Tower of Babylon

Reflected light from the surrounding towers shattered against the sharp angles of the sky lit mezzanine. A woman clad only in heels strode confidently down the concourse, the clicks of her stilettos reverberating from the walls. The vast hall was otherwise silent, hushed, with every surface polished to a glossy sheen including the marble floor which seemed to be cut from a singular slab of cold stone. Her measured steps seemed forceful enough to crack the surface but not even a mark could be seen as she traversed the open space. Her statuesque figure turned the heads of even the most jaded of this place, this city of glass and steel.

Her golden blond hair was tied back in a severe bun and her face framed by antique spectacles that served no functional purpose. Her breasts swung like a metronome, her areola hypnotic points that attracted the eye. Upon closer examination, she wore a jeweled choker and matching cuffs. Her skin was perfectly depilated except for a subtle tuft above her pubis and she wore no other jewelry except the glitter in her eyes.

Her buttocks flexed as she walked, their curvature as pristine as the arching louvres of metal that soared over the mezzanine. In the middle of the open space a security kiosk was manned by bored guards wearing conservative suits. They looked up, took note of her perfection for a moment, and nodded her through.

She belonged to this place, and this place had consumed her. Someday, it would be done with her, but for now she entered the maw of beast that had taken possession of her life. As she rode the glass elevator to the top floor, she thought of the moments that had brought her to this place.

* * *

The judgement had been swift and efficient. Isabelle hadn't expected otherwise as she waited at the courtroom dock. Her family finances were in shambles, and this was the logical way out from total ruin. In this time of crisis, a shadow of the old ways had been resurrected in order to solve the problems of the new.

She stood in front of a robed judge who peered at various papers on his desk as he asked, "May I ask why you chose this route instead of marriage?"

She gave a wry grin, "I didn't feel like being tied down."

If her sarcasm registered with the judge, he didn't show it. He nodded, accepting the answer as sufficient. The judge adjusted his glasses, "With all provisions being met, psychological assessments completed, and with sworn agreement by all parties presented, I shall approve this resolution. Your debts shall be cleared by the court in full. The state shall take possession of the material assets, for the agreed upon duration, as collateral for this settlement. The assets in question have appeared before the court for immediate appraisal and collection, is this correct?"

Isabelle nodded, "Yes, your honor."

"Are you fully aware of the details of this settlement and your duties?" She nodded as he continued. "By giving consent, you bestow all rights to your body to the judgement of the court, to be distributed at its will, from this point forward until the completion date for your servitude, dependent upon the final appraisal value. Do you consent and give up all rights?"

She nodded, "I, Isabelle Nora Childs, sound of body and mind, give my full consent and waive my rights as a free citizen of the Protectorate."

"Then, disrobe and present yourself to the court for appraisal," the judge ordered.

The bailiff took hold of her clothes as she took each item off. Isabelle was a fruitful young woman: her alabaster skin was pure as milk, currently flushed from the adrenaline of the moment, and the points of her voluminous breasts and the half-hooded clitoris that peered from the folds of her sex were pink. The rosy flush in her cheeks were alluring, hinting at both an innocent shame as well as curious anticipation. The judge had a moment of discomfort as even he was a bit enamored by the presentation. Her perfectly shaped locks of hair were the color of straw on a summer day. He imagined, for a moment, the smell fresh hay and sunflowers.

Wiping his brow, he ordered, "Turn around please. Yes, present yourself."

Her buttocks were fully formed, and ripe with a hint of peach fuzz. Isabelle had, quite wisely, prepared for the day by having her most intimate regions waxed.

Finally, he gave his assessment, "Upon initial review, barring unknown health issues which will be assessed by a court appointed examiner, I deem that the assets are in order and quite suitable for the purposes at hand. I declare that the assets will be held in trust by the state to be auctioned for bonded servitude for no more, or less, than a period of ten years." He swung his gavel as Isabelle bowed her head.

Once the settlement had been made, and her status medically cleared, Isabelle was put on the block for public service with a group of others who had sold themselves into bondage to settle debts or finance careers and education. Her auction number was Lot 5301-A, although they were allowed nicknames for convenience. Isabelle had chosen for herself, her middle name: Norma.

