Fearful Future by Joe Doe / Part 16 by GreyRose

[GreyRose]

Fearful Future by Joe Doe / Part 16 by GreyRose
Joe’s reply post on part 14, I’m labeling it as part 15.

Like part 10 is Joe’s response to part 9.

A slightly shorter chapter, but I hit a good break point.

=v=v=v=v=v=v=v=

The bustle of the crew as the ship came into dock and all of the blaring horns failed to break 0717’s simmering slave heat fugue. But when the crewmembers entered to remove all of the slaves from the slave kennels, that finally breaks through her slave heat addled mind. The fugue that 0717 had slipped into as soon as they had put her into a slave kennel on the ship.

As 0717 had been carried up the boarding ramp, feelings of panic, hope, and despair flooded through Sarah’s mind. Thoughts of sugar fingered Trudy typing carelessly, changing women’s lives. Of 24, or Master Arjun as she had started thinking of him since he collared her, and she had to believe that he was searching for her. The ship that was taking her to an unknown destination. Each of these filled her thoughts, giving her a rollercoaster of emotions. She had two faint hopes, first that her Master would find her, or that wherever the ship went, they didn’t have laws that changed a slaves contract.

The two men carried her into a cargo hold, they paused and the one not carrying her pointed at the side of a palate stacked high with boxes that was wrapped with the same type of plastic wrap as she was bound with. The one carrying her pressed her up against the side of it and the wrap she was bound with clung to that around the boxes on the pallet. 0717 was stuck from her shoulders to her knees, making her feel like she was a fly in a spider's web. They took a roll of the much wider pallet wrap and added an extra strip to keep her pinned.

The simmering slave girl squirmed as the two men gave her several casual gropes through the plastic wrap, to which she moaned in need inviting them to continue. The men laughed as she groaned in disappointment as they walked away. Her legs were free from the knee down, and her feet kicked feebly as they dangled a foot above the floor. Her slave honey dripped down her legs onto the floor.

She didn’t know how long she was stuck there, it got very warm under her plastic wrapping, and she had nothing to distract her as her slave heat intertwined with the heat buildup from being trapped in the plastic wrap. Sweat and slave honey puddled beneath her. 0717 fantasized about the two men coming back and both of them taking her and filling her with their salty cream. This led to her cunt twitching and pulsing needing to be filled, which just deepened her need for the men to return.

The slave girl didn’t know it, but the men had only been gone 20 minutes. They cut her free and pulled her off of the pallet she had been pinned to. Once again the same crewman threw her over his shoulder and walked off with her. This time he was alone, the other crewman walked the other direction, once 0717 was clear of her temporary prison.

The crewman put her down and carefully cut off the plastic wrap that was binding her. Once she was free of it he pushed her with his foot towards a step down where a cheap shower stall was. 0717 saw the hole in the floor and squatted to let everything go. When she was done she stood up and caught a blast of cold water that hit 0717 directly in her chest, the torrent knocked her back against the wall.

He had pulled out a hose and was standing on the deck above her, he swung the hose from side to side as he played the stream all over her. He barked orders, having her bend and stretch so that he could spray her in every crevice, he had even made her bend over and pull her ass cheeks apart to ensure that she was totally clean. 0717 yelped when the icy blast landed on her steaming pussy.

Still dripping he pushed her through another one of those water-tight doors, and on the other side was a room that had a dozen larger than normal slave kennels along one wall. He had her climb up into the middle one on the left side of the kennels.

Speaking to her in English, “Cunt. you make a mess, and you will clean it up with your tongue.” Then he pointed at a dildo that was mounted on the wall shared with the kennel on its right. When she just looked at it, he leaned in and grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head and forced her to swallow the rubber sex toy. His hand forced her to pump the sex toy several times, until she got the idea and she worked it the same way she wanted to suck his cock.

He kept a hold of her hair and made sure she kept working it, until she was rewarded with it spurting into her mouth. His hand kept it buried deep in her mouth and she swallowed several times, realizing this was water. He released her and pointed at a slot deeper in the kennel, “Twice a day, slave kibble there. Eat it all or you will be punished!” With that he closed the door and left her alone. She was the only slave in that hold.

