The Cost Of My Dreams Ch 02

The Cost of My Dreams Ch. 02 - Deceptions

By LoyalHound

All Characters are fictitious and are adults.

I realize everyone is waiting for the voyage to Mars part of the story; I'd like to start writing that portion too, but there are things I have to set up first. I'm planning to have the voyage to Mars start in chapter 5 or 6. I promise you time starts moving faster in chapter 3.

When we got to the Jacksonville Slave Market, I felt the truck backed in and watched the rear gate open from where I knelt, naked but for the collar locked around my neck, in my kennel. Four warehouse slaves, ugly older men wearing gloves, tight fitting crotch covers, close fitting gray fabricate collars with the electronics package in back, and what I assume were steel toed shoes, started unloading.

They unloaded the kennels containing Erin and I first, checked our collar scans against the shipping document on our kennels and the notations on our left breasts, then moved us (still in our kennels) to particular area of the warehouse some distance nearer a door to the rest of the market.

I looked at Erin thru the bars of our kennels. She knelt on the slave pad in the cage with her hands on her lap. Collared and slave naked, she still looked like she couldn't quite believe what was happening to her. Since we were alone, I asked "Erin, why did you sign up for this if you weren't trying to compete for the fourth mission slot?"

"They kept telling us we would only be picked if enough of you didn't volunteer and I knew you were all Mars struck. I was going to walk away twenty thousand dollars richer for a few hours kenneled but fully clothed."

"Erin, we all filed our papers early. They knew five of the nine would show up before today. They picked six for training because they wanted you, even if you don't have a choice plus slave grade. They tricked you into signing that indenture and now you have no choice but to compete, because if you spend a month in slave training and five months as slave to your coworkers, you will have paid a hell of a price to not go to Mars. You've been played."

"Shit," she said, looking sad and frustrated "I know that. I just didn't want to admit to myself how badly I'd been had."

"Don't even think about resisting. The Sharks has a good reputation and you'll be broke the best when they're done with you. They'll even extend your training at no charge if they're not satisfied with the result. You'll only be making it harder and more damaging to yourself if you resist and you'll serve that six-month indenture."

She shook her head. "I'm graded choice. Do you think they manipulated the cutoff grade so I could be conned into signing up, with me thinking that there was no possibility I'd be chosen?"

I shrugged. "I know I'd want you on my crew, even if I'm not into girls. I think you and I have the best analytic and technical skills of the six."

"Unless the whole business with the alternates was to create to generate drama for the press. You know, feisty underdog Nine One Two Five got in just under the wire as a candidate, fighting for a role on this mission. She has heart, but does she have what it takes? Maybe even add some sort of reality TV episodes to promote excitement and merchandizing for the voyage. The format's played out but it may be they care nothing at all about my technical skills. I'll never learn. Nobody just gives out twenty thousand dollars for a few hours cage time but I'll never learn."

"The whole charade with the alternate candidates and requiring one more than the number who volunteered was to trap you. You're not the kind of shit stirrer they'd bring in to add drama. They have to care a lot about your skills or they'd have found a reason to pick someone else. As long as we don't screw up, I think we're the top candidates, though I do worry about Denise. Nine One Two Five, I want this. I want that forth mission slot but I want it because I deserve it, not because I'd do anything whatsoever to make it Mars."

"Six Seven One Nine, you signed an indenture knowing you would become a slave. You will do anything whatsoever to make it to Mars. I conned myself into a six-month indenture. Don't con yourself into thinking that you're too good to take it if you don't deserve it. Besides, what's fair in a competition between slaves?"

Well, I really hadn't cared about those girls who were going be suckered in to the slave girl explorer story they'd make of this, if my dad was right. But....

"Erin, I'd prefer to earn it but I guess I would take it if I didn't deserve it but I'd like to think my dad did a better job of raising me then for me to do anything whatsoever to get it. My dad is OK with me accepting an indenture to get to get this slot. He'd think a good deal less of me if I showed up on reality TV as the backstabbing bitch undercutting her friends to get the slot, especially if I failed. Because that's what real failure would look like: cheating, betraying all your colleagues and selling out all of your convictions and losing anyway."