She fingered the plaque hung around her neck as she waited under the hot lights. As her number came closer she nervously eyed the crowd from the roped off holding area behind the stage. It was a mixed group of buyers, evenly divided between men and women. The women were mostly housewives or mistresses, some wearing privacy veils, from well to do households looking for servants. There was no practical demand for this type of chattel servitude in the normal population except for bragging rights. In these times, the wealthy had become bored with the usual status symbols, so had established a new one, or resurrected an ancient one, depending on one's point of view.

Next to Norma, there was an exotic beauty also awaiting her turn on the block. Dark haired and thin, the almond-eyed girl stood restlessly, hopping from one bare foot to another.

She whispered, "This has been going on for hours. I need to pee."

"Same here," Norma smiled. "Would it be scandalous if we just went right here?"

"It might raise our interest with the perverts," the other grinned. Her plaque read Lot 5305-B, aka Fay. "So, Norma, what brought you down to this sorry place in life?"

"Bankruptcy. It was either this or my family name would have been struck from the registers and my relatives put in debtors prison."

Fay shook her head in disgust, "Fuck that. I wouldn't spare a toenail for my relatives. I got in trouble with some gambling debts. Stupid me. I forgot the first lesson: never use your own money. You love your family that much?"

"It's just what had to be done," Norma said, sadly. "My sisters would have done the same for me. I volunteered."

"It was either this or hard prison time for me," Fay sighed. "I don't volunteer for shit, but it was an easy choice: you don't get paid to get fucked in prison. I admire you for stepping up. How long you in for?"

"Ten years."

Fay's eyes widened, as she mouthed, "Ten? That's a long time. I'm doing a year. How much did your family owe?"

"A significant amount..." Norma trailed off.

The announcer said, "And now, presenting our special item for the day, Lot 5301-A. Granted a full lease of her body, this is a unique item with a fine provenance and as you can see, in perfect condition. Yes, bend over for digital examination. Full consent is in operation. The state holds the right to her life and reproductive capacity, so that are the only non-negotiable terms. Period of indenture is for a maximum of ten years with allowances for transfer or buyout. Bids begin at the recommended level. All auctions are final."

The crowd murmured heatedly as bids flew toward record heights. When the auction closed, Norma's price was easily the highest of the day, if not the year. She was formally passed on to her new handler with a gilded chain. The buyer's representative was a woman wearing only leather straps, though quite fashionable and expensive ones. Even the other buyers seemed deferential to her status.

They were taken by livery to an estate in the hills well outside of the city. Norma recalled her own home on a similar plot of land, but the winding road continued for a few kilometers past the entry gate. Her new owner must be a significant personage or oligarch. They might even be a head of the First Families, the founders of the Protectorate. Isabelle herself was from a formerly high-status clan, but this was on a different level.

The handler left her in a servant's hall where she was ignored for a long time. The regular staff was clothed in the usual servant outfits, though their genitals were exposed per regulation. In either case, no one paid the new girl any heed. Norma stood uncomfortably, goose bumps on her naked skin until another woman finally approached. Her appearance was stern as she strode in on high heels. She wore only jewels on her nipples and a designer belt on her waist.

"I am the head mistress of the household. You will work directly under me. The servant who bought you is being punished for exceeding her budget. You're just another pretty blonde, with the same dull eyes and soft upbringing. Just because your former name had some prominence will not grant you any favors in our house."

Norma winced, "I don't want favors, just a restroom." Her knees were shaking from the effort of holding it in.

"Do not speak unless formally permitted," the woman continued, ignoring the plea.

"Punishment for transgressions is immediate." Norma hadn't noticed the woman holding a crop until it whipped out across her buttocks. She whelped, letting a humiliating stream of pee flow forth onto the floor.

The woman curled her lip, "At least it wasn't on the carpet. You may as well let the rest go since you'll be the one mopping it up." She whipped her again, leaving a welt on her thigh. Norma let the rest of her bladder empty down her legs.

Humiliated but stoic, she tried to maintain what little composure she had left as she awaited further punishment. She expected that this would be the first of many during her time of servitude.

