The minibus pitched back and forth along the dusty road. The chains around my arms and ankles clanked annoyingly. I looked across at one of the other women on a bench seat across from me; she looked carsick and was pulling against her shackles. "We're almost there," the driver said.
The bus stopped in front of several grimy shithole buildings, and the door opened. The air smelled of manure and dust. Six women shuffled outside into the blast of dry desert heat. "Holy fuck, it's hot," exclaimed a woman with red hair.
The man in a cowboy hat and mirrored glasses said, "Shut the fuck up, you ain't here for no resort. Those days are done for you bitches."
All of us in the manacles wore nothing but a pair of white cotton panties and a pair of cheap flip flops. The sand started burning my feet the through flimsy rubber soles. I prayed we'll be hustled inside quickly.
It sounds as if we're going to prison, but we aren't convicts being sent to a harsh penitentiary. We aren't criminals. We've all begged to be here. In a way, this may be worse than prison. All of us were at one time, not that long ago, what is termed "Trophy Wives" of very wealthy men; those one percent-ers you read about, but have no idea how they really live. All of us are their failed and nearly discarded trophy wives. This isn't so much a form of punishment, as it is a last recourse for all of us.
We stood in the merciless Nevada sun, and I could feel my shoulders begin to burn. A harsh looking woman in a military-style vest read the rules to us--we could be unlocked from our chains anytime and were free to leave. Anyone? Just raise a hand. No one does. None of us would dare at that point.
I didn't know how the other women wound up here, but I imagined we all had similar stories. I married an older man for the money and power I coveted, and he married me because I was young, attractive and could impress his social peers with my looks. I loved to spend money, but had no idea how to make it. I've never held an actual job. There were other transgressions, but the worst was withholding sex. In truth, being fucked was the primary job for all of us now here, and I'd decided it was too much effort.
Foolishly, I'd signed a prenub agreement that would leave me with nothing in the event of divorce. The One Percent always have the best lawyers and lobbyists. Now the six of us were here to be reworded in a last-ditch hope our husbands would take us back.
As the sweltering heat began to drain the life from me, the man in the white Stetson addressed us. "Listen up, you worthless cunts, you are now the property of the Reclamation Ranch. I am the Ranch Manager. You are to address me at all times as Ranch Manager or sir."
I looked down the row of manacled women. All of us were under thirty and if in make-up and nicely dressed would be considered gorgeous; most likely, a few of us were former beauty and homecoming queens. Without the hair products, designer clothes and other enhancements, we were once used to, we all now looked ordinary. I noticed that three of the women had exquisitely enhanced breasts. A catty habit I'd picked up in my years of social climbing was the ability to discern who had the fake tits.
"Those of you that violate any of our rules will be issued a colored card. A yellow is a warning, a blue is a minor violation, and a red is the most severe. All offenses require punishment. We will not punish you. You are to determine the appropriate punishment for yourself and direct your own punishment."
An older man with a stern face and gray hair came out the nearest building and stood next to the Ranch Manager. He was introduced as "Charles Ambrose, wife Re-Trainer." The Ranch Manager cleared his throat and said, "You can think of him as your new surrogate husband for the next month. His demands are to be followed to the letter. You will call him, Mr. Ambrose or sir."
We were herded into the building and Smith, the woman in the vest, unlocked our shackles and dropped a zip locked plastic bag at each of our feet. I rubbed my wrists, chafed from wearing the shackles for two full days. I looked down at the baggie, inside are a few basic toiletries, a clean pair of underwear and tee-shirt. I was on the verge of tears seeing such luxuries, feeling as if I'd been rescued from a desert island. "Don't pick up your bags just yet, bitches," she shouted in military tone. "You will be assigned a number. That is your only designation here, not your old name. That is also your cell number."
She ordered us to remove our panties and stand naked, except for our flip-flops. I looked down at my feet and observed my chipping red toenail polish. Smith walked down the line, scrutinizing each of us carefully. "I've seen better holes in donuts," she yelled. "Bend down and point your asses up."
She moved down the line with a permanent marker pen and wrote a number on the right ass cheeks of the women after they'd stated their first name:
Dawn – #3
Fonda - #4
Angela - #6
Shannon - #7
Alyssa - #8
I announced my name, "Lauren," and Smith used the marker to print the number 5 on my ass.
"This will wash off in a few weeks, but in the meantime, you rocket scientists can learn each other number real easy. You will only address each other by your numbers."
Smith allowed us to shower, dress and brush our hair. Then we were all fingerprinted and photographed. When someone asked why, the answer from Smith was, "You'll need to be registered to be legal." No one seemed to know what that meant.
Afterward, we were given a meal of a stale tasting sandwich, which was the same thing we had on the bus ride that lasted two days, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We squatted on a bare wood floor eating the meal that was also served with water.
"At least we're all losing weight," said #6, as she left a quarter of it uneaten. This was the first time any of us had been allowed to communicate. I smiled back, but swallowed every crumb of mine.
To the right of me, #4 said, "They're trying to break us down, psychologically. It's a mind-control technique. Humiliation and physical hardship." She was the red-haired woman, who'd been the first to be chewed out.
"It's working on me," I said, feeling exhausted. "I'm scared to death. This place is horrible, but what else is there?"
"Fuck them, I can take a few weeks of these assholes torturing me," said #4, "You should see what my mother-in-law is like."
The Ranch Manager, walked into to room and all of us went silent. "Alright, you've finished your meal. It's time to pay for that and your other supplies. You earn you keep here. No more free rides."
Before we enter the room, Smith announced, "All of you have been tested for sexually transmitted diseases, including AIDS. All men you are to encounter in the coming weeks will also be tested. Condoms will be unnecessary." I looked at #6, the woman next to me in line, and asked rhetorically "What the hell is this?"
We moved in another room and were told to remove only our panties. We faced a wall and stood there as a dozen Latino men entered. Most were short and tanned dark. Half walked past us and examined our near naked bodies. Each called out one of our numbers in Spanish, "Quatro, Tres, Cinco, Sieta, Coatro, Ocho", then stood beside one of us.
The Ranch Manager called out, "Since none of you have any other skills than your ability to fuck, this is how you are going to pay for your meals and supplies. All you think your pussies are valuable, but they aren't worth as much as you think. These men work in a factory and have agreed to spend a few hours' worth of pay for your services. You will each service at least two of them this afternoon. You were told in advance, sexual intercourse would be a requirement of your retraining. Does anyone object?"