With her hands free, 0717 immediately got to rubbing herself, frantically trying to juice herself. The need to get herself off had been teasing her for hours. Finally she had the chance to do something about that. But no matter how hard she worked, she just could not get herself all the way, 0717 got right up to that moment of ecstasy, but just couldn’t get that final release!

The poor slave slut didn’t know that there was an orgasm suppressant in the water. Which was why the crewman made sure she had a good dose before he left.

This led to her spending all of her time in a haze of slave heat that just couldn’t be satisfied. After a while a string of slaves were brought in and put into other kennels. 0717 was so lost in her slave-heat need to cum that she didn’t pay much attention to them.

With a clatter slave kibble arrived in the slaves bowls, all the slaves immediately set to eating as if they were starving. 0717 realized that she was hungry as she hadn’t eaten since before she left the auction house. She worked the sex toy for some more water, to wash down the last of the kibble.

Shortly after that the slaves were all gathered up and taken to an exercise room. They were each leashed to a different treadmill, with their hands cuffed behind them. The machines were turned on and the machines forced the slaves to run. Each machine varied the speed and the angle giving the slaves a good run, leaving them all dripping with sweat.

After an hour, a crewman came through, paused their machine and gave each slave a drink of water before starting the program again. After another hour all of the machines whirred to a stop, the slaves all panting and dripping with sweat.

Several crewmen came in and put all of the slaves into a coffle and led them off. 0717 recognized the shower, and enjoyed watching as the slaves ahead of her were given their introduction to the hose with the icy water. Then it was her turn, and she was no longer laughing. Once all of the slaves were washed they were returned to their kennels. This time 0717 found herself in one of the bottom kennels.

Again 0717 worked herself to a lather but moaned when she realized that she still couldn’t have the slavegasm she so desperately needed. She heard and smelled all of the other slaves, seemed to be doing the same thing and not having any more success than she was having. This left her struggling with her slave heat and its demands for her to cum. Each failed attempt just left her more frustrated and more determined to succeed the next time. The room filled with the disappointed moaning of dismayed slave girls.

The lights in the room dimmed, only a single dim red light, left the room in a deep gloom. Eventually all of the slaves gave up and fell asleep. None of them noticed that the ship had left the dock and was steaming to its next destination while they had been running on the treadmills. The ship was large enough and the waters calm enough that there was no give away motions.

Morning was signaled by the room becoming brightly lit and slave kibble clattering into their bowls. 0717 was the slowest to wake up and wasn’t finished with her kibble when they were gathered for their morning’s exercise. The group was led to the exercise room again, and like yesterday they were leashed and cuffed to the treadmills.

0717 was thinking they had missed she hadn’t finished her breakfast when a crewman changed the settings on her machine. She was forced to run much faster at a steeper angle, while the fellow gave her ass 10 hard smacks with his bare hand. 0717 struggled to keep her pace as the pain of each swat burned, she felt humiliated that she was helpless to do anything other than take the punishment.

When the crewman arrived to give them their water break, he adjusted her machine back to its previous settings. 0717 was almost staggering with exhaustion from the hectic starting pace. But the water and the slowed belt helped her gather a second-wind. But she was staggering on the edge of falling when her treadmill slowed then stopped. She wanted to throw up, but fought it down as she didn’t want to get punished again.

This was the cycle and 0717 sunk into a haze, the icy showers just punctuated it. By the time she was back in a kennel she sunk into it again. The need she had to have a slavegasm was getting worse and worse, silly slave girl being slave stupid couldn’t figure it out why she couldn’t

The cycle was broken when 4 crewmen crowded into the small hold with the 12 slave kennels. The men talked back and forth in rapid French.

They took one slave girl out and cuffed her hands and snapped a leash onto her collar, before they pulled the next one out. As the line of slaves got longer one of the crewmen slowly led the first part of the string out the watertight door. 0717 was the 8th slave in the coffle. She had almost reached the door when the last of the slaves was added on.

With all of the girls linked into the coffle, two of the men left, leaving one holding the front of the string with the other holding a leash to the last slave in the line. They quickly took the group through several corridors, climbing 3 ladders and descending 2 others. Before they reached another much larger cargo hold. This one was open to the sky and they were led to a square cage.

The slaves were just shoved into the cage, which was a tight fit for 12 standing slave girls. The sudden break in the daily cycle broke the slave mind of 0717, and Sarah was the one listening to the crewmen. Not that it helped her but they were just talking about duties and what the cook was going to screw up trying to make for dinner.