"Can we agree not to sabotage each other and to work together when we can?" I continued. "Let Denise be the villain if she wants. Hell, if she makes herself the enemy, retaliation is justified but I'd like to have a friend in this contest, even if you win in the end. Because, one way or another, there's going to be life for us after this contest."

She knelt quietly for a moment and said "OK, you've got me, right up until the moment you play me for a fool. I truly will never learn. Let's leave the games to the Martian Exploration and Colonization Company. They're better at them anyway."

After all six of our us had been brought over with our kennels in a line, a handler came over and used his shocker to trigger our collars and give us all an attention shock. "Slave spread," he ordered, and we all knelt facing him with our knees spread and our hands laced behind our necks. "Slaves of The Martian Exploration and Colony Company, shut up and listen," he said.

"The good news is that your medical screenings will be proforma as you're all had recent workups," he continued. "The slave vet will ask you a couple of questions, verify a few things, give you your fist shot of horny juice and then you'll be off for processing. In a few hours, you'll be on your way to The Sharks. You won't even be riding the East Coast local; your owners have paid for direct shipment which will avoid a couple of transfers.

The bad news is that it's been too long since your slave gradings and we are legally obligated to update your slave yoga photos. Since you're not up for sale, this should be routine.

I'm about to give each of you two adjustable wrist bands and two locks to secure them. You will have about ten minutes to put them on and adjust them so they are snug but not tight. When you're happy with how you've adjusted them, lock them in place. Don't rush but don't dawdle, you need to get this right. We will inspect them before processing you. If we find that they are too loose, too tight, or that you have not locked them, you will be whipped." He gave us another attention shock.

"And don't bother your handlers," he said. "Shut up and do exactly what they say exactly when they say it. Your owners think you're something special but to us, you're just inventory being processed."

He reached into his utility bag and gave each of us two adjustable wrist bands with two locks to secure them. Then he left while we found comfortably snug adjustments and locked our wrist bands in place.

After a few minutes, a handler came by with a clipboard, checked the documents on my cage and the notation on my left breast, opened the cage, and locked a leash to my collar. He then drew me out of the kennel and ordered "stand and backhands." I stood and faced away from him with my wrists crossed behind my back. He clipped my wrist bands together, verified they were snug and locked, then took my leash and lead me to the first station, the slave vet.

I was led by different handlers thru five stations: Vet, Photographer, Food, Toothbrushing, and Enema in that order. Of those, only my experiences at the photographers are much worth relating.

It turned out that the updated photos were not, in fact, just a formality.

I knelt slave naked with my knees spread on the slave pad in the anteroom room of the photographer's studio. My handler secured my leash there and left me to my own devices. After a few minutes, the photographer came out, freed my leash and led me into the center of the studio.

He removed my leash and unclipped my wrist bands then got his camera. Then he gave me a few commands.

"Present," he called and I faced him, standing straight with my feet spread and my hands laced behind my head.

"Slave Spread," he demanded and I knelt straight, knees spread and my hands laced behind my head.

"Fours," he called and I moved forward, going to my hands and feet.

"You're too stiff Six Seven One Nine," said the photographer. "The quality of your presentation is unacceptable." He put down his camera and got a dog whip from a nearby table and walked up to me. "Prepare to be beaten," he ordered.

It was all I could do not to contradict him and tell him that the photos were just a formality. They were, but the truth didn't matter. What mattered was what the master said mattered. No wonder slaves go slave stupid; intelligence can land us in trouble. Rather than contradict him, I dropped to my knees and elbows, my wrists crossed as though bound, and spoke the relevant mantra loudly and clearly. "Six Seven One Nine begs the instruction of the whip that she might better serve her master."

