Tae Only as Directed

Do you know how sheep get lost?

One nibble at a time.

That's exactly how it happened to me. My name's Janie. I was 24 at the time. I got myself into debt with my credit cards. It was my fault, I'll admit it. I wasn't careful. Before I knew it, I was in over my head.

It's the same, sad song plenty of others have sung in this crazy country. What was different in my case was the change in bankruptcy laws that took effect the year before, in 2028. No more bankruptcies for individuals, the government said. Only for corporations.

With the privatization of prisons, and the re-establishment of debtor's prisons at around that time, it sure looked like I'd run out of choices. I was sure some filthy, scummy prison had to be in my future. I had visions of sharing a cell with some musclebound dyke who would sit on my face every night as she fucked my asshole with her chubby fingers. Not my idea of a good time (though if it's yours, don't worry - I won't judge).

When you're afraid you've got no more choices, and a stranger appears out of the blue to offer you one, what do you do? You take it.

My savior, it seemed, was Mrs. Lockhart. My overworked legal-services lawyer introduced her a few days before I was scheduled to go to trial.

Mrs. Lockhart was all business. She looked like some high-priced corporate lawyer in her tailored gray suit. She was tall, blond-haired and gorgeous. What really stood out about her, though, was her high-heeled designer shoes. I would have called them "fuck me" pumps.

Turns out, it wasn't Mrs. Lockhart who was about to get fucked -- big time. But, how could I have known that?

Mrs. Lockhart told me she was working for a pilot program, an alternative to traditional incarceration. Her company, a government contractor, was looking for females in their twenties and early thirties to volunteer for a new kind of pre-trial intervention program. Young women like me could work off their debt by hiring themselves out as domestic servants to rich people.

No prison. Wow. I'd be willing to push a vacuum cleaner for a couple years to avoid that.

I'm interested, I said. Tell me more.

Just come with me to the information session, said Mrs. Lockhart. She laid a form on the table. Just sign here, it's a standard release. I signed without reading the small print.

Big mistake.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting in a van with tinted windows, along with four other women about my own age. Mrs. Lockhart was in the front seat, along with the driver. They were separated from us by a think, plastic partition like they have in taxicabs. It was only then that I noticed the doors had no handles on the inside.

Not good.

We drove for a couple hours, way out into the country. We pulled up at a gate in a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The driver flashed some kind of pass at a bar-code reader. The gate slid open automatically, then closed behind us.

Really not good.

We pulled up at a low, cinderblock building with very small windows, way up high. We got out. Another bar-code reader, another automatic door closing behind us.

Next thing I knew, our little group of five had been ushered into a small auditorium, joining about a dozen other women, all in their twenties or early thirties. Unlike the plain, run-down exterior of the building, this room was all rich-looking wood paneling and very comfortable seats.

Mrs. Lockhart walked up on stage in her fuck-you pumps. She pulled out some kind of remote, pushed a button, and a screen rose up from the floor behind her with a soft, whirring sound.

"Welcome, ladies," she said, showing brilliant white teeth behind her tight-lipped smile. It might as well have been a Mary Kay sales meeting. "You are at a corporate retreat center owned by my employer, the Halliburton Corporation. As you may know, we are a government contractor. In 2026, through a series of mergers and acquisitions, we became the largest contractor operating prisons for the government."

Mrs. Lockhart pushed a button on her remote. The lights dimmed and our seats automatically reclined like we were in some amusement-park ride. A video lit the screen.

A Halliburton logo appeared before us, then the words, "Distributed Incarceration: Better Corrections Through Chemistry."

The short video was all about the overcrowding in the prison system. It told how Halliburton had been awarded a government contract to farm out inmates to private citizens, who would pay for the cost of their incarceration in exchange for "personal services." The video showed a silver-haired business-executive type, accepting a glass of whisky off a silver tray, held by a very good-looking young woman dressed sort of like a first-class flight attendant. I did notice she had really big boobs, and was showing a good bit of cleavage.