Sarah found herself looking out of the cage with one of the vertical bars running right between her tits, her diamond hard nipples pointing out at anyone looking. Just because it was Sarah paying attention, it didn’t reduce her burning need for a slavegasm. The former Slave Mogul quickly realized that they slipped her a suppressant, probably in the water. But knowing that didn’t help at all.

Sarah was trying to piece together what had happened to her, she vaguely remembered being trussed up and carried aboard a ship, but everything after that was lost in a fog. She guessed that it had only been a few day’s, that she had been on the ship. Sarah had a good grasp of geography from tracking shipment, still she was confused on where she was. Remembering the trailer from the original slave shipping yard to here, Sarah was trying to guess the path of her unexpected road trip. But she just couldn’t put it all together yet.

The air was too nippy to be anywhere in the Gulf of Mexico, and Sarah didn’t think she could have been shipped that far south. If they had meant to send her that direction, she would have been shipped by barge downriver. Her efforts to clear her thoughts by shaking her head were cut short when her forehead bounced off the bar of the cage that was right in front of her face.

Sarah was distracted from getting any further when the crew, who had been yelling in a confused mix of English and French, loaded the last slave into the cage and locked the door with a slam that vibrated through all of the bars. No sooner had the door been locked that the cage was lifted into the air. The nervous slave girls squealed and shifted as much as the tight quarter allowed which caused the cage to wobble alarmingly.

But their nervous energy didn’t cause the experienced workers any issues and the cage smoothly rose out of the hold and swung over the side of the ship. It was lowered onto an oversized pickup truck that had a completely flat rectangular bed.

The longest part of the crane move was getting the cage to sit in the middle of the flat bed of the truck. For this part the nervous slave girls shifting and struggling DID cause issues. It took a reddish skinned man with long black hair giving a blast of an air horn that stunned the slaves into immobility. After that the cage was settled onto the flatbed swiftly.

There were two men with long hair who were wearing long-sleeved work shirts and battered bluejeans over cowboy boots. Sarah couldn’t recognize the language the two spoke, it definitely wasn’t French.

One of the men nimbly climbed on top of the cage and from that vantage point counted the slaves, and called down to his companion who was going over the paperwork with a dockworker. He laid down on the cage top, which put him close enough to reach each slave's collar when he extended his arm through the bars. He scanned each slave with his phone before calling out the SIN from each collar, waiting for the one with the paperwork to finish with that slave before moving on to the next. They showed the efficiency of experience and were done quickly. As the one on top climbed down the one next to the truck handed some papers to the dockworker, then the two climbed into the truck cab.

The truck started with a shuddering roar, and Sarah was off on another leg of this neverending journey.
Sarah was looking frantically for something that would give her a clue where she was. It wasn’t until they got onto the street outside of the port that she caught sight of the licence plates of the vehicles around the truck. There were a fair number of Canadian plates, and a few of other US states, but the majority were from Michigan.

It took her mind far longer than it should have for her to connect things together. The ship was on one of the Great Lakes along the US/Canada border. She would have collapsed to her knees if the crowded cage had the room, so she just sagged against the cold bars. She was still in the US, and their northern neighbor had virtually identical laws relating to the status of slaves. So her terror about finding herself in Abu Dhabi and a lifetime slave contract faded.

As she continued to look at where the truck was going, Sarah noticed two things at the same time. One is that there were a lot of people on the sidewalks along the roads. The truck was slowly progressing along thanks to the traffic. And a lot of those people were openly looking at the naked slaves jammed into the cage on the flatbed truck. The other thing she realized was that she was what they were staring at. Sarah felt her body shift as it tried to rub her clit against the iron bar her tits were wrapped around.

Sarah wanted to pull herself back, to show some dignity, but her body was burning with slave heat and wasn’t listening to her. The humiliation of that just added to that fire, as she closed her eyes and gave in, trying desperately to get friction on that cold metal bar. In her mind Sarah could hear the people pointing and laughing at her slave girl antics. That she wasn’t alone in doing that didn’t give her any comfort at all.

Sarah fought, but the humiliation of being seen like this strengthened her slave mind. With 0717 becoming stronger, moaning as she squirmed and struggled against the cage wall. Sarah was almost completely gone when the truck made a turn and a sign caught Sarah’s attention.