* * *

Beatrice absently adjusted her jeweled butt-plug. She hadn't quite gotten used to it, and she was self-conscious for the first time in a while. This was her first excursion outside of the Enclave where the lack of clothes hadn't really bothered her. She was helping Coralie Cain, formerly Cory, prep for the upcoming sex marathon out in the Buffer. Originally, it was a vast refugee encampment that had never meant to become a permanent settlement. It didn't look much different than the impoverished barrios of Bee's own home district but there was more commerce flowing here.

The special visa badges on their collars marked them as a protected class, and not a part of the local skin trade, in this neutral territory. The two women were being guarded by a local sell squad, and few petty criminals or opportunists would dare to raise the attention of the Protectorate enforcers and their advanced full frame battle armor.

Even though the Buffer was not part of any one jurisdiction, breaking visa codes was dealt with immediate, and lethal, force by the various interests, dominated by the Protectorate, who had negotiated a quasi-détente in this unincorporated zone.

This didn't make Bee feel any less uneasy as the two nude women stood exposed out in the street full of bustling humanity that went about their business. The district was comprised of various street vendors, shops, gambling halls, restaurants, markets, buskers, and brothels. There were a few skin-walkers plying their trade but the two immediately stood out as being in another class, no one more than Coralie who caught the eye of every passerby as they made their way to and from the blistering lights of the pachinko parlors.

The noisy street was wide and filled with mostly pedestrians although a few electric trikes or scooters buzzed down the avenue. Sometimes, there was a black mirrored SUV that glided through, probably some high-Tier Protectorate citizens visiting the Buffer for some drinking and illegal betting, despite their religious proscriptions.

Fucking, hypocrites, she thought.

It was sweltering, and Bee could feel the heat from the lights and steam from the sausage hawker carts, yet Coralie seemed to shine while Bee felt like wilting. The smell of cheap street food filled the air, ranging from sweet (fake) hickory BBQ to the acrid stench of over-cooked grease. Bee's stomach growled but she ignored it and checked her wrist-unit for the time. She tugged on the thin chain leash attached to Coralie's pierced nipples.

Overhead, their camera drone was capturing their walk along the marathon course. She ordered, "Ok, flick one out. Let's see if you can beat your last time."

Coralie immediately spread her legs to reach down and rub herself as people parted around the two who blocked their way. A few stopped to stare at the porn idol as she came to a shivering climax in mere seconds. Her knees trembled as she ran her hand up her side until she tasted herself, eyes locking with a random voyeur, a hairy-chinned fellow who looked to be in his twenties and pretty down on his luck if his stamped sandals, paper shirt, and ripped jeans were any indication.

He was too poor to even have a SCU on him so Bee did a quick verbal solicitation, "You can fuck her, pro bono. Just give your name, age, and ident code to the drone. You give up all rights of image reproduction to Gladstone Media. Look up the full contract details on our global media site, if you manage to get any terminal time."

She nodded to the hovering unit that had swerved down to record the transaction.

He grinned with gapped teeth, "Sure. But a knob polish is all I need, plus some coin as a donation."

"I'm not holding currency. You can go fishing but you won't find it on me," Bee snapped, widening her arms to show that she didn't have a stitch on her except for her collar and the thin band of her wrist-unit. She wasn't being fully truthful: her butt-plug had a backup stash for emergencies. ID Collars and Smart Communication Units could be griefed or burned out, so cold cash was always a good way to bribe the gate keepers. It wasn't free to move from one major district to another: a lot of palms to grease.

The loser dug out an old wallet with an optical link etched on one of its edges. He held it up to the drone. Bee shrugged, "Exchange rate is shit but okay, we can spare some bits." The drone flashed him some virtual currency onto his decrepit old wallet. She wondered if he could even spend it anywhere but that wasn't her problem. He pulled open the fold in his jeans, loosening his cock for Coralie who had already gone down on her knees. If the rough ground bothered her, she didn't complain as she expertly began using her mouth on his uncircumcised penis.