The lights came back up, and a ditzy blonde in the front row put up her hand. Mrs. Lockhart looked annoyed. "Yes?"

"There's something I don't understand, Mrs. Lockhart. Why are you showing us a video about inmates, when we haven't even gone to trial yet?"

Mrs. Lockhart's voice was all sweetness and light, but the meaning of her words was anything but. "My dear, the release form you signed has the legal force of a guilty plea. As far as the law is concerned, you already are an inmate. Halliburton is certain you will all prefer the choice you have just made, and that you will enter the Distributed Incarceration pilot program. In the event you think otherwise, we are willing to consider your request that the court transfer you to a more traditional prison."

"Shit," I heard the woman next to me whisper under her breath. "We already signed up for this place, and didn't even know it."

My mind raced on to consider the choice that was now before me. Posh auditorium seats and track lighting, on the one hand. Or Spike, the iron-pumping lesbian-linebacker cellmate, on the other. Which one to choose? I had a sudden vision of Spike perched on the edge of the stainless-steel toilet, beckoning me with a tattooed finger: "Aw, come on over here, Sugar, your tongue is so much better at cleaning off my soggy cunt-hairs than toilet paper."

The choice seemed obvious, even if Mrs. Lockhart had been underhanded in getting us to sign that form.

Turned out, when it came to underhandedness, we didn't know the half of it.

I remember sitting in a small, windowless interview room -- no handle on the inside of the door -- waiting for Mrs. Lockhart to come in and "process" me. I felt really, really tired all of a sudden. "What's that strange smell in this room?" I thought to myself, even as I lay my head down on my forearm and drifted off to sleep.

I woke up feeling groggy, in a hospital bed, in another windowless room. No handle on the inside of that door, either, of course.

There was a TV and a remote. I reached out and clicked it. Mrs. Lockhart was on the TV. On every channel.

"Greetings, Distributed Incarcerations pilot program volunteer. You have just undergone a medical procedure to implant Halliburton's patented medication mini-pump into your upper chest."

I reached up and felt around the base of my neck. My fingers touched surgical sutures at a spot near my collarbone.

"The tiny, implanted pump releases small amounts of medication into your body on a continuous basis. The effect of this medication is to cause steadily increasing waves of nausea and general malaise. This will become disabling in time, if not headed off by a counter-dose of medication administered by your host. You will need this rescue dose approximately every 48 hours, before the symptoms start to manifest themselves."

"Shit," I thought to myself. "This thing is moving way faster than I could imagine."

Mrs. Lockhart's face continued to smile back at me from the TV. "You can think of this system as a chemical version of an electronic ankle-bracelet. Some have described it as a 21st century chain gang, but without the chains. Unless, of course, chains turn you on -- or have the same effect on your host." (Did Talking Lockhart-head on the screen just wink at me?)

"This innovative program," she continued, "takes inmates out of the prison system and places them in private homes. The convicts work as something like domestic servants. They perform personal services for the host until their debt to society is paid. In exchange, the host agrees to provide the prisoner with room and board. For services rendered, as it were."

Mrs. Lockhart's talking head was replaced by a cartoon diagram of a woman's naked upper chest, with an arrow pointing to the spot near the collarbone where I'd just felt those sutures. It didn't escape my attention that Cartoon Woman had extremely large, perfectly-proportioned breasts.

"The drug released by the mini-pump is a unique chemical match to the drug the host will administer at least once every 48 hours. As long as the dose is administered within the time frame, the program participant will feel normal. If the dose is delayed, the unpleasant symptoms will insure that the participant does not stray far from the host."

Next, a cartoon image of a naked man appeared on the screen. He was sporting a rather large erection.

Suddenly, I could see where this was going. "Oh -- my -- God," I whispered to myself, very slowly.

"The host takes a daily pill orally, that transforms his body into a medication-delivery system. The medication collects in his prostate gland, and, prior to ejaculation, mingles with his semen. It is absorbed into the program participant's body through one of three portals: her mouth, her vagina or her rectum. The choice of which portal to use is up to the host."

