I was stark naked in a dog crate, with my hands cinched behind my back by a cheap plastic tie. The white truck was hot and I felt every bump as my head hit the top of my steel dog cage, but my position wasn't the worst of my miseries.
For starters, I had no idea where I was going. I had assumed I was going to be sold in Austin, but when Becky Lou Brainless had fouled that up beyond all recognition by misclassifying me as a so-called "Pleasure Slut" I'd inadvertently become just another piece of slave tail to be traded back between the major slave markets in Austin, Dallas, Houston, Larado, and El Paso. Of course if Becky Lou decided to check an out-of-state market I might be auctioned in New Orleans, Oklahoma City, Jackson, Little Rock, or Nashville. Depending on market conditions I might be trucked as far east as Atlanta, as far west as Albuquerque, or as far North as Kansas City.
As I had no idea of what my bill-of-lading said I had no idea where I was or how far I might be traveling. The shitty truck I was on had a few non-descript boxes in it, but I I didn't even know if it was a licensed delivery service. Keeping my freight costs cheap meant I could be scalp traded anywhere in the country a broker might make a few more cents on a tall, blonde slave girl.
I was used to flying first class and having private cars and limos prearranged. My unaccustomed and highly unusual ignorance of my destination was as aggravating as it was terrifying. "Slave girls have questions, but only masters have answers." I wasn't a slave slut, of course, although I had to admit that in my present situation the adage did have the sting of truth.
I had other miseries as well. The disgusting and well chewed leather slave bit in my mouth was not only forcing my mouth into a permanent "slave smile", it was also causing me to drool, which mixed my saliva in with the endless parade of slave sluts who had chewed on this gag before me. It was salty and had a chlorine smell, and as a slaving professional I knew all to well what the source of that particular ingredient in the disgusting stew sloshing around in my mouth was. Slave wranglers and delivery men sometimes amused themselves by jacking off onto slave gags, knowing that countless slave girls would taste their scum for years to come. I wondered how many lowlife truckers and interns and unwashed delivery guys I was sucking off right now. How many slave sluts had masturbated their dirty twats with my leather gag? More than I wanted to think about.
I had never tasted "slave soup" as it was wryly called, and I wish I didn't understand so well the flavors in my mouth. The downside of being a slaving professional was I understood every indignity that was being visited upon me. I had devised many of them. I laughed about them, and snickered as I had sent countless slave girls off to their fate. My detailed knowledge of - indeed, my culpability - in the indignities I was now suffering made the taste in my mouth all the more bitter.
I was being shipped in a standard sized pet crate, built for a Golden Retriever or a Labrador. As I am nearly six foot it wasn't large enough for me to maneuver my hands in front of me, which would have given me the leverage to break the cheap plastic zip tie that bound my wrists. I wondered if Rosa's choice of this particular crate had been random, strategic, cheap, or just cruel. I settled on cruel, as the little taco eater didn't seem any brighter than Becky Lou Bundy, the architect of my current predicament.
Becky Lou! How could anyone be so stupid? If Becky Lou hadn't been a complete moron she would have told me that Judge Parker had misclassified me as a Pleasure Slut before I signed the stupid forms, when the mistake could have been easily rectified, or I could have simply backed out.
No doubt about it: like most rural people, Becky Lou had shit-for-brains. I had pegged her from the first as country-stupid, a witless cornpone bureaucrat in a stupid cowboy hat and shit-kicking boots. My mistake had been in not double-checking and then triple-checking her work. Foolish of me, since I doubted Becky Lou could use an ATM without creating a banking crisis.
As the hours passed and my long trip entered what I supposed to be its second hour I had ample time to chew on more than just my gag.
What if Becky Lou wasn't the feckless fool I had taken her for? What if my misclassification as a Pleasure Slut had been her objective rather than the result of her barnyard incompetence? Perhaps there was a reason she had pulled my file, and shown Judge Parker my grading forms, and the pictures of me squatting naked that had been taken during my slave grading.
Why go see the Judge at all? She could have just classified me as a criminal enslavement or a debt enslavement through her office without actually getting a court order, which would have made it easier to fix the later. Instead she filed an genuine and legally binding enslavement order, then took the time to schedule a meeting with Judge Parker, a meeting where she showed him picture of my hot, wet "slave pussy".
As I got hotter and more exhausted I became more desperate. I tried to break out of my zip tie cuffs, but with my hands tied behind my back I could not. I tried to shake off my gag, or use my tongue to push it even a little out of my mouth, to wipe the ridiculous "slave smile" off my face, a condition caused by Rosa cruelly tightening the straps on my gap until my lips were pulled back and my teeth exposed. My efforts only swirled the disgusting taste of dried sperm and old spit around my mouth, and covered my face in my own drool.
I tried to think. Judge Parker was the name on my enslavement form. Had I heard that name before? I had a vague recollection of having met a Judge Parker when I had given a presentation at The Slave Expo conference in Houston. I was lecturing to a packed ballroom at the Convention Center about changes in The Uniform Slave Act. I remembered Parker's name because he had a thick accent, and when he introduced himself I thought his name was Piker, and everyone laughed. Not enjoying being the butt of the joke, Parker frowned.
Giving the matter my full attention I recalled the event. I was speaking in a huge conference room in the Convention Center. There were lots of questions after my presentation. Judge Parker had been one of the first to raise his hand.
In a room filled with colorful Texas characters Judge Rufus Parker made an impression. He was so fat he used the chair in front of him to stand up. He had a white goatee, and white sideburns, and was dressed in an all white suit, with an enormous white cowboy hat. I asked him to remove his hat, "so everyone can see you, and because you are talking to a lady, Sir."
This got some laughter, which he didn't like, and the removal of his hat got some more laughter, as it revealed the world's worst comb over, which the hat had disturbed, and which left his chrome dome bald, with a long strand of white hair hanging down to his shoulder. He fiddled with it as the huge crowd laughed at him, and the smiling photographer recording the event snapped his picture.
Judge Parker was in the second row, so I walked across the stage to his section. He was fat and squat, and the removal of his Texas-tall cowboy hat further diminished his non-existent stature. I'm a tall and quite leggy blonde, and with the added height of the stage I literally towered over him, a supermodel talking to a fat, bald, child.
When the usherette gave him his microphone his voice was loud and gruff. "My slavin' court's as busy as a one legged man at an ass kickin' convention. I'm 'hell-bent-for-leather, and I want to brand these slave bitches while the iron's still white hot! The little bitches kneel in front of my bench, cryin' and whinin' about how they don't wanna be slaves, not giving two shits about falling bee-hind on their stew-dent loans, or the people their daddies owe money too! I got me a 'hankerin' to grease the chute, and git that slave pussy in their collars, without so much paper-shufflin'!"