Bay Mills Indian Community.

Her mind flatlined. She struggled to make sense of this latest bit of information. The road they were on was over water, were they heading to Canada? It disturbed her that her normal sharp and brilliant mind was having trouble assembling simple facts and coming to a conclusion.

The bridge led to an island where she saw another of the signs, this one with the additional information that the island was a reservation and having its own laws.

The truck rumbled along and she saw the tidy houses and business the truck passed leading up to what she recognized as a slave facility. Sarah couldn’t pinpoint what made her think that, just that it gave off that feeling, that it was of a different world than the buildings and people the truck had been passing since they drove onto the island.

It was the largest building she had seen on the island, by like a huge amount, and the fact that it was fenced off might have been another give away.

The truck rumbled through a gate that was operated by another man with long black hair. Now she could recognize that they were Indigenous people. But something about that puzzled her. Sarah remembered the court cases where Indigenous peoples had successfully fought for some special exemptions of their peoples from the slaving laws, but her fuzzy mind couldn’t get any further.

The truck pulled to a stop and backed up to a wide door that rolled open as they got close to it.

Sarah since she was facing to one side of the truck couldn’t see anything of what was inside the building. With a bump the truck came to a stop against the loading dock, and she heard the whine of a motor.

A pair of Indigenous slave handlers stepped onto the truck and opened the cage. As the slaves were pulled out, Sarah was now the fifth in line. As she left the cage she saw it was a ramp that covered the gap between the truck and the building.

As the coffle of slaves is led into the building, on the wall facing the loading dock was a sign.

Académie du Tonnerre des Passions

Her fuzzy brain recognizes that the name is French, but she can’t make sense of them. Maybe “Heart of Passion school”? No, she knows that’s not correct, but she is pulled along by the coffle as they are pulled deeper into the building.

No fancy uniforms here, the people that worked in the building were wearing a variety of work shirts over worn jeans and work boots. The string of slave girls was brought to a halt and two of the slaves were removed, with the remaining 10 reconnected into a single string.

The two that were removed, now that she had a clear view and a partially working mind, had similar skin tone and facial structure. They were wrapped in blankets and each had a woman in a colorful skirt on each side talking softly with them. When the slave girls gave a nod, a key was produced and their slave collars were removed. The collars were tossed aside like one would throw something rotten.

Sarah lost track of what happened from there as the string of slaves were led out of the loading bay. With a deep breath Sarah braced herself, once more into the belly of the beast.

In an office in a building within the fence, hidden from casual view, a well dressed man had watched intently as the truck arrived and unloaded its cargo of slave girls. There was a knock on the door which opened immediately when an older, neatly dressed member of the local community stepped into the small conference room.

“Mr. Arjun? I’m the administrator of this facility, please call me Robert.” He extends a strong hand which Arjun takes.

“Robert, just Arjun please. I am finding your facility very efficient and well maintained. Not all facilities of this nature are.” Arjun replies.

Robert replied, “We work very hard to not be the same as the whites across the water.” Waving his hand towards the south.

Arjun nods, “I understand that one of your nation's laws is that none of your people can be slaves on your land. That as soon as they step foot here they are freed, at least as best they can after the treatment they have gone through.”

With a grim smile Robert replies, “Yes. That was a driving intent when we discussed setting up a slave training facility on our land. We do not allow the whites to degrade our people on our own land. It is not a perfect solution, but better those we can rescue than to abandon them.”

Arjun nods, “I respect your dedication to your people. It speaks well of who you truly are.”

Robert gestures to a chair, “Leave it to the whites to eat their own young with this system. At least we can do what we can with those that come through our facility.”

Sitting down Arjun asks, “Yes, I’ve read some interesting articles about your Académie du Tonnerre des Passions, but as the articles were written by… whites, they didn’t understand what you are doing.”

With a snort Robert replies, “Whites don’t understand much unless it makes them richer. It shows in their entire slave breaking process. Shatter the spirit and hammer it into something tiny and broken and they call it a success.”

After a moment to order his thoughts, Robert continues, “Our people have a deep understanding of our Spirit, something the whites don’t. The slaves we receive have been broken, their spirit damaged if not destroyed by their system. They start off with slave yoga, which started as a path to get in touch with your spirit, and then corrupted it for their desires.”

