Take Only As Directed Ch 02

This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. When she graduates from the training center, she will be farmed out to live in the home of a wealthy man, who will take a daily pill that converts his semen into the rescue dose Janie needs.

***

"That was nicely done," said the technician I'd just sucked off, after he'd regained his composure. "I can see you have a natural talent for this." Picking up his tablet computer, he punched in some numbers, then pulled on his lab coat and left the room.

I lay back on the bed, relishing the warm glow of the medicine the tech had just ejaculated down my throat. "Good God, why do I feel so turned on?" I asked myself. Of their own accord, my fingers drifted down to my thick, black bush. They found the impertinent little button of my clit. Pressing downward and deeper into the thick patch, I realized I was positively dripping.

Then, I remembered what I'd learned in the briefing. The rescue-dose chemical cocktail includes not just the antidote, but also a pleasure-inducing drug. "Three days into this program, and I already feel like some kind of junkie," I mused.

Just then, the door opened and a female technician came into the room. She was unfazed by the sight of me lying there spreadeagled, fingers in my crotch. She even seemed to expect it. "My, my, aren't we a fast learner?"

The tech picked up my hospital gown from the floor. "You're not going to be needing this any more," she explained. "You're already wearing the training-center uniform: or, should I say, the undress uniform."

"But the only thing I've got on is my birthday suit."

"Exactly. That's the uniform, sweetie. There's just one other thing you need."

She handed me a shoebox. I opened it and pulled out a pair of shiny black pumps.

"We measured your feet while you were still unconscious. This pair should fit you perfectly. For the duration of your time in the training center, you and the other trainees will remain nude, except for shoes like these. After you graduate and are assigned to a host, he'll decide what, if anything, you're going to wear around the house. During training, we give you the experience of being naked in the presence of others, just in case. Take my advice: if you're like most of our clients, you'll need lots of practice walking in high-heeled shoes like these. So keep 'em on at all times. They're good for toning the butt-cheeks, you know."

She made for the door and waved her ID card in front of a bar-code reader. As it opened before her, she called back over her shoulder: "You can relax for now, but as soon as you hear the bell, step out into the hallway and make your way down to the conference room. And don't forget those pumps."

It wasn't an hour later before I heard a doorbell-like tone. The locked door to my room swung open of its own accord.

I'd been walking up and down in the pumps, from one end of my room to the other, to try to get the hang of them. It was now or never.

It felt weird stepping out into the hallway, buck naked. Ahead of me, teetering along in her own pair of high heels, was a tall black woman. I could see her ample butt-cheeks swaying first right, then left, as she tried to get the hang of the shoes.

"Damn!" said she. "Walking in these is harder than it looks."

"I'm no expert, either," said I. "I'm Janie."

"LaToya," said she, giving my right hand a squeeze in return. She whispered, "You have any idea they were taking you to this place?"

"Not a hint of it. They never asked."

"I should've remembered that from my time in the Army. Never trust anything a recruiter tells you, and don't sign anything without reading it."

"Too late now."

"True, dat."

Turning the corner, LaToya and I came to the conference room. A dozen padded chairs, arranged in a circle, with no conference table. Just two chairs remained. She and I were last in, so we sat our naked butt-cheeks down, and looked silently into the eyes of each of the other women, in turn. Every emotion was reflected in those eyes, from terror to anger to curiosity.

Then, a familiar face. Ms. Lockhart came into the room, dressed in another of her tailored business suits. She was the only one wearing clothes.

"By now, you ladies realize what you've signed on for. The fact that you're here at all, looking and feeling so perky, means you not only let one of our male technicians come in your mouth, but you swallowed his load."

We looked around at each other, then looked away, embarrassed.

"Nicely done. That's the sort of compliance we're looking for."

"But, you can't do this to us!" sputtered a woman with long, wavy red hair and freckles all over her body. "It's against our constitutional rights. I'll have you know I'm an attorney, and..."

"Were an attorney, Lisa," corrected Mrs. Lockhart. "Maybe, in a few years, when you've completed your program and have paid back your shamefully large credit-card debt, you'll be an attorney again. But for the foreseeable future, that pert little body of yours belongs to the man who's going to pay for the privilege of administering your medication. Cute boobs, by the way. I like the freckled look." (Was that a hint of more than detached, professional interest in Ms. Lockhart's eye?)

"This is no better than slavery," muttered LaToya.

"Now, let's not be crass, my dear," said Ms. Lockhart. "Such an old-fashioned way of looking at it! This is 2029, after all. You girls made the bad choices that got you to this place, and the society you've maligned is giving you one last chance to rectify your mistakes."

"You all have an asset certain wealthy, powerful men are eager to have." Ms. Lockhart looked slowly at Lisa's body, giving her the once- and even twice-over. "And a very impressive one, at that. You've all maintained that asset admirably. These men have chosen to deploy a small part of their personal fortunes to pay off your debt to society. They're subsidizing an overcrowded prison system, and you get to live in a beachfront mansion or an elegant town house instead of a prison cell. It's an arrangement that's mutually beneficial to all parties. Think of it as the 21st-century version of indentured servitude -- or maybe concubinage is the better term. For the duration of your sentence, you are 21st century concubines. It's the revival and repurposing of an ancient, time-honored tradition in human history."

