Cargo of Desire: Graded and Caged
Sophia stood alone in the private suite for perhaps thirty seconds after Evelyn left—long enough for the door’s pneumatic sigh to fade, long enough for the silence to thicken into something expectant. The collar on the side table gleamed under the soft overhead light: black composite, slim and unadorned, its LED ring dark but ready. She had come this far on momentum, on the dark pull of curiosity that had started in a Houston hangar and followed her here like a second heartbeat.
She unbuttoned her blouse with deliberate slowness, as if the act required rehearsal. Silk parted; cool air kissed skin already flushed. Bra next—black lace, practical yet expensive—unclasped and folded neatly into the labeled bin beside the platform. Skirt unzipped, panties slid down thighs that trembled only slightly. Heels last, placed side by side like obedient soldiers. Naked now, she stepped onto the central pad. The floor was warm, almost welcoming.
A soft chime sounded. Overhead lights brightened; a wall screen flickered to life. The biometric scanner descended from the ceiling in a smooth arc—slim silver arms ending in gentle pads that brushed her temples, her sternum, the small of her back. A low hum vibrated through the platform. Restraints rose from the floor: padded cuffs at wrists and ankles, spreading her just enough for access without strain. She tested them once—firm, unyielding, but not cruel.
“Baseline scan commencing,” a calm female voice announced from hidden speakers. “Please remain still.”
The first probe was cool silicone, gliding between her thighs with clinical precision. Sophia’s breath hitched as it seated itself, filling her slowly. A second, thinner, pressed against her rear entrance. Dual stimulation began in gentle waves—low, teasing pulses that mapped her responses. The wall screen scrolled numbers: heart rate 102, vaginal lubrication index rising steadily, clitoral sensitivity peaking at 8.1 newtons. Arousal index climbed: 78%, then 84%, then 91%.
She bit her lip. The metrics felt obscene in their objectivity—her body reduced to data points, yet the data itself was damning. Exceptional. Responsive. Compliant.
The probes withdrew. The restraints released. Sophia exhaled shakily, legs unsteady. A handler entered—male, mid-thirties, white polo crisp, name tag reading “Marcus.” He carried a tablet and a provisional collar.
“Numbers are outstanding,” he said without preamble, voice casual as if discussing weather. “A+ provisional locked in on sensitivity and compliance. We’ll badge you temporary for the sim.” He stepped close, cool fingers brushing her throat as he fastened the collar. The LED blinked blue—provisional status. A faint vibration hummed against her skin, not painful, just present. A reminder.
“Role orientation next,” Marcus continued. “Standard demo sequence. Pleasure kneel first.”
Sophia dropped to her knees before the command fully registered. Thighs wide, palms up, chest forward. The position felt obscene yet strangely natural—her body remembering what her mind still resisted. Marcus circled her once, tablet in hand.
“Good arch. Hold it.”
She held. Heat pooled low; nipples tightened under the cool air. He tapped the tablet; a soft chime rewarded compliance. The collar vibrated once—positive feedback.
“Pony stance.”
She rose, knees high, hands clasped behind her back, back arched. The high-step felt ridiculous, humiliating—and thrilling. Marcus nodded. “Athletic potential. Not bad for a first-timer.”
Another chime. Another vibration.
“Domestic bow.”
Forehead to floor, arms extended. The pose pressed her breasts to the pad, ass lifted. Vulnerability complete. Marcus crouched beside her, voice low.
“You’re flowing. Most freeze up here. You’re already syncing with the protocol.”
Sophia’s cheeks burned. Flowing. The word landed like a slap and a caress. She could feel the slickness on her inner thighs—betrayal made visible.
Marcus stood. “That’s the suite portion complete. We’ll move you to the main line for full orientation calibration—standard after-hours procedure. Evelyn’s tied up with a system sync issue; she’ll catch up once it resolves. Follow me.”
Sophia rose, legs trembling. The collar’s weight settled heavier now, a constant reminder. She followed Marcus through the side door, bare feet silent on the corridor floor. The main processing area loomed ahead—lights dimmed for the evening shift, but still active. Women moved in quiet lines: some collared and badged, others still provisional like her.
