Nearly two years earlier, Chelsea stood uncomfortably in her panties in the study next door. The maid, Wendy, was arranging the clothes Chelsea had just removed.
Chelsea knew from long nights on the internet that she would have to strip to receive her collar. It felt demeaning and strangely sexual, but Chelsea knew that, if she refused, things were likely to get worse. She was already involuntary, having refused to sign her consent.
Chelsea's desperate research had suggested that, if she ever wanted out of her situation, she was better off not signing. Human rights organizations around the world constantly tried to free indentures, but they were desperately underfunded, and they focused exclusively on involuntaries. If a girl had signed, she was, at best, a waste of their resources.
Mr. Quarrian had pleaded with Chelsea to sign her consent, explaining how her compensation on release would be forfeit. Her servitude would be harder. She would be known to be involuntary and subject to stricter treatment. Chelsea had given her final refusal as she was marched onto the private jet bound for the Island, calling on bravery she didn't know she had.
Chelsea had been resolute, but when Wendy had led her into the study and politely asked her to strip to her panties, Chelsea had given no resistance. The travel, the opulence, the cumulative anxiety had crashed in around her, and she had complied.
Chelsea had shakily removed her expensive blazer, skirt, pantyhose, shoes. She had purchased the outfit just for this trip, hoping to meet her sponsor in a dignified way, even to convey professionalism. But her sponsor would never see Chelsea in the outfit. She had stripped in front of the maid, her sponsor nowhere in sight. Chelsea hugged her bare breasts and panties, humiliation descending like a visceral cloud.
As Wendy went to work folding and arranging the clothing Chelsea had just stripped, Chelsea felt something else as well. To her dismay, her body was responding. She could feel her stomach fluttering, nipples starting to protrude, pussy becoming warm and wet. She glanced at Wendy.
Since college, Chelsea had known that she responded to power exchanges like this. She couldn't help it. The first time she saw an indenture, she secretly became wet, helplessly imagining herself in that collar. Of course, she had avoided an actual collar at all costs. That was unthinkable. But when Chelsea had seen the indenture, new to the program after the Collapse, the knowledge that the girl had no choice, that her sponsor had complete control, had taken hold in Chelsea. She was consumed by a fetish she hadn't known she had.
Chelsea glanced again at Wendy, who still seemed focused on arranging things. The maid was modestly dressed in a knee-length skirt and top. Chelsea couldn't wait to get into her own uniform, whatever it was.
She looked at Wendy's collar. It was the same collar indentures wore around the world. The sleek black synthetic material looked like something a dog would wear, but this collar had no buckle or way to remove it. Four small loops extended from its quadrants, allowing the girl to be leashed, chained, or guided with a finger from any side. Adding to the impression of an animal collar, a simple round identification tag hung from the front, with the girl's name and her sponsor. Return to owner.
Chelsea could imagine it around her own neck, the degrading tag resting on her skin.
An elegant young woman entered the study through the French doors, interrupting Chelsea's thoughts. She appeared slightly younger than Chelsea and was strikingly dressed in contrast to the maid's simple attire. A fitted white blouse and tailored skirt accentuated small breasts and a slim figure. The top buttons of her blouse were undone. Her highlighted brown hair was pinned back, framing her face elegantly. She stood taller than Chelsea thanks to elegant stilettos.
The younger woman glanced at her maid, who had stopped fussing with Chelsea's clothes and stood with feet forward, head bowed.
The woman turned her attention to Chelsea. Chelsea stood mortified with her hands over her hardening nipples, knees tightly together, feet turning inward. Warm dampness spread between her legs.
"Move your arm." The instruction was simple, direct. The younger woman's voice was soft, but Chelsea felt her power. The sponsor touched Chelsea's arm which covered her hard nipples. Chelsea hesitated, then put both hands down in front of her panties. She blushed.
"Chelsea, my name is Ms. Lisa," said the woman. "I am your sponsor."
"Hello," mumbled Chelsea. Her pussy beneath her panties was growing uncomfortably warm. Her nipples protruded playfully.
"Chelsea, give me your panties." The instruction was so simple. It was spoken plainly, like Wendy's earlier instruction to undress. But it was degrading, humiliating. It spoke everything about the younger woman's power.
Chelsea had known this was coming. Her will for defiance had been spent long ago. Refusing to sign her consent was the scariest thing she had ever done, and there was no point in further provoking the powers forcing her into servitude.
She had already decided that she would cooperate. Still, she hesitated, moving her hands to comply. Her pussy throbbed. Her nipples were erect, perking at the domineering woman.
With a burst of determination, Chelsea pushed her panties down past her knees to her ankles, stepping out of them as Ms. Lisa watched. The panties were wet. It was more than a little obvious. Standing up again, embarrassed, she handed them to Ms. Lisa.
Chelsea put one arm back over her breasts, trying to hide her hard, playful nipples. Her other hand covered her pussy. She felt her warmth there as she watched Ms. Lisa finger the crotch of her panties.
