It took very little time before our investment in installing Cindy Shepard as the Accounts Receivable manager of ABC Insurance began to bear fruit, as the very next day a busty woman named Zoe, with long, curly black hair showed up at the shop with an envelope. Inside that envelope, on ABC Insurance letterhead, was an official notice notifying her that her employment was terminated, effective immediately, and instructing her to report to this address. The notice was signed by Cindy Shepard.
"I don't understand," said Zoe, between sobs. "I show up to work every day on time, I am good at my job, and I've done nothing wrong. I didn't deserve to be sacked -- honestly I didn't."
"It makes no difference what you believe you deserve," I said, "you had just better make yourself valuable to me."
In retrospect, I believe Zoe was probably telling the truth when she said she did not deserve to be sacked. She was so humble and obedient while we were processing her that we ended up using very little Titalin, as it simply was not necessary. Further, it emerged that she was a very good and efficient at secretarial work. So, for the time being, we put her to work at the front counter rather than sending her to a remote slave shop or displaying her in the showroom.
It was Zoe who was behind the front counter when Faith arrived, and it was she who summoned me to the counter to deal with her. Like any really efficient secretary, Zoe was good at understanding which situations not to bother me with, and which situations truly require my personal attention. Faith was a solid memory of the latter category.
"I am Tracey Smith," I said, one I had emerged from the back. "How may I help you?"
"I am in trouble. There are people chasing me, and I need your help," replied Faith.
That seemed strange. If a woman needed help, a slave shop seemed like the last place she would go. Something didn't seem right here.
"Why don't you come with me back to my office," I said. Then I turned to Zoe and said, "have Betty meet us there."
Once the three of us were in the privacy of the office, Faith told her story.
"When I was a teenager, I was one of the girls who led the protests against the Female Slavery Act," said Faith. "They rounded most of up, but some of us got away. They have my picture, and every copper in England is looking for me. I need you to help hide me."
"What gave you the idea that this, or any other slave shop, would help hide a fugitive? I should take you into custody and turn you in to the police," I said.
"I talked to Rhonda Patil, and she said you'd help me," said Faith.
"That," I said, "was precisely the wrong name to drop. I no longer do favors for Rhonda Patil. And you, sweetcakes, are not leaving here with your panties. Betty, take her into custody," I ordered.
"WAIT!" exclaimed Faith. She bolted out her chair and to the side of my desk, and fell down on her knees. "Don't turn me in to the police. They'll interrogate me, and I don't think I'll be able to resist. It doesn't matter what happens to me, but I can't do that to my friends."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, motioning Betty to stand down.
"There was a group of us who were at the protest, and we've been on the lamb. If they interrogate me, they'll find out where all my mates are," said Faith.
"What's that to me?" I asked, getting ready to signal Betty to proceed.
Faith thought fast, "look, you don't have the Eastfield Police contract, right?"
Every week, the Eastfield Police arrested women for a wide variety of offenses, from shoplifting to jaywalking to loitering, and most of them were sold at police auctions. I would have loved to have had the contract to handle those sales, but as yet I did not have that sort of influence with the local political leaders.
"No," I said.
"Then," said Faith, "if the police catch me, I will most likely be sold at public auction, and you will not benefit in any way."
"But," Faith continued, "if YOU enslave me, you will probably end up sending me to Belfast, where the police will never find me."
What she said made sense, in more ways than one. Leaving aside what she thought I would do with her, there is a loophole in the Female Slavery Act that few people were aware of: Once a woman becomes a slave, her legal personhood ceases and she instead becomes a piece of property. The side effect of this is that any criminal record she may have had as a free woman becomes ancient history. A slave could no more be charged with a crime than could a table or a bicycle. Thus, a woman could, theoretically, commit any crime she wanted and "get away with it" by volunteering herself for slavery, if you could call being enslaved for life getting away with something.
"Very well," I said crisply. "Stand up and take off your clothes."
She stood up and, reluctantly, started to unbutton her blouse.
I stood up and slapped her in the face.
"The correct response is 'Yes Mistress,'" I said. "And when you are told to do something, you are to do it immediately and quickly. No Dawlding."
"Yes, mistress," replied Faith, who undressed more quickly. I turned to Betty.
"Process her and put her in the Solitary Confinement cell," I said.
"Yes Mistress," replied Betty. Betty picked up a riding crop and used it to encourage Faith to expedite her disrobing. Once that was complete, she ordered Faith to pick up her clothes and hold them in front of her, as she used the riding crop, again, to encourage her as they walked out of my office and toward the Processing Room.
A short time after they left, John Chambers finally returned my call.
"Tracey, John Chambers here," said Mr. Chambers. "Make this quick, would you. I got a massage coming to me in a bit."
"I suspect your masseuse will wait for you," I said dryly. "In any event, this is important. We have an inspection coming up."
"An inspection? What of it? What's that to me?" asked John.
"Plenty," I said. "Your name is on the paperwork. If this shop gets cited, you will be on the hook."
John signed. "All right," he said. "I'm holding the ball on this, I'll just have to pick it up and run with it. I'll see you first thing."
"What!?" I wasn't expecting that.
"The inspector will expect me to be running the place. That means I need go pop down there and run the place. I'll see you first thing." He hung up.
That was not what I wanted at all. I had been planning on handling the inspection myself, possibly by distracting the inspector with some of my more skilled and nubile slave girls. I was calling Mr. Chambers simply to warn him. But, unfortunately, since he was on record as the managing partner he was entitled to come to the shop whenever he pleased. I just hoped he would not say or do anything to make a mess of things, and that he would leave once the inspection was over.
The following morning, when I came into the shop and went back to my office, I found John Chambers sitting in my chair. He was leaned back, and he had his feet up on my desk.
"Tracey," he said, "Go grab some of your girls and get this place cleaned up, would you? It's gotta be spotless when the inspector gets here."