"Fuck," I whispered to myself -- instantly realizing how oddly appropriate was my choice of expletive.

"There are two more ingredients in this innovative medication cocktail," Mrs. Lockhart continued, her image now restored to the screen in a full-body version. She was dressed, now, in a lab coat, but still wearing her fuck-you pumps. "A mildly narcotic additive creates a feeling of well-being. A second additive is a highly-effective oral contraceptive."

The Halliburton corporate logo appeared on the screen. "The Distributed Corrections system, by Halliburton: better incarceration through chemistry."

The TV clicked off. A few hours later, a male orderly appeared and delivered a tray of food. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he said nothing.

A nurse appeared at intervals and checked my vitals. She had nothing to say, and didn't respond to my questions. I wondered if she even spoke English.

A day passed, then another -- and, let me tell you, everything that video promised about horrendous side-effects began to come true. The nausea grew worse by the hour. I began to get some really weird hallucinations: insects crawling on my skin, truly psycho stuff. God, I wanted that awful feeling to go away.

After several hours of agony, the door to my room abruptly opened. A middle-aged man in a lab coat entered. "You must be Janie," said he, in an expressionless voice.

"That would be me," I whispered through gritted teeth, feeling like I was about to puke my guts out.

"We regret having to put you through the withdrawal symptoms," he explained, "but it's part of the protocol. You need to experience what withdrawal feels like, so you'll be properly motivated to cooperate with the program requirements. You will be relieved to know I've been dosed with the oral medication unique to your treatment plan. I am prepared to administer your rescue dose. Please stand up and remove your hospital gown."

I had only one thing on my mind, and that was making that terrible feeling go away. I felt oddly detached from my own self as I stood beside the bed and loosened the cloth tie behind my neck. I shrugged and shimmied, watching the flimsy gown puddle around my ankles. There I stood, in all my bare-naked glory.

Without thinking, I let my hand drift in front of me, discretely covering my thick brown patch of pussy-hair. Then I realized the absurdity of the gesture. No point in covering up what the Halliburton Corporation already owned. I let my hand drift back to my side.

"Good girl," said Mr. Technician.

I watched as he unbuttoned his lab coat and let it fall to the floor. Only then did I realize that fucker wasn't wearing anything underneath. He was fifty-something, with an immensely hairy body and a pot-belly. A pair of half-glasses perched on the end of his nose.

I'll bet he thought the sex-gods were smiling on him when he landed this job.

He sat on the edge of my bed, absentmindedly playing with himself, coaxing his equipment into a semi-hard state. "Kneel," he ordered, pointing to the patch of floor between his feet. "Be a good little girl, open wide and say 'Ah.'"

I did as he commanded. His short, thick cock was pointed directly at my face. A shiny droplet was hanging from the softly puckered slit. God, I wanted to taste that pre-cum more than anything in the world.

I stuck out my tongue and licked the drop up, smacking my lips to let him know I wanted more. Then, slowly and deliberately, I swirled my tongue around the cockhead, before opening wide and devouring his entire shaft. I haven't exactly been Ms. Party Girl in the past, but I have had a social life. One thing I've learned is how to keep on taking it, inch by inch, until my lips are pressed up against the guy's pubes.

I don't think H. Wellington Science-Nerd was expecting that. His gasp of pleasure, followed by his grunts and heavy breathing, confirmed it.

It didn't take him long. When the thick wad of his cum hit the back of my throat, I swallowed every drop. Who was I to let a good drug-hit go to waste?

Almost immediately, a glowing warmth suffused my body. All symptoms of nausea ceased and I was struck by a feeling of well-being. I licked the sticky cum from each of my fingers, one by one. I looked up at him and flashed a mischievous little smile. "I forgot to ask your name."

"The protocol suggests you address me as 'Master.'"

"Thank you, Master," said I.

And I meant it.

To be continued...