"What did I tell you about your hands?" asked Ms. Lisa. Embarrassed, Chelsea put them down again, beside her sides. Her nipples were like little rocks, greeting her new sponsor. She awkwardly clenched and unclenched her fists.
"Hold your hair up with both hands, away from your neck," said Ms. Lisa. "That will keep your hands busy."
Chelsea complied awkwardly. Raising her hands in this way, nude in front of the powerful woman, made her feel small and vulnerable. Ms. Lisa did not try to disguise her eyes moving up and down Chelsea's body.
"Wendy, bring me Chelsea's collar," said Ms. Lisa.
Somewhere to the side, Chelsea heard Wendy open a drawer. Wendy appeared beside Ms. Lisa, holding a collar similar to her own.
Lisa traded Wendy for the collar, handing Wendy the panties crotch first, so that Wendy would feel Chelsea's arousal. Chelsea was sure they would be able to smell it soon, too, if they couldn't already. She felt herself blush.
Chelsea felt the proximity of both women as Wendy stood beside her sponsor. Chelsea pressed her knees tightly together.
Ms. Lisa fingered the collar, holding it out to Chelsea. She let Chelsea see the sleek, intentional design. She held the identification tag out so that Chelsea could see her name.
"This shows your subservience to me," said Ms. Lisa. "Once it's on, it can't be removed."
Chelsea said nothing. She knew that they couldn't be removed without special tools, which would not be available to her. She felt her stomach sink at the word "subservience."
Ms. Lisa continued, "Your collar tracks your location. We can find you within a few meters anywhere in the world." Ms. Lisa glanced at Wendy, who seemed to cringe.
"If it vibrates," Ms. Lisa stroked the smooth material, "come immediately to me and kneel."
"Kneel?" The word slipped out from Chelsea's lips, barely a whisper. Her mind spun, trying to catch up to this new degradation, as she stood with her arms raised, more desperately aroused by the minute.
Ms. Lisa didn't reply. Wendy fingered Chelsea's panties. Did Wendy kneel when she was summoned?
"Hold your hair up nicely, Chelsea," said Ms. Lisa. Chelsea raised her hair behind her head a little more. Ms. Lisa's hands went to Chelsea's neck, and Chelsea felt the collar closing.
When Ms. Lisa removed her hands, the collar remained. Chelsea was faint, dizzy, her world on its head. The smooth material was close around her neck, not tight enough to be uncomfortable, but palpable, present.
Glancing at Wendy, Chelsea realized again how much it looked like a dog collar. Chelsea could be leashed, taken for walks. The identification tag hung around her neck. Her face flushed, the heat traveling down her neck and body.
Ms. Lisa watched Chelsea. "Kiss my feet in gratitude."
Chelsea had known this was coming as well. She rebelled inwardly.
For other indentures, lifted out of debt, family and future saved, kissing a sponsor's feet had meaning. But Chelsea was not being lifted out of debt. She was not indebted at all. Her education had been funded by a charity after the Collapse. Her family was not wealthy, but they were not desperate, even now.
Chelsea did not consent to this. She had turned down a vast promise of money by refusing to sign, maintaining what was left of her dignity in hope of escape.
She had been given no choice but to stand completely nude, degraded, while her captor lectured and collared her. She would be here for years, without rights, and receive no compensation. She had no desire to kiss Ms. Lisa's foot, now or ever.
Where was her uniform? When would she receive her things back?
Chelsea lowered her arms from holding her hair and went back to covering her breasts and pussy. She stood, covering, nervous, defiant, unable to bring herself to get on her knees.
Chelsea's eyes met Ms. Lisa's. "I won't do it," she whispered, barely audible.
Silence, then, "Won't do what, Chelsea?" Annoyance was creeping into Ms. Lisa's tone. Chelsea started to feel the level of control this young woman must wield.
"I won't kiss your feet," Chelsea's voice faltered. Her hand tightened across her breasts.
Chelsea's heart was racing. She felt her skin beneath her hands, her body frustratingly ready to play. Chelsea found that she physically could not obey. This woman had enslaved her. There was no other word.
Long moments went by, Ms. Lisa looking Chelsea up and down. Chelsea realized that her nipple was poking out from her fingers and adjusted her hand.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Ms. Lisa said.
Ms. Lisa looked slightly familiar, but Chelsea couldn't quite place her.
"We all attended Harrington University together. You were ahead of me in school. Tyler, your former boyfriend, was one of my closest friends."
Chelsea's eyes widened. What did Tyler have to do with this?
"After you left him heartbroken, he and I grew closer, and eventually started dating. He graduated with you, before me, and you went your separate ways. Tyler and I dated while I finished my studies at Harrington. I moved onto the Island as soon as I graduated. Tyler and I are engaged."
Chelsea felt the floor drop from beneath her. "You and Tyler are engaged?" She felt herself processing. "He lives here?"
Ms. Lisa smiled, sending a text. She looked at Chelsea, who stood nervously in her collar. "Tyler will be joining us shortly," she said.
Chelsea's heart raced. She blushed again, furiously.
Chelsea hugged herself tightly. "Please, Ms. Lisa, my uniform. Please."