"Do we have any say at all about who we work for?" asked a willowy blonde.

"I'm afraid not, my dear. It's the other way around. Your prospective master will first observe you through the one-way glass windows here at the training center. If he likes what he sees, he'll send a message to come sit down with him for an interview. If that goes well, he'll have you brought to one of our small, on-site apartments, and you'll spend some more personal time with him: however long he needs to make up his mind."

"Where it may go from there is entirely his decision -- based on how well you see to his needs and desires, large and small. I can't impress on you enough the importance of adopting an attitude of perfect subservience, and anticipating his needs before he asks."

"We have a constant flow of women into and out of the training center, and only have so many beds. If, after thirty days, you've gone unselected, we'll remove the medicine pump and transfer you to the general prison population. There, as I'm sure you're aware, there are some rather assertive inmates who will insist on making their own proprietary arrangements with you." A knowing look. And a smirk.

"If it should happen that your master grows weary of you, he has the privilege of arranging with another client to swap you for his own personal assistant. Or, he can simply return you to the training center for the cost of a processing fee."

There was a soft moan from Lisa, whose eyes took on the appearance of a hunted animal. She glanced around from one of us to the other, gauging our reactions, seeing if we seemed to think our predicament as intolerable as she did.

"I can assure you, my dear" -- said Ms. Lockhart, reading her mind -- "that you will find this proposal far more pleasant than the alternative. You may think you don't want to service your master's needs, but remember, you've just had the rescue dose of your medication renewed. You're feeling pretty good now. Just think about how you felt around this time yesterday. Savor that memory. Do that, and, believe me, you'll be bending over and letting him fuck your tight little asshole -- if that's what makes him happy -- without giving it a second thought. The other women who've passed through the training center report that the sex becomes associated in their minds with receiving the rescue dose, along with its associated pleasure-drugs. They end up quite looking forward to it."

"It's an ingenious concept, this chemical incarceration" Ms. Lockhart went on. She leaned in confidentially: "The politicians just love it! Not since marijuana was legalized have they found such a promising new vice to tax. Our corrections contractors are all wealthy men. They can more than afford the high participant fees. To them, renting their genitalia to the state for a drug-delivery system isn't exactly hardship duty."

I had the distinct feeling that, as she said this, Ms. Lockhart was staring at my tits. Did I just see her lick her lips?

"Concubines!" muttered Lisa, in disgust. "I don't care what they call it, it's still a form of slavery." She looked around at the rest of us, as though she were the litigator and we the jury. A barenaked jury. "She's telling us the only way we can stay out of prison is by signing on as sex slaves to some rich pervert, who gets his jollies by pumping his spunk into us every couple of days."

"You could choose to look at it that way," responded Ms. Lockhart, coolly. Then, she brightened and flashed Lisa a brilliant smile. "Or, you could think of it as a smart way to avoid the alternative. From what I know of our understaffed, underfunded prison system, as soon as a piece of fresh meat like you stumbles out of the reception area with that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face, the other inmates -- the ones with the skull tattoos and ripped muscles and flat-top haircuts -- start elbowing one another out of the way. They want to find out which one of them's going to savor the privilege of having you -- yes, you, Ms. Attorney-At-Law -- kneel down every day and call her 'Mommy' while she's sitting on the crapper, as you offer her the use of your tongue in lieu of toilet paper."

That shut Lisa up. Lockhart was right. The thought of spending most of the next few years buck-naked, pinned beneath some sweaty, sadistic female iron-pumper, didn't appeal to any of us. (From the delight with which she savored the details of that scenario, though, Ms. Lockhart may have had a different view.)

Which is why, when Ms. Lockhart asked us each, in turn, if we would agree to move on to the next step without resistance, every last one of us nodded our assent. Yes, we would be pleased to take the shareholders of Halliburton, Inc. up on their kind offer.

"Don't think you'll just be sitting around on your cute little asses for the next several weeks, doing your nails," Ms. Lockart went on. "Your days -- and especially your nights -- will be full. We have much to teach you. Pay close attention, because the quicker you learn, the less likely you'll be to reach the end of your thirty days without having found a master to take you home with him. Now, get up and step into the next room, please."

We found ourselves in a room resembling an operating-room theater in a teaching hospital. Vinyl-covered seats were arrayed in tiers above a lower-level area where the demonstration activities -- whatever they might be -- would take place. The surgical gurney one might have expected to see in such a setting had been replaced by a king-sized bed.

"Janie," said Ms. Lockhart, indicating me. "Front and center. You're about to meet Dennis, one of our instructors."

A small door opened, and a six-foot-tall, heavily muscled African-American man with very dark skin and very white teeth came in, wearing a bathrobe. He let the robe drop to the floor. Between his muscular thighs was hanging one of the largest, thickest male sausages I'd ever seen.

"Janie, in a moment Dennis will kindly offer some of his bodily fluid to you. All you need to do is coax it out of that impressive dong of his. In case you're wondering how we came to choose you as our first demonstration subject, it's because, as we've watched you through the one-way glass, you've already impressed us with your natural talent for masturbating. Climb up on the bed, now, spread your legs wide and demonstrate for Dennis and the rest of us how it's done."

To be continued...