Marcus guided her to a holding pen labeled “Orientation Pending – High-Compliance Batch.” Three other women waited inside—naked, kneeling, collars blinking green. One was the blonde from the app demo earlier, now Pleasure Prime, eyes glassy with post-edging calm, gaze fixed on the floor in practiced submission. Another, younger, judicial intake by the rigid posture. The third looked like a long-term trainee—muscles subtly defined from pony drills, tail plug swaying gently when she shifted.
“Join them,” Marcus said. “Group edging cycle starts in five. Final grade calibration.”
Sophia hesitated at the gate. “This is still the simulation, correct?”
Marcus glanced at his tablet, brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing. “Your profile synced as high-compliance voluntary. Metrics triggered full-batch processing—keeps the data consistent. Don’t worry. Revocable consent remains active. Evelyn will confirm when she’s back online.”
He opened the pen gate. Sophia stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her with quiet finality.
The judicial intake glanced up briefly, then away. The trainee gave a small, resigned nod. The blonde simply breathed—slow, even, conditioned.
A soft chime sounded overhead. Restraints rose from the pen floor—gentle cuffs linking wrists behind backs, ankles spread just enough for stability. A low hum began: embedded floor stimulators, calibrated for synchronized group edging. The vibration traveled up Sophia’s thighs, teasing, insistent, matching the collar’s gentle pulse.
She bit back a moan. The blonde arched subtly beside her, hips rocking in tiny, practiced circles. The trainee followed suit, tail swaying. Even the judicial intake—defiant posture cracking—shifted, seeking the rhythm.
Sophia’s body responded before her mind could argue. Hips tilted, seeking pressure. The vibration built—slow, relentless. Her breathing shallowed. Metrics would be climbing again somewhere in the system: arousal index spiking, lubrication exceptional, compliance trending upward.
She closed her eyes. This is still the demo, she told herself. A glitch. Evelyn will fix it.
But the pen was quiet now except for soft gasps, the steady hum of conditioning, and the faint metallic clink of collars shifting in unison. The night stretched ahead—hours of edging, of shared vulnerability, of the collar’s gentle reminders.
And somewhere in the app, her provisional status had blinked from blue to green.
The vibration from the floor stimulators settled into a slow, inexorable rhythm—low enough to tease, high enough to prevent retreat. Sophia’s wrists remained cuffed behind her back, ankles spread by the gentle restraints that rose from the padded floor. The pen was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from soft blue LEDs on the collars of the four women now sharing the space. Her own collar pulsed in quiet sync with the stimulators, each gentle throb a silent affirmation: Compliant. Responsive. Still here.
Beside her, the blonde Pleasure Prime breathed in shallow, practiced intervals, hips rocking in tiny circles that kept her just at the edge without tipping over. The judicial intake—dark-haired, early twenties—held rigid at first, jaw clenched, but after ten minutes her posture softened, thighs trembling as the vibration found its mark. The trainee with the tail plug moved with economical grace, every shift deliberate, as though she had long ago turned denial into a form of meditation.
No one spoke for the first half-hour. There was only the hum, the soft clink of chains when someone shifted, the occasional stifled gasp. Sophia tried to count breaths, to anchor herself in executive detachment. This is temporary. A calibration error. Evelyn will return. But the numbers on the wall screen—visible through the pen bars—told a different story. Four profiles scrolled in rotation. Hers was third in line:
Provisional Unit 8194
Name: Sophia Langford
Status: High-Compliance Voluntary / Pending Confirmation
Arousal Index: 94% (rising)
Compliance Score: 96%
Projected Grade: B+ Choice (tentative)
The sight should have horrified her. Instead it sent a fresh wave of heat curling through her core. The system had already named her. Already graded her. Already decided she belonged here.
After forty minutes the stimulators ramped up in a synchronized crescendo. The blonde moaned softly—first sound any of them had made. Her head tipped back, throat working, body arching as the edge approached and then—cut off. The floor went quiet for ten seconds. Reset. Then the cycle began again, lower this time, rebuilding.
