Cargo of desire: The Roman Temptation (5/11)

[Some_guy]

The next morning, February 25, 2026, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sophia Langford’s penthouse atop the Langford Tower in downtown Houston. The four women had reconvened here after a night that had stretched until nearly three a.m. at Claire’s, champagne giving way to espresso and then to chilled bottles of San Pellegrino as the conversation grew sharper, more focused. Margot had left early—claiming a board meeting—but the other three remained, now sprawled across the white-leather sectional that overlooked the glittering sprawl of the city Sophia’s family had helped build.

Elena sat cross-legged in silk lounge pants and a loose cashmere sweater, her dark hair twisted up with a diamond clip worth more than most people’s annual salary. Claire lounged in a silk robe the color of clotted cream, one bare foot idly stroking the back of the male pleasure slave kneeling beside her; he was one of Claire’s traveling stock, collared and caged, eyes downcast. Sophia herself wore only a short black satin robe, the fabric cool against skin still flushed from the previous night’s confessions. On the low marble table between them rested three tablets, a holographic projector, and a secure laptop linked directly to Langford Global Cargo’s encrypted servers.
“Anonymity is everything,” Sophia said, tapping the screen. Her voice was steady, professional—the same tone she used in merger negotiations—but beneath it hummed a low current of anticipation that made her thighs press together. “No paper trail. No facial recognition at checkpoints. No chance some tabloid drone catches us boarding.”

Elena nodded, scrolling through the international slave-vacation portals. “I’ve done the research. Most places leak. Aspen’s kennel uses real names on internal manifests. Dubai requires biometric deposit—your SIN gets logged forever. But Rome…” She turned the tablet so the others could see. The site loaded with elegant restraint: a Renaissance palazzo bathed in golden light, marble colonnades, naked women in perfect pleasure-kneel poses framed by frescoed ceilings. The header read Villa Aurelia – Experiential Slavery Retreat. Discretion Guaranteed.

“Palazzo Aurelia,” Elena continued. “Just outside Rome, in the hills above the Via Appia Antica. Fifteenth-century estate, fully retrofitted. Two wings: one for free guests pretending to be tourists, the other a sealed training palace for women who want the real thing. Seven-day Pleasure Slave Immersion Package. They advertise ‘absolute anonymity through layered identity protocols.’ Fake SIN, temporary collar with encrypted chip, arrival under cargo manifest. No passenger logs. No customs declarations beyond ‘livestock relocation services.’”
Claire arched a perfect eyebrow, sipping her espresso while the slave at her feet remained motionless. “Livestock. I love the honesty.”
Sophia zoomed in on the brochure images. A woman—mid-thirties, toned, anonymous face blurred—stood naked on a polished marble dais, wrists cuffed behind her back, legs spread in the classic PRESENT position. Gold light from a chandelier kissed her breasts and the smooth lips of her sex. The caption read: Day One Orientation: From Executive to Vessel. Another slide showed the same woman later, collared in rose gold, crawling across antique rugs while a trainer in tailored black held a light crop. Day Four: Service Protocols – Oral, Manual, Full Surrender. Metrics were listed beside each photo: Arousal Index, Compliance Curve, Endurance Rating. Sophia’s pulse quickened; the numbers reminded her too perfectly of the PME pen.

“Training is… thorough,” Elena said, voice husky. “Morning pose drills in the grand salon. Afternoon sensory conditioning—edging tables, mirror rooms, public service rotations with vetted male slaves. Evenings in the pleasure suites. All revocable until midnight on Day Six. After that, the final signature locks the experience for the last twenty-four hours. They call it the Point of No Return. Psychological, not legal. But once you sign, the mindset shifts. You belong to the palazzo.”

Sophia felt heat bloom low in her belly. She remembered the black collar with its blinking blue LED, the probes sliding deep, the synchronized vibrations that had left her dripping and desperate in a pen full of strangers. This would be deeper. Longer. Farther from home.
“And the anonymity?” she pressed.