Holding the whip folded in his right hand, he held his right hand to my face. I kissed and licked his hand, rubbing my face against it like a cat. He went back to the table, put down the whip, picked up his camera and put me thru my paces: Present, slave spread, fours facing him, fours facing away from him, display, close up of my face while I licked a set of boots, the lot.

"That," he said "is a set of photos to be proud of."

I supposed they were, though it seemed an odd thing to be proud of. The threat of a whipping had focused me considerably and my fear and my nauseating eagerness to please had doubtless shown thru, even if the photos were routine. Or had they been routine? The requirement might be routine, but I was pretty sure my owners had something more in mind. On reflection, I kind of doubted this photographer was regular staff. He put too much into it for it to be a routine job for him.

The photographer clipped my wrist bands behind my back and locked my leash to my collar again, leading me back out to the anteroom and securing my leash there to await a handler to lead me to the next station. Erin was already waiting, leashed and hands clipped behind her back, but the photographer went back into the studio for perhaps half a minute before he came back and took her into the studio. That was long enough for me to whisper to her "Not routine, do the best display you can or he'll whip you."

A handler showed up a few minutes later and took me to a feeding station. After feeding, I was taken to a tooth brushing station, and an enema station. (Enemas are always done before taking slaves on a road trip.) Then I was taken to the final station.

The last station was a holding cell (one of three) in a room near the loading dock. My handler led me there, dropped my leash, and locked me in the cell before he ordered me to present, unlocked my leash from my collar, and then ordered "backhands" and unclipped my wrist bands.

I looked around the cell. There were two rows of slave mats to kneel on and several gratings against the wall with illustrations of a naked, collared woman squatting and urinating into the grate and a naked, collared man standing and urinating into the grate. These illustrations were accompanied by instructions in English reading "Piss here" and presumably the same message in a number of other languages, including several ideographic ones. That gave me pause until I remember that there was a trend among some rich foreign woman, especially Taiwanese and Japanese women, though there were a fair number from the UK and Germany as well, who would never even consider getting slave graded in their native country to experience a real American slave grading.

These women would be visiting the attractions in Orlando with their families but take a few days off and check into one of a two high end hotels in Jacksonville that offered a special service. They had translators and legal staff on hand to file the paperwork and would take these special guests to the Orland Slave Market, strip them in the parking lot, zip tie their hands behind their back, leash them and, with an assistant carrying the subjects clothing, lead them into the market for a slave grading with extended public display and overnight stay so they could mix with the other subjects being graded. Most of them opted for a reversible auction, though their representatives (typically the legal staff of the hotels) never failed to reverse the auction. They wanted to know what they'd fetch on the open market, sure, but they really wanted to survive and overcome, to be brought to the lowest status imaginable but emerge triumphant.

Neither language barriers nor devox spray prevented some of these nominally heterosexual women from exchanging affections with their fellow processees. After all, that's what slaves did, wasn't it? They weren't *really* attracted to women if they only did it when they were slaves. It was, I understood, about experiencing the worst and proving yourself equal to the challenge, though it also seemed to be something of coup among their friends. The challenge part I actually understood. Still, I thought it more likely that, while it might be meant as a challenge for the brave, it was mainly a luxury experience beyond the means of most women in their countries.

My handler said "Your fellow astronaut slaves will be joining you in due course. Kneel with your knees spread and your head down when any handler enters the room. Don't speak to them except to answer questions or to ask permission to speak if you really need to, which you won't." He left and I made use of one of the grates. There were women in one of the other cells, but this was as private as it was going to get.

There was no mirror, but looked at myself as best I could and got an odd urge to fondle myself. The horny juice couldn't be kicking in yet, could it? When my girlfriends and I had liberated some from the agricultural lab at Uni some years ago, it had taken two days to kick in, but when it did, Spring break had been off the hook. It had been an itch I could never adequately scratch, an obsession without real relief. I was damn near driven crazy before that dose had worn off. The vet had told me that this stuff he was giving me was enhanced. I'd be ready to hump the furniture in two days if it was affecting me this much now.