The trainee whispered, barely audible. “They run six cycles per night. Seven if someone’s metrics spike too hard.”
Sophia turned her head slightly. “How long have you been here?”
“Three weeks. Pony track. They say I’m close to certification.” A small, wry smile. “Close means another month, probably.”
The judicial intake spoke next, voice rough. “I didn’t choose this. Plea deal. Six months minimum.” She glanced at Sophia. “You?”
Sophia swallowed. “I… chose the demo.”
A soft snort from the trainee. “Everyone chooses the demo. Until they don’t.”
Another cycle began. This one hit harder. Sophia’s hips jerked involuntarily; a whimper escaped before she could clamp it down. The collar vibrated approval—positive reinforcement. She hated how good it felt.
Hours blurred. The lights dimmed further for “rest phase,” though the stimulators never fully stopped. They dropped to maintenance level—enough to keep arousal simmering, never enough to grant release. Sophia drifted in a haze of sensation and half-formed thoughts. She pictured her office in Houston, the boardroom table, the private jet waiting on the tarmac. All of it felt distant, unreal. Here, the only reality was the collar’s weight, the slow grind between her thighs, the quiet breathing of women who had already accepted what she still fought.
Near dawn—judging by the faint gray light seeping through high windows—the pen door hissed open.
Evelyn stepped inside, tablet in hand, expression calm but faintly apologetic. Marcus trailed behind her, looking mildly embarrassed.
“Ms. Langford,” Evelyn said quietly. “There was a sync error in the app when you ran the hypothetical profile simulation. Your biometrics were pulled into the live batch queue. Provisional status escalated automatically. I’m sorry.”
Sophia’s voice came out hoarse. “Unlock me.”
Evelyn nodded to Marcus. The restraints retracted; the collar’s clasp released with a soft click. Sophia rubbed her wrists, feeling the ghost of cuffs. She stood slowly, legs unsteady after hours of kneeling and edging.
The other women watched in silence. No envy, no pity—just recognition.
Evelyn guided Sophia out of the pen and down a side corridor to a small recovery lounge—private shower, robe, bottled water. Sophia accepted all three without speaking. The hot water stung at first, then soothed. She stood under the spray until the trembling stopped.
When she emerged, wrapped in the robe, Evelyn waited with coffee and a tablet showing revised metrics.
“Your overnight averages were… exceptional,” Evelyn said. “Arousal sustained at 89% across seven cycles. Compliance 97%. The system flagged you for Pleasure Prime with multi-orifice endorsement. That’s rare for a first-timer.”
Sophia stared at the screen. Her own body, graphed in clean lines and peaks. Betrayed by numbers.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“Of course.” Evelyn’s tone remained professional. “But before you leave—consider this. What you experienced tonight isn’t available in boardrooms or balance sheets. It’s rare. Intense. Most women who reach those metrics never want to leave them behind.”
She tapped the tablet. A new package appeared: Luxury Slave Vacation – Seven Days, Revocable Consent. Private suite, curated edging sessions, role immersion, full grading preview. Price: nominal for investors. Conversion optional.
Sophia looked at the screen for a long moment. Then she pushed it away.
“Send the car,” she said.
Evelyn nodded, no argument. “The driver’s waiting. Safe flight, Ms. Langford.”
Sophia walked out of the Prime Market Exchange into the gray February dawn. The SUV idled at the curb. She slid into the back seat without looking back.
The collar’s absence felt strange—too light, too quiet.
As the airport approached, she opened her phone. A notification waited from the PME app:
Profile Update: Sophia Langford – Provisional Status Revoked
Recommendation: Re-enroll for Luxury Experience? Y/N
Her thumb hovered.
She closed the app.
The jet lifted off twenty minutes later. Houston spread below, vast and orderly, everything in its place.
Sophia leaned back in the leather seat and closed her eyes. The hum of the engines was nothing like the hum of the stimulators, but it carried the same low vibration.
She told herself she would delete the app when she landed.
She told herself a lot of things.