A Protectorate goon paused on his patrol for a moment, his sensor suite briefly scanning for their registration code string. Freelance prostitution was illegal in their presence. Even in the neutral Buffer, they liked to throw their weight around to make an example out of some poor sucker. Pornography, on the other hand, was allowed under the Protectorate Codes; hence even the brothels had licensed "film producers" on staff and camera rigs that recorded all proceedings. Discrete clients paid to have their faces blurred out, although some kept their videos as souvenirs.

His contempt was obvious from what part of his face could be seen from under his visor. He said, "Good to see bitches in proper attire at least." The crowd gave him a wide swath. Anyone who wasn't a Protectorate ideologue hated them at worst, feared them at best. Only the Poly-combine thugs were more despised, and Bee didn't even want to think about those insane bastards.

"Holy shit, it's Coralie!" exclaimed a couple of youths. One of them reached down slide his hand down her exposed backside. She ignored him as she ran the bum's rod down her throat, head bobbing vigorously. When he popped, Bee marked the count, "That's thirty-three for today so far. We're running behind though. Let us know if you need some medical." One of the techs on call would apply regen salve as needed for minor wounds or abrasions that were inevitable.

Bee announced to no one in particular, "Ok, you schmucks, Coralie's fuck train is about to head out. If you want a turn, line up now and get your approval forms digi-signed."

The mercs in their bulky body-armor trotted up to form some basic crowd control. Things could get out of hand and unpredictable. That was always a risk and why the sex marathon was such a popular event once it kicked off. This was just a teaser for the real show. Bee had been pulling the talent like a dog on a leash, a turnabout which she appreciated. Being a full time pet could be a drag at times.

In the actual event, Coralie, and several other elite performers, were going for a record trawl in the Buffer's nastiest slums: a forty-eight hour free for all with the fans who had registered in advance for the sexual gauntlet. The women would work their way down a predetermined route, being accosted as they go. Instead of a race, it was an endurance test to see who could outlast the longest and satisfy the most people. This was a sequel to a previous marathon which had become a big hit.

Bee was happy for Matt's status upgrades due to the success of this series. It made revenue both up-front with registrations as well as all the ancillaries and distribution surcharges as a pay-per-view event. He'd been reluctant but she'd convinced him to let her participate in the warm-ups for his star idol, Coralie Cain. She was now an established head-liner for Gladstone. As a producer, he had to stay behind the scenes with the rest of the crew at a remote truck, as the audience liked the fantasy of the women being thrown to the wolves without protection or oversight.

Someone bumped up against Bee, running a finger down her ass crack to try to pry away her butt-plug. She squealed, slapping at his hand. A squaddie charged his stun-baton and made a grimace, so the wannabee fondler (or probable petty thief) backed off immediately.

In the actual event, the mercs would be dressed up as regular hood rats and wouldn't be far, but there would be some real danger in the chaos. The performers would have nothing on them worth stealing, and they would be giving away their bodies, but there was always a chance encounter with some rando asshole with an edge fetish. Well, they'd all signed waivers indemnifying the corporation and any local enforcement. There was a hefty bond on the sell squad to incentivize them to not fuck it up. Anyone who dared to burn them would have to face their wrath, and probably end up with a long and extremely painful repayment plan.

Back in the air-conditioned production truck, Matt watched the monitors with barely contained anxiety. His eye twitched whenever someone took a swipe at Bee. Yates, who was manning the drone controls, noticed something was bothering the young producer, "Possessive much? I warned you about..."

"I know, I know. I'm not worried about Cory, she can take care of herself."

"In that case, pet insurance rates are too damn high. I had to let mine go. I thought I'd get a raise but it hasn't materialized," the operator pointedly remarked. Matt ignored him. The aggrieved man continued, "Running two remotes is not easy, even with the auto-tracker and waypoint triggers." He hurriedly set new points with his touchscreen with one hand as the other twitched the multi-throw joystick. The truck had room for another operator but they were running short as Henry had taken sick leave. The narrow interior was filled with equipment that consisted of a long console filled with monitoring and control gear, spare drone parts and accessories, a row of small padded task chairs for the operators and the producer, plus stowage for their supplies, and an air mattress to crash on. The overhead strip lights were turned down, so their faces were filled with the wan light from the various monitor displays.