Accidentally On-Purpose Pt. 05

Part five of a multi-part story about a young woman working as an intern at a slave market. It is set in the same world, city, and place as my previous series Three Sisters so it may be useful to read that first.

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Note that this story contains bondage, slavery, power exchange dynamics, threats of physical harm including electric shock, non-consensual sexual submission, lesbian sex, bodily fluids, and a character's struggle to come to terms with it all. All characters are at least 18 years of age.

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Kiara, her eyes closed and her lips parted, moaned in ecstasy.

Sitting in her swivel chair in the A-Ops control room, nude from the waist down, her shirt pushed up over her breasts, Kiara had one hand on her dark left nipple, and her other hand on top of Sandy's head.

Sandy knelt on the thin institutional carpeting of the control room, her hands on Kiara's legs, her face in Kiara's lap, her tongue circling Kiara's clit. She was completely nude, and had even untied her trademark ponytail so that her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders... like Michelle's did when she was collared.

They had gotten aroused watching Michelle lose her lesbian virginity to the tattooed slave — they both agreed it was insanely hot — and one thing had quickly led to another.

Kiara opened her eyes and tilted Sandy's head upward so that she could see her face.

"I'm going to turn around now, and then I want you to use your tongue on my ass like Michelle did to that slave," Kiara said, softly but firmly. "Understood?"

"Yes, mistress," Sandy replied, rocking backwards onto her shins.

Kiara turned around and knelt in the chair so that her beautiful posterior was facing Sandy, then with her chest resting on the back of the chair she reached back with both hands and spread her cheeks.

"Wait, what's happening?"

Kiara sat upright and pointed at the monitor she was now facing. "Someone's moving Michelle," she said.

Sandy stood and looked over Kiara's shoulder. "That looks like Grace from A-Ops; I didn't know she worked the night shift."

Sandy stepped to one side so that Kiara could get out of the chair and move over to the console.

Kiara swung out a keyboard and started typing. "Her inventory number has been changed. Looks like the auditing system caught it and swapped it for an active number, then for some reason it flagged her as being in the wrong pen, and it sent an alert to the overnight crew."

"The auditing system?" Sandy asked, pulling on her uniform shirt. "We have an auditing system that runs automatically?"

"No, we don't," Kiara said. "It's supposed to, but IT never finished setting it up. So the audit system only runs when it's initiated." She looked up at Sandy. "Someone made it run."

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The tall man and the short woman had placed Michelle and Zim in a cage on the far north side of the cage maze, the area controlled by the Auction Operations department. It was a much smaller cage than the overnight holding cage they were in before; no room to lie down, and sitting side by side on the small bench they were cramped for space.

Michelle looked around the top of the cage until she saw the surveillance camera. When its red light came on, she started wagging her head back and forth in an exaggerated fashion, which was the agreed-upon distress signal. The camera was on a circuit, so the red light would go off then come back on, and when it did she wagged her head at it.

"Are you okay?" Zim asked.

"No, I am not," Michelle answered, "But it's nothing to worry about."

"If you say so," Zim muttered.

When Michelle looked back up, the red light was steady; she had been found.

A few minutes later, Kiara came clomping up in her HCI uniform and tried to unlock the door, but couldn't. She cursed and tapped furiously on her data pad, but nothing worked. She looked at Michelle through the wire and frowned, whispering "I don't have the right access for this cage, and I don't know why not — this has never happened before."

"What do we do?" Michelle hoarse-whispered at her.

"I don't know," Kiara said, "but we'll figure it out, don't worry."

"Kiara? Kiara!" A voice from down the corridor called. "I thought that was you!"

The short, heavyset, brown-haired woman who had taken Michelle out of the holding cage walked up to Kiara. "What are you doing here? The day shift doesn't start for hours!"

"Hey Gracie Lynn," Kiara replied, smiling. "Overtime. What with the liquidation influx they offered me some hours. How about you? You're not on the night crew normally, are you?"

Gracie Lynn laughed. "Nope, I'm same as you. I can always use the extra hours, particularly with school starting up soon and both boys playing sports." She looked at the cage door. "Got a problem?"

"Yeah, we got a message that one of our holds was moved to processing, and I have to move it back, but I can't open the lock," Kiara said. "It says I don't have handler permissions, which doesn't make sense because I've had those since I started in A-Ops."

Grace (aka Gracie Lynn) looked at Kiara's data pad, then pulled out her own and tapped on it while Kiara watched, then the two compared screens. "Huh," Grace said, "Looks like I don't have permissions either, which don't make sense neither. Probably someone clicked on a 'three' when they meant a 'two,' Lord knows that happens often enough." She slid the pad back in her pocket. "I'll bet Walt can open it, he's got manager privileges. Let's go ask him."

Walt — tall, thin, black, bespectacled, perpetually tired, perpetually annoyed, by-the-book Walt — tapped at his own data pad between absently scratching at his chin.

"Here's the reason," he said, angling the pad so the two women could see it. "5850 is marked as special class for some reason, so only managers can move her." He pushed his glasses back up his nose. "I wish they wouldn't hide important details like this in four levels of nested menus," he groused.

"Can you open the cage so I can move her back to holding?" Kiara asked.

"No can do, missy," Walt replied with a weary sigh. "As much as I'd like you to take her off my hands, my duty is clear: special class, marked for first morning auction, no holds, no exceptions, no nothing. But don't worry, we're covered, it's all here in black-and-white pixels." He tapped the pad again. "I just sent you a receipt, so the Intake department is off the hook. We'll get her sold and out of here first thing."

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Michelle watched Kiara hurry past the cage and down the corridor. She hadn't said anything, but the look on her face chilled Michelle to the bone.

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"What exactly does that mean?" Lena asked; she was on the phone again, after having signed off to get a nap.

"It's a catch-all category for slaves that are designated for special treatment, for whatever reason," Kiara explained. "Rather than come up with workflows for every possible special case, they just make 'specials' assignable — and moveable — only by managers. The idea is that management can be trusted to read the notes on the slave's status and act accordingly."

"According to what I can see," Sandy added, "There's no notation along with her status, so I have no idea why she was marked. But I do know that without a notation, the SOP is that she gets head-of-line and is sold as soon as possible—"

"And the next auction is in a few hours," Kiara finished.

"Why did you not tell them the truth?" Lena said. "That she is not slave and should be released?"

Sandy noticed that Lena's Ukrainian accent was slipping into her speech (Michelle said that only happens when she's upset); she looked at Kiara, and Kiara shook her head.

"Because by doing this we've opened up HCI to a lawsuit," Sandy explained, turning back to the propped-up phone, "not to mention potentially exposed them to a license investigation by the state, or even the feds. If HCI found out, they might very well sell all of us into slavery just to cover it up."

Or at least me and Kiara, Sandy thought.

"Then what are we going to do?" Lena asked. "We cannot let her go to auction. She would be humiliated! And if knowledge of her sale got out, it would ruin her life, there would be no getting in to the medical school or anything."

"If it came to that," Kiara said, "could you buy her?"

"I could," Lena replied. "And if it comes to that I certainly will; but we must do everything in our power to keep her from getting on that block."

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Not long after Kiara had left, Walt opened the door to Michelle and Zim's cage and took them to the grooming section to get them ready for their inspection.

As Michelle walked out of the cage maze and into the main hallways of HCI, she saw that lights — here and there — were starting to come on, and she could hear the occasional noise of doors opening, equipment being warmed up, muffled conversations.

HCI was beginning to wake up, and she was naked, handcuffed, collared, and being led down the hallways that she traveled every day during the week; she was used to the sound of bare feet padding along behind her, but now that it was her feet doing the padding? She struggled to stay calm, but it was difficult. What if she encountered someone she knew? The knot in her stomach got tighter.

"At least now I'm out of the cage," Michelle thought as she was led down the hallway. "Maybe the gang can arrange to slip me out of grooming when Walt isn't looking?"

Walt led the two women through the main double doors of the Groomers, up to a woman who appeared to be the first staff member to arrive — she was still turning on the lights and equipment.

"G'Morning, Linda," Walt said to the older white lady wearing a white smock and a maroon apron over jeans and cowboy boots. "Got two to get ready for the 9 A-M."

Linda put on a pair of cats-eye glasses, dangling from a rhinestone-decorated chain around her neck, and looked Michelle and Zim up and down, then pulled her own data pad out of her apron pocket and tapped on it.

"Alrighty Walt, I got 'em checked in," she said in a thick West Texas accent. "I'll give you a holler when they're ready, but it might be a bit — I'm the only one here this morning."

Walt looked at his own pad and nodded. "Thanks Lin," he said, and left.

Linda looked over Michelle first, examining her with a practiced eye and letting out the occasional hmm. She moved quickly, ordering Michelle to open wide as she checked Michelle's teeth, ears, and nose, pausing only to tap out the checkoff items she had just inspected on her notepad. "Like a car getting an oil change," Michelle thought, swallowing hard. Checking the wires and kickin' the tires she thought, remembering a phrase a mechanic had used during her last oil change. She lifted Michelle's upper arms (as far as she could with Michelle's hands cuffed behind her back) and checked her armpits, spread Michelle's butt cheeks and examined her sphincter. Michelle whimpered in panic as her most private parts came into view. "Don't be shy, sweetie," Linda said, not unkindly. "You're going to be showing everything ya got on the block soon enough!" She patted her butt affectionately before moving around and checking her vagina.

Michelle could feel the blood rush to her face as Linda ran her fingers over and into her opening. "Well, aren't you something, blushing AND all lubed up and slave hot," Linda chuckled. "Red as prime rib, and just as juicy!"

"Slave hot?" Michelle thought. "That doesn't make sense. Maybe it's left over from earlier with Zim?"

"Not a single tattoo," Linda said, mostly to herself as she tapped her data pad. "Aren't you two a pair?"

Michelle would have felt completely humiliated if Linda hadn't been very gentle and, well, kind of motherly in the way she carried out her inspection (although she could do without the country-fried witticisms). "But what will happen," Michelle wondered, "if I come back to the groomers if I'm free, and she's working the shift; would Linda remember me? And which would be more humiliating: being recognized, or being just another piece of slave pussy headed to the block?"

Linda performed the same detailed inspection on Zim, then stepped back and tapped on her data pad a bit, again marking off the check list items completed. It was a long, bureaucratic list, but Linda moved fast; as with the oil change place, if nothing was obviously wrong, it was marked as right.

She looked at Zim and said "You're lookin' pretty good, but I think a little oil on your skin would really show off your dancer muscles, and those tattoos, probably."

"Sweetheart," she said, turning to Michelle, "I don't think you need anything done to you, other than maybe running a brush over your hair before showtime. I'm gonna have you wait outside until I finish with Kat-Von-Double-Dee here."

She took Michelle's leash and led her back outside to the hallway, to a metal rail mounted on the wall like a hitching post. She hooked the leash to a clip on the rail, and pointed at the rubber matting on the floor, saying "You might as well take a load off."

Michelle kneeled down and waited for Linda to go back inside, then started scanning the walls and ceiling for cameras. She spotted one with a steady red light; "Now all I have to do is wait, hopefully," she thought. In the meantime she tried to curl herself into the smallest shape possible, while keeping her chin pressed against her chest and her body turned to the wall.

Quiet: nice and quiet like it should be on a Saturday. Then she heard a low rumbling at the end of the hallway; tilting her head just enough to look at the source, she saw a large wheeled cart stacked with empty transit crates coming towards her. Michelle lowered her head as much as she could and sat completely still, listening to the rumbling coming closer and closer until it stopped next to her.

"Hey, I know you," said a male voice. She was expecting Sandy or Kiara, but she recognized the voice and looked up: it was the young man from her prod training class, the one in coveralls who barely passed the exam.

The one who worked for Big Ed.

He tripped the handbrake on the cart, then walked over and squatted down in front of her. Michelle felt a hand on her chin, and he pulled her face around and up so he could see it.

"Michelle, right?" he said.

Michelle looked at him: an average-sized white guy, probably about her age, clean shaven with neat black hair under an HCI ball cap. The patch over his chest pocket read "Mike" in stitched cursive letters. He wasn't bad looking, and he seemed nice enough from what little she knew of him, but...

"We were in class together, weren't we?" he asked.

Michelle just looked at him, afraid to say anything at all.

"Yeah, I thought I recognized you," he continued, releasing her chin and looking her up and down. "You sat with Sandy from Intake. Jeez, you two were the teacher's pets through the whole thing. What the hell are you doing here, lookin' like inventory? Man, you must have really fucked up."

She still couldn't speak, frozen with terror at where this was going.

Tilting back his cap, Mike gave a low whistle. "Not that I'm complaining: you are one hot piece of ass." He looked her over again, leaning forward and slowly running a hand over her smooth, unblemished skin, lingering on his favorite parts of her naked body.

Michelle felt goosebumps pop up on her skin. What is that about? she wondered.

Mike stood up, rubbing his fingers together. "The only thing that would make this better would be Sandy in a collar next to you."

Mike pulled out his phone and aimed it at Michelle; she clenched her teeth and tried to hide her face under her loose hair. He took a few photos, then said "I know someone who will want to see this," and tapped on his phone a few more times. He laughed and continued to tap on his phone, clearly having a text conversation with someone. When he finished, he slid the phone back in his pocket.

"Ed wants to have a word with you," Mike said, "So I'm going to put you in one of these cages and haul you over to the Wholesale side to see him. And afterwards we can spend some quality time together, just you and me in the warehouse supply room." Mike turned and opened one of the transit crate doors, then looked back at her and said "Well, probably you and me and three or four guys from my crew." Michelle blanched, and he laughed: "Don't worry, we'll keep your handcuffs on."

Michelle was terrified: this whole situation was spinning rapidly out of control, getting worse and worse. She had gone from having one of the most amazing experiences in her life to being on the verge of having one of the most degrading experiences imaginable. But she was also feeling, well, aroused: weirdly enough, she knew that if he had just asked (or better yet, ordered) her to suck him off, she would have gladly done so on the spot. The thought of running her tongue around the head of Mike's cock like she had done to Zim's clitoris gave her a little thrill. But being used by a group? That's not what she wanted, not what this was supposed to be about. She pressed back against the wall, staring up at Mike with tears starting to well up in her eyes, too shocked and afraid to speak.

Mike began unclipping her leash with one hand, and with the other he flicked open his electric prod.

"I can't wait to show you how good I've gotten with this thing," he said.

The Grooming door opened and Linda came out, looking at her data pad before looking up to see Mike standing over Michelle.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed. "This one is Prime, son, she does not belong to Wholesale. Leave her be," she said, plucking the leash out of Mike's hand, "and go on about your business." Mike hesitated and started to speak. Linda gave him a withering look and said "Go on now" in a low voice; he took a step back. Linda tugged Michelle to her feet, and said "You'd better stay in the salon with me until Walt gets back."

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Sandy arrived at end of the hallway outside the groomer's. Peeking around the corