{author's note. Is this a better length than the first two? Should I be adding a slow burn tag? Please let me know.}
{author's caution. This progressive dystopian bit of social engineering has only fictional theory to support it. Don't do it in real life. Don't vote for politicians who propose it. Imagination is wonderful. That's where to enjoy this}
Housebroken
"The QR code and the tag number " the agent begins,-- a pickup's pulling into the lot, doe bound and gagged in the truck bed.
"Think about where you want them. I'll be right back Gotta get this capture logged in."
He steps outside. "Gonna hafta wait a minute." He yells "Just finishing up one now."
His handheld photographs the arrival, time stamping, it keeping the record clear and protected from fierce feminist lawyers.
Inside again, he uses a computer driven tattoo machine to print the tattoos on her body, where the Hunter wants them.
It's nothing artistic, it's government work. The Hunter chooses traditional placement:
The QR code is at the top of the spine, below the neck still visible when she is in her shock collar. Anyone can scan it, navigate to her webpage, check the records, make sure she is being well maintained.
The tag numbers are sequentially placed in a centered arc across her butt cheeks, the numerals tall enough to be mostly visible when he has her in daisy dukes.
"Dyson in daisy dukes " he muses "mighty tasty"
The extraction proof slave chip goes in her right ass cheek just below the final numbers.
The numbers aren't so tall a crop top combined with the dukes will be enough to cover them.
Dressing a slave girl to "flash her numbers " and parading her around, makes the slave's owner a popular man.
"All done" the agent tells him, "just make sure you don't take the ear tag off until the tattoo irritation is healed."
"Those staples won't dissolve for 3 or 4 more days." "Should be good to go." "Get her to a vet if things aren't healing right."
The paperwork's printed out.
The agent glances at it, hands it to the young man saying "You took the first trophy in the state, that gets you an extra tag. Congratulations."
He hands over the paperwork continuing "You're a fortunate young man--" When they get outside where surveillance less intense, he resumes:
"Three tags drawn in the lottery, earned another for first doe of the season."
"You know" He thoughtfully muses
"The University puts these co-eds up in groups of four.
Cleaning out an entire nest would be a legendary story."
Your advance scouting's already been done." He apparently rambles on, constructing some cover against legal repercussions.
"You know where the racks you want are roaming."
"I'm just daydreaming about my younger, Hunting days." "Bagged myself a ginger."
Those red heads sag a little and they're a bit chunky, but milkers?"
"The finest."
"A man could feed a small orphanage from her in her prime."
I'm happy, but an entire nest?"
"I might have died happy on the spot!"
He shakes himself "Nostalgia. Gets me every season."
He heads over to the pickup, going about his bureaucratic business of rendering a newly caught co-ed into legally enslaved fuck meat.
Her Owner puts her inside the car for the next stage of her journey. He leaves her hands cuffed in front and seat belts her in.
The Hunter, now officially her Owner, explains the child locks and window controls keeping her from opening either one and diving out. Escaping, that is, only if she slips the cuffs.
I have no hope, she realizes. She's not sure she wants hope.
When her Hunter slides in behind the driver's wheel she leans over reaching out her bound hands, needing connection, trying to touch him The cuffs prevent her efforts.
She nods off.
Her day has been long and exhausting, full of emotional downs and shallow rebounds.
Next thing she knows, he's unclipping her seatbelt. "Dyson" he says, "We're here."
Her mind is whirling, disoriented from sleep and the chaotic disruption of the past few hours. "Dyson?" "Who's Dyson?" "Where's here?"
He hasn't put a collar and leash on her yet. That experience is waiting inside his co-op apartment.
Her owner puts his hand on her back, in-between her shoulders urging her, lightly pushing her towards the basement door of an old church worship building.
It, along with social hall and parsonage have converted into co-op apartments.
The physical contact centers her. She begins to invent answers for her questions.
Dyson I I I must be Dyson. I wonder who I was.
"Here", it's now obvious to her is where he's keeping her"
"That's nice" she thinks "old church buildings are romantic."
They stop at the door. he's reaching for his keys. She's snuggling against him again.
She inhales his scent, the scent she first smelled when he took her for himself, from herself. She snuggles closer.
He opens the door and firmly pushes her inside.
The heavy steel door automatically closes. Lights automatically turn on He walks her to the foyer of a roomy basement apartment.
He looks her up and down.
He's smug, he's satisfied with what he sees. He's very pleased with himself.
Dyson is happy her Hunter, her Owner, is pleased.
"I'm taking the gag out now Dyson" he warns her "You stay silent until I tell you what to say " he orders.
"Understand?!" He demands.
She tries to signal yes with her eyes. He demands more. She frantically nods "yes. Yes!"
Out comes the gag. Dyson obediently remains silent.
He begins giving her the rules. "You will always answer me, Dyson.
"When you do speak to me or about me to others you will always call me Sir or Master." He pauses expectantly. "Yes my Hunter" she mummers.
Crack! He slaps her right cheek. Not too soft. Not viciously hard. Her face stings. "Focus Dyson!" he orders "Pay attention!" Sir or Master is what I ordered you to call me."
Crack! He strikes her other cheek, exactly as hard as his first correction.
Dyson is confused, she panics.
"But but but what I did do?" she cries, tears rolling down her burning cheeks.
Crack! Crack! He applies correction to both cheeks.
He pushes her to her knees, he pushes until her butt is resting on her heels.
