when they started but the female slavecop who'd been brought in to cause her pain had seen that was the least of her worries. By the time the woman had left Amelia had been sobbing on the floor, repeatedly having the breath kicked, punched and beaten out of her had given her a hoarse voice too. Then the shifts changed and she got the night crew. They hadn't even asked questions, but two at a time, rhythmic as machines they began to bang her. She'd begged, pleaded, nearly drowned in cum. Her pussy had been fucked so many times overnight that she was reduced to limp acceptance for the last five or six fuckings.
They'd made her count how many times her ass had been fucked, how many times they'd slapped her so hard she'd fallen over, how many loads she'd been forced to swallow. Tears of impotent rage came to her eyes unbidden as she remembered being handcuffed face up to a table, her head hanging over the edge and being little more than an observer as a parade of cock rammed its way down her throat, ballsacks slapping against her nose. When they'd decided her legs were flailing too much those were restrained too and they'd gone to town on her ass instead. Eventually she'd exhausted them and lay there cum-soaked, crying, restrained. That was when they'd set agent-slaves on her again. Arguably they'd been worse. They knew how to fuck her and make it hurt like hell, and almost impossibly the strap on/strap in combo the cunts had used were even bigger dicks than the ones she'd taken all that evening. The worst thing for her, though, the absolute worst was her betrayal by her own body. She'd hated every second but that hadn't stopped a steady stream of orgasms that in the moment robbed her of the ability to hate her abusers as much as she wished she could.
Morning had broken, the shifts had changed again, and knowing then that no reasonable woman could have taken what she had and kept any form of secret she was released with a warning about wasting BFA time, and told triggering any further alerts would result in community service. She knew what that meant. Community service was the ever so charming euphemism for "temporary" slavery in one of the public brothels. It was only ever sentenced for 30-90 days, but she'd never seen anyone return from Community Service...though she had seen plenty paraded around on leashes later by new owners like prize pets.
All this did every step of the way was reaffirm she could never live as a slave. She'd go through that and worse every single day, and that weighed heavy on her mind. Ever since that day as a "courtesy" she'd logged her physical training, plus what she was reading and why with an agent at the local BFA at their request. They knew she was training to evade hunters but if ever she had planned on joining the Female Liberation Front then her rape at the hands of the local office would have been more than enough to push her towards it.
None of that was about today, though. She needed to think about today. A knock at the door broke her concentration. The room she was in was pleasant. A comfortable bed, a shower, basin, toilet, a small dressing table with a chair, and built into the wall a small interactive display that showed the locations of amenities, local time, and other important things. There was access to a small balcony. Nowhere was provided to store clothes as they hadn't been allowed to bring anything except what they were wearing.
She crossed the patterned but smoothly polished wooden floor and opened the door to find a diminutive slave outside, she carried what looked like a small toolbox, and a glossy booklet, her head was bowed to avoid potential eye contact. Amelia couldn't tell how old she was at a glance but a weariness that seemed to pour out of her said she was a few years older than herself.
There was an awkward silence before Amelia remembered most slaves could only speak when spoken to, "Well?" she asked, her question coming out a little more sharp than intended.
"This cunt begs your forgiveness but it has been sent to help you prepare for the upcoming showcase."
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry, I...didn't mean that. Please, come in."
She stood aside, and the girl made her way in. It was hard not to stare at her, Amelia found, she'd certainly been chosen at least in part for her pleasing figure despite her short height, she must have only just have made it into the higher grades. Her light brown hair was braided and shaped into a pair of buns Amelia realised would fit comfortably into any rapist's palm while she was facefucked, with decorative braiding between the buns being both beautiful and ideal for control or restraint.
"This cunt has brought a catalogue of the items runners are required to wear for the showcase. Once you have selected an outfit this cunt has been instructed to aid you with hair and makeup."
Amelia took the catalogue she was offered and made it only a few pages before throwing it on the bed in despair. It was less fashion, and more a handbook for rapists. Everything she saw was designed to show off the female form but the models were all bound, chained, restrained, some even showed the telltale redness and tear tracks of intense beating.
"Fuck, I'm just meat to them. Why do I even have to go through this charade? Why can't we just get this fucking over with?"
"Mistress, this cunt has observed many runners in the last few years. Many have doubts. This cunt may help you relax if you wish?"
"Relax...how the fuck can you help me....oh..." her angry retort stopped halfway as she realised what the slave was asking. "...I...please just....help me?"
The slave took a second and then nodded. She picked up the catalogue and thumbed through. "This cunt suggests this basque in peach would suit the Mistress along wi--"
"Please just...stop calling me that. Mistress. My name is Amelia. Do you....do you have a name?"
"This cunt is honoured to have been given the servonym Thirstycunt...Amelia."
"No, I mean, a normal name, a proper name."
"This cunt is no longer allowed to use its birth name, if it does it is required to report to the whipmaster for 40 lashes."