Elena swiped to the fine print. “They generate a temporary SIN linked only to your booking code. Your real name, biometrics, and financials stay behind a Langford-level firewall. Transport partners never see passenger identities—only crate numbers. On-site, staff use only slave designations: you’ll be ‘Aurelia-47’ or whatever batch they assign. No cameras in private suites. Exit processing wipes the temporary profile completely. Even if someone tried to trace it, the trail ends at a shell company in Luxembourg.”
Claire smiled, slow and predatory. “And you control the transport, Soph.”

Sophia nodded. She had already pulled up the internal portal for Langford Slave Logistics—the discreet subsidiary that handled 40% of North America-to-Europe pleasure-slave relocations. The interface was stark, efficient: cargo manifests coded as “High-Value Biological Assets – Climate-Controlled.” She selected the Rome route, a modified Gulfstream G650ER configured for twelve individual travel cages. Each cage: padded floor, integrated collar anchor, privacy screen option (default off for “authenticity”), biometric monitoring linked to the airline’s slave-transport certification. Departure from Houston Executive Airport, private cargo ramp. No passenger terminal. No questions.

“I can route us as a small batch of ‘voluntary recreational transfers,’” Sophia said, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Manifest lists four units. Two real slaves being delivered to a private collector in Milan as cover. Our cages slotted between them. The crew are all bonded and NDA’d to hell. They won’t even look at us once the collars click.”
Elena’s eyes gleamed. “Perfect. We strip in the VIP prep lounge, bag our clothes for return shipping, collar up, and step into the cages. They load us like any other cargo. Eight-hour flight, maybe nine with headwinds. We arrive at Rome’s private freight terminal, get trucked straight to the palazzo. No one on either end knows who we really are.”

They compared packages one last time. A quick virtual tour of Palazzo Aurelia’s training wing: marble-floored chambers with antique iron rings discreetly set into the walls, velvet-draped edging benches, a grand ballroom converted for group pose drills beneath crystal chandeliers. Trainers—professional, multilingual, impeccably dressed—demonstrated the curriculum on willing models. The Pleasure Slave track emphasized elegance over brute endurance: high-heel training on marble, oral service with antique silver trays, mirror work to perfect every arch of the back and spread of the thighs. All while the women’s minds fought the slow, luxurious surrender.
Margot’s face appeared on the holographic screen for a brief check-in; she had reviewed the documents remotely. “It’s clean,” she said, voice neutral but eyes sharp. “I won’t join you—someone needs to stay in Houston and field any questions—but I’ll monitor the transport logs. If anything pings wrong, I pull the plug. Otherwise… enjoy becoming property, ladies.”

The words sent a visible shiver through both Sophia and Elena.
Claire raised her glass. “To ivory towers and the view from the bottom.”
They laughed, but the sound was edged with something darker, sweeter.
Sophia finalized the booking. Four cages. Departure in seventy-two hours—February 28, 04:00 from Houston Executive. Destination: Rome Ciampino Freight Annex. Package: Seven-Day Pleasure Slave Immersion, Palazzo Aurelia. Status: Confirmed. Temporary SINs generated. Transport manifest filed under Langford Slave Logistics reference LSL-2026-028.
She closed the laptop with a soft click.

Elena reached across and squeezed her hand. Their fingers trembled slightly where they touched.
“Three days,” Elena whispered. “Then we’re just two more naked women in cages, on our way to learn what we really are.”
Sophia looked out over the city she owned pieces of—the glass towers, the private jets on distant runways, the empire her grandfather had built on oil and steel and, quietly, on the trade in human flesh. Soon she would be cargo herself, collared and crated, hurtling across the Atlantic toward a marble palace where billionaires went to forget they had ever been anything but wet, obedient holes.
The thought made her so wet she had to excuse herself to the powder room, where she locked the door, leaned back against the marble counter, and let her fingers slide between her thighs with a soft, desperate moan.

Outside, Claire’s slave remained perfectly still, trained not to react to the sounds of a free woman already beginning to break.

[Greyman]

Oh, good. There is a safety net. We can totally trust Margot to keep an eye on things. From a distance.

...Right?

Yeah. This is just delicious foreboding.