“The original yoga that they have corrupted is different from how we approach getting in contact with our inner spirit, but it works in its own way. But after that with these crushing mantras they break the very thing they are seeking to shape.”

Arjun nods, and continues listening fascinated by this completely different view of the enslavement system.

“We start with an understanding of how a spirit should be. We take those that the whites have damaged and bring their spirits back into a closer harmony with the person. So far our success speaks for itself, the slaves we return to the whites are all more passionate and stable. Their minds are more in harmony with their spirits, so what we return to them is closer to being a human being than what arrived. We can’t fully undue everything as that would ultimately ruin them for what the whites want of them.”

Arjun thinks on these words as Robert goes silent. “But I’ve seen slaves that have made peace with themselves on their own and seemed to be… whole.”

With another snort, Robert replies, “Yeah, after they’ve pushed or been pushed all the way through until they meet themselves on the other side. We show them how to heal their spirit so that they get to that ‘Zen’ mindset, to borrow a more common spiritual concept, without all that struggle. Understand that for everyone you see whole, there are thousands that aren’t. Every one of our facilities graduates reach this state, instead of a fraction of a percentage. And when the slaves we work with get there, where their mind and spirit are in accord, their passions are far deeper and epic in scope.”

Sitting back Arjun nods, “That’s what I gathered from an article that interviewed Dr. Sarah Hollister. That is what brought your facility to my attention. And from what I’ve seen of your results, your people deliver what you promise.”

Robert stands, “Professor. Professor Hollister. She visited our facility and was impressed with what she saw, and mentioned an interest in a more in depth review if she could make the time. I suggested that perhaps she send an Intern or student working on a thesis for that review. She liked that idea.”

The two men shook hands as Arjun left for a hotel over in Michigan.

To be Continued...

[lovethissite]

Thank you for this chapter. 0171 is going deeper onto slavery I wonder what this facility will ultimately mean to her and what she will be used for.

[lovethissite]

Sorry I miss labeled her 0717 not 0171.

[imreadonly2]

I LOVED THE NEW CHAPTER! An unexpected twist, which I tried to have fun with. I see Sarah as having the sort of casual racism born or her wealth and privilege, and whether it's Arjun or the indigenous people, they're all Indians to her. In an attempt to give as well as receive, here's a chapter on Sarah's thoughts.

I struggled to understand where I was, and what clues I could decipher to deduce where I was going.

If I had crossed into Canada, as I feared I had, I was literally “over the line.” For a girl hoping to get her slavery reversed, crossing an international border moved the odds of a reversal from “slim” to “no-fucking-away.”

Once you crossed the border, it wasn’t a question of whether your enslavement had been legal or not. The plain truth was, nobody gave a shit. Even the US Embassy, which you might count on for help if you were a citizen, did not recognized slaves as people with rights. It didn’t matter if your ancestors came over on the Mayflower, once you were enslaved and shipped all of that “heritage American” nonsense vanished faster than a slave girl’s dignity. Slavery was big business, and nobody – least of all the leader of global capitalism – was going to upset the obscenely profitable apple cart.

Nobody was going to upturn a billion-dollar industry because some Nebraska farm girl or California coed started bitching that she was an American citizen. She wasn’t, and even if she once WAS, her prior life mattered only in terms of how much extra cash it might fetch when you sold her corn-fed ass off the auction block.

Canada didn’t have a brutal legal system, and it wasn’t the sort of place where they might string up a slave girl just to watch her dance. But it didn’t recognize the concept of slaves having rights, and as with animal rights abusing a slave was a crime against the state, not the animal. A slave girl in court demanding her freedom was as absurd as a cat suing because you didn’t clean its litter box.

Even Tubby Trudy, her fingers sticky with the glaze of her frosted doughnuts, didn’t have any power outside of the United States. Indeed, I knew Trudy sometimes used it as a handy trap door.

I had overheard Trudy talking with a friend who wanted to get rid of her pesky daughter-in-law, to save her son the trouble of divorce. Trudy’s big concern was making sure the stepdaughter didn’t have any friends who might come looking for her, which wasn’t a problem since the stepdaughter had already changed her name and was on the run from the law for fraud. Having her stepdaughter arrested would have made the divorce easier, but it was cheaper still if she simply vanished overseas.

Trudy had a friend at the Chicago Stockyards who specialized in “Prime Exports” and as the daughter-in-law had the good fortune of being of a natural blonde American and incredibly hot, she had the matching misfortune of being a valuable piece of slave tail.

As no-one would be looking for our fraudulent fraulein, flipping her status and sending her to her final destination via the ruthlessly efficient livestock auction at Chicago stockyards. A barge to New Orleans or New York would get her to a vessel where she could be shipped to any destination.

Trudy’s friend preferred an ocean voyage, as she wanted to make sure the girl didn’t end up in UAE harem where she might be a Westerner. Better to sell her off in Jakarta, or Chengdu, or Sudan, where her good looks in a secondary market would ensure that she wouldn’t be resold anytime soon (if ever).

If I was over the border, even if it were only a few miles into Canada, Trudy’s fat fingers wouldn’t be able to type my way out. I was signed, sealed, and delivered, even if in this case the “seal” was a brand on my slave girl ass. I was soggy wet slave pussy, caged with dozens of other slave girls on the back of a flatbed truck. To the extent that people with clothes bothered to look at me, it was to leer, smirk, or laugh, watch in disgust as I attempted to pleasure myself.

Proclaiming that I wasn’t a slave girl under these circumstances was ridiculous, like a tantrum throwing toddler declaring that she wasn’t a little girl.

I knew the men who were unloading me were Indians, or indigenous people, or whatever the hell it was I was supposed to call them. Being from Chicago, Indians weren’t that much of a thing. My grandmother had lived in Arizona, and she had told me that Indians were drunks, they were “Indian givers” and (like all people of color) they were not to be trusted. She allowed for a few good Indians (which she called Tontos) but mostly they were bad Indians (or Injuns, or red devils).

My grandmother told me about a squaw whom she had hired to scrub and clean. My grandmother had her arrested for stealing a broach, only to find out later that my grandfather had taken the broach to be cleaned as a present for her birthday. “She wasn’t even grateful that I got her out of jail,” my grandmother said. She said that she called my grandmother “wasicho”, “which means eater of the fat, or greedy, or something bad in Injun.”

I had been a little girl, and had absorbed her casual racism without much thought. The truth was my thoughts largely echoed my grandmothers, as I hadn’t seen many Indians, although I had visited a few very nice casinos that made me feel like they were getting more than they deserved, and had nothing to complain about.

The thought that I would someday be under the command of a group of Indians, or a prisoner on some sort of weirdo Indian reservation, had, until I’d seen that sign, been inconceivable to me. I was a wealthy white commodities trader, with a condominium on Lake Shore Drive. Sometimes when I went to the theater in Chicago, they did some sort of land acknowledgement of some tribe whose name I could neither pronounce nor remember. Yes, the Whites had taken their real estate and all the wealth it produced, but who cared? It was all mine now, and we had taken it fair and square.

Truth be told, I had thought of all the talk about the Indians and the land acknowledgements to be a lot of silly, liberal whining. My grandmother hand told me that the first star on the Chicago flag was from The Fort Dearborn Massacre, which had been renamed The Battle of Fort Dearborn so as to not offend the descendants of the hollering, whooping Indians who had massacred all the innocent whites.

Truth is, I don’t know if it was a massacre or a battle. I knew there was a plaque on the sidewalk on East Wacker and Michigan marking where the fort was, because I stepped on it when I went to buy fancy candies. What was going on with some Indian tribe 200 years ago was near the top of the list of things on the bottom of my list.

To say that the arrival at this Indian run facility had changed my perspective was an almost comical understatement. As I was unloaded off the truck, I caught sight of the two Indian women in colorful skirts who were talking to the two slave girls who had been uncollared. The first woman was about my age, and had a blank expression, neither approving or disapproving, as she watched the human cargo being unloaded. But the other woman, plumper, with streaks of gray hair, smirked at us, clearly amused at the predicament of the naked white women being paraded before her.

There was a pause as a girl ahead of me stumbled, which gave me a chance to look at the older Indian woman dead on. For a moment, our eyes met, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks under her amused gaze. Enjoying the moment, she winked at me, as if to say, “Who’s the squaw now, Wasicho?”

For a moment I imagined myself as a survivor of The Fort Dearborn Massacre, war booty being paraded naked before the triumphant tribe. Being a slave girl was never pleasant, but now the specter of racial vengeance hung heavy over my head.

I wasn’t close enough to understand what the women were saying, and the Injuns who unloaded us weren’t the chatty types. I wondered if they spoke French, or if they would be speaking in some sort of incomprehensible ooga-booga grunt language like they did in the John Wayne movies.

In such a world, my degrees in business and finance would mean nothing, I would be a naked farm animal, smarter than a chicken but dumber than a pig or a dog. Some masters preferred it that way. I had met a few traders who exported and imported slaves to countries where they did not speak the native language. Total illiteracy coupled with a lack of native language skills made escape impossible. Slaves could live a life of service without ever knowing where they were, or understanding more than the few basic words or hand signals that they had been taught.

In the case of a group of hot, naked white girls, not much training would be required. It wouldn’t take me long to understand whether my master wanted me to spread my legs, bend over, or open my mouth.

There was always the chance that we might be used as farm labor, to plough fields, plant and pick crops, and haul carts. A lot of this work could be done more efficiently by machine, but as the saying went, you couldn’t fuck your combine, or rent it out to get fucked, or squeeze its titties to get slave girl milk that fetched a pretty penny at Whole Foods. Tractors couldn’t make baby tractors.

In such conditions, teaching a slave girl to read or write, or language beyond her capacity to serve, would be considered an abomination, if not a crime. I wondered if that wasn’t for the best. It might be easier to be a plough puller or a dairy cow or a breeding bitch if I didn’t have the language skills left to remember my old life.

It was so twisted. The same legal system that allowed me to make a fortune as a commodities trader, living on a choice piece of real estate with a Lake Michigan view, buying and selling property on land once owned by the Indians, now allowed those same Indians to parade me naked through their land and use me as a Pleasure Slut. The legality of the original seizure of the land or my snatch didn’t matter; both were property, and our sales were both legal and final.

As free people, they could extract all sorts of racial vengeance on me. I remembered cowboy movies where they talked about the horrible things Indians did to white women, but I couldn’t remember what the details were. Judging from the traditional look of their dresses, I might discover what the squaws “traditions” were for breaking white slaves soon enough.

Given the so-called genocide that had been foisted on the American Indians by whites like me, owning white slave pussy would be sweet revenge indeed. I wondered if they knew who I was, or how wealthy I had once been. I hoped they did not, because that would make their desire for “vengeance” (or “justice”, depending on your point of view), all the more terrible.

Of course, racism was for free people, not slave girls. Slave girls were meant to serve their masters, regardless of their religion, nationality, or the color of their skin. As a slave girl, it didn’t matter to me whether the penis in my mouth was black, yellow, brown, or red. As slave girl, it was my job to suck, serve, to give pleasure, and to adore.

I had no doubt that I would soon be getting my chance to drink gallons of “indigenous people”, “Indian”, “Red Skin” spluge. I would have ample opportunity to suck is straight out of the tap, and swish it around like fine wine, and swallow it down only when permission was given. No what I thought red sperm tasted like, I would love it.

The paradox was the humiliation of having been stripped of everything and forced to serve a savage race only made my slavery more exciting. I had dreamed of being a real slave girl, or losing control, of being forced to degrade myself in whatever way the slave market demanded. Sucking the pecker of some guy who probably made his living making Indian candles or doing war dances for the tourists was utterly humiliating, and having the fat old Indian woman look down her nose at me, was beyond mortifying, and why my slave pussy was dripping like a faucet.

To my right, beyond where the two women sat, I noticed a small building, notable because it was more than one story tall. It seemed like an office, although as I was looking at the side of the building, I couldn’t see what the building’s official title was. For some reason, I found myself staring up at the large window, which I supposed was to a conference room.

The window offered an excellent vantage point, and it was the sort of place that I would stand, if I were the one visiting this facility. For a moment, I imagined myself standing there, dressed in my smart Chanel suit, watching smugly as the dirty, naked slave girls were taken out of their cages. “Filthy bitches, rubbing themselves the entire way! I can practically smell their disgusting slave heat through the glass!”

For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing in the window, arms folded, looking down on us as we were unloaded. But the windows were tinted, and I realized it must have been a trick of the light.

After all, why would an important person watch us? There was nothing special about me, or any of us. We were just another load of slave pussy. Nothing to see here.