Trophy Wife Reboot Ch 01

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?"

"No, I'm not doing that," shouted #4.

Smith handed her a yellow card, but #4 allowed it to drop to the floor. A blue card came next then a red also hit the floor.

The Ranch Manager said to two large men standing in the hall, "Please escort Fonda from the premises."

They grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the room.

"Fonda will be given a fifty dollar bus ticket, once she is driven to the local station in a few hours. She can go wherever that takes her. She has failed the program," announced the Ranch Manager.

"A couple of you whores will need to service three men," announced Smith.

Each of us looked at the others in our group, wondering if anyone else would revolt. No one said anything in further protest.

The man who selected me, grabbed my hand and led me to an open stall with a mattress on the floor. "Quite su camisa, por favor," he said. I couldn't speak Spanish, but I understood what he wanted from the gestures. I pulled my tee-shirt that had "Reclamation Ranch" printed in block lettering inscribed on the front over my head. His hands worked their way over my breasts then rubbed at my vagina; I felt like crying. He spat on his hand and rubbed it between the lips of my labia.

You don't have to do this; I thought. In the back of my mind, I knew I had no other choice. I was placed onto my back on the mattress and parted my legs. Soon his erection was inside me. I thought of other things and looked away as he rocked on top of me, not caring how I felt.

I heard sobbing coming from other stalls, but was determined not to allow myself to give into that embarrassment. I noticed two other men looking over the low wall, watching me being fucked. I realized I'd be one of the unlucky ones to have to pick up the slack of Fonda's former customers.

He didn't last long, ten minutes. He dressed, and another man entered my stall. He said, "Mi nombre es Aturo" and smiled at me. Again, I spread my legs and allowed him entry. He sucked on my nipples and ran his hand across my ass.

He pumped away at me for fifteen minutes and shouted with joy indicating his orgasm. I made myself mentally ready for the third screwing of the day. The man was taller than the rest and seemed to have some authority over the others. From the words he said, I guessed he might have been a foreman. He lasted the shortest time, likely from the excitement of watching the other two humping me.

I pulled on my tee and walked back to the meeting room. Four other women waited as I entered the room. Two were crying profusely and I noticed tears coming from my own eyes, but wiped them away. I pulled on my panties just as the fourth woman, #8, re-entered the room. She looked more shaken than I was.

It was #7 who pointed our attention to the window. Fonda stood in a plain blue tee-shirt and a pair of short the same color. She attempted to shade herself from the blistering heat of the midday sun. She'd been there for over an hour, while the rest of us fornicated. I thought to myself, burn in hell you fucking bitch. I hated her for making me suffer for her egotism.

The Ranch Manager called us to assemble and said, "Never mind her. Her divorce is now final, as it will be for any of you that fail the program. She'll most likely wind up working in a brothel a county or two over. That's where most of our washouts find work."

He looked at the rest of us and said, "You are no longer worthless bitches. You've made a step up in life from your previous insignificant existence. You are now twenty dollar whores. That may sound bad compared to your previous station in life, but those men worked hard for that money and thought you were worth that much."

With that we were allowed to go to our cells. Mine was a narrow six by ten-foot plain dry walled box with a single slit window that looked out toward the vast desert. There was a door, and I was free to travel down the hall to a toilet and sink. I filled a paper cup from the faucet and quenched my thirst. I fell asleep for an hour from exhaustion and shame, still in some form of denial of my sudden change of circumstance.

Thankful that the building contained at least a rudimentary form of air conditioning, I looked out the window and there on the ground sat Fonda, still attempting to escape the rays of the sun. She was red and burned. I began to pity her, instead of hate.

I watched her sit for another half-hour and finally, a bus pulled up and Fonda departed the Ranch. I would never see her again, but later heard rumors later that she never left the state of Nevada.

The Ranch Manager knocked on my door and entered without my inviting him in. I stood up, in compliance with the rules. "Yes, sir."

"You need to always inquire how you can assist me. As you originally choose, you're existence depends on how you please males in this world." He handed me a yellow card.

"How can I assist you, sir?" My yellow card was taken back.

"You and #8 did well today. You took on extra work and didn't complain. You get an extra privilege." I was handed an extra pair of clean panties and a small tube of tooth paste. "Be sure to lock these up, whores can get jealous and steal things."

"Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do?"

Tell me about your sexual history, before you met your husband. How many men did you have intercourse with before you married?"

My first thought was to lie. I wondered if he already knew the answer. Chances were, if my husband wanted to know, he could have found out. He'd made his fortune in finding hidden information for use by the government.

I thought back. I'd never counted before, but could remember the names of each. "Seven. No, there were eight." I'd married at 19. It didn't seem like a lot at the time, but I guess it could have been.

He looked at a notepad and asked, "And how many after you married. Your husband and the three men this afternoon don't count, obviously."

My face flushed. I didn't want to answer. I was ashamed. I remained silent.

He handed me a yellow card again. I stared at it. Instead, I asked, "Is this why I'm here? Because I was unfaithful. Does James know?"

He handed be a blue card. "What your husband knows doesn't matter here. Your honesty is all that counts."

"Two, there were two. One two year into my marriage. It lasted a week. Another two years later. It went on for a month."

"See, that wasn't so bad, now was it? Still, you'll have to be punished for the blue card."