Erin joined me a little later, and while she also reported signs of the horny juice affecting her, we mainly talked about our processing, and especially the photographer. When Angela joined us, she had welts on her buttocks.

"That photographer was a little much," I attempted to sympathize.

Angela gritted her teeth and responded with the mantra "A slave accepts her punishment and learns from it, that she may better please her masters."

"As do we all, Angela, as do we all. Mistakes and corrections are part of the process," I said.

Angela bit down any response. She spoke the right words, but I guess she just couldn't quite accept that her whipping had been her fault. Thinking back, few things that happened to her were her own fault, at least according to her.

Eventually Cheryl, Susan, and Denise joined us. Denise had also attempted to tell the photographer that the photos were routine; she had the welts on her rear end to prove it. She, at least, seemed to accept that her whipping was the entirely predictable result of her own actions.

"We can't go slave stupid," she said "but we really have to see every interaction with a master from his point of view."

That was old news, but sometimes it's pleasant when someone else is the master of the blindingly obvious. Sadly, that's normally my role.

I wondered about my colleagues in light of the point Erin had made. Five of us had signed indentures knowing we would become slaves. Of course we were rivals and were expected to compete, but we were professionals. Except, we weren't professionals anymore; we were we slaves. What wouldn't they do to get the prize? That way lay the kind paranoia where you trigger the conflict you fear.

A while after Denise was looked in the cell with us, the outer door opened we all dropped to the "down" position as we'd been directed. A crying young woman, she looked Japanese, was manhandled into the room by two handlers under the supervision of a third. Like us, she was naked but for her collar and wrist bands. She also had welts on her rear and the front and back of her thighs. She didn't resist when they unleashed her, unclipped her wrist bands, and forced her into the other occupied cell. They slammed the door shut behind her and handler supervising asked us, "Do any of you slaves speak Japanese?" Susan volunteered that she did.

"It doesn't pay to cut corners on a premium service," said the supervisor. "That women's husband brought her in for a slave grading with a reversible auction. He didn't reverse it and the sale is now final. Her owners are having her sent to training. Speak quietly to her and listen to her."

The handlers left so I could break position. The Japanese woman was crying. Susan, as it happens, had lived in Japan for a few years. She talked with the woman at some length and with great sadness and understanding. Eventually, the Japanese woman stopped crying. Susan continued talking with her and it turned out that the woman spoke some English. Susan, or should I say Eight Three Seven Five, had a little argument with the woman over it, but eventually got the woman to give her current name, One Nine Seven Five.

A short, curvy brunet in the other cell was rather irritated with the whole exchange. "Honey," she addressed One Nine Seven Five, "every woman in this cell was free until recently. I'm here because of a student loan. So is Two Five One Two," she said, gesturing to a tall young black woman. "Five Seven Seven One," she said, indicating a tall pale young woman with hair dyed an unnatural black that sucked the light right in and reflected nothing, no body hair, and wearing a variety of stainless-steel studs, barbells and horseshoes in a number of piercings, including a septum piercing, "was even done by her parents the same way your husband did you. Turned Eighteen six months ago and came in for a grading, now leaving a slave. You're not special."

I'm not sure how much of that got thru to One Nine Seven Five, but she started crying again, but quietly. Five Seven Seven One went over to her and hugged her. One Nine Seven Five hugged her back and the two of them stood there, hugging each other and crying quietly together for a bit.

A bit after that, two handlers came in. One of them carried a paper plate with chocolate covered donut and some wipes and holding a large Styrofoam cup of coffee with a cover on it. His companion opened the cell door and commanded "Eight Three Seven Five, what is the duty of a slave?"

"To serve the pleasure and convenience of her masters," Susan responded.

"Is a slave ever owed gratitude?"

"No master; serving the will of her masters is its own reward."

"Nevertheless, it is good slave management to reward good behavior and punish bad behavior." The handler in the cell placed the paper plate and the cup of coffee in front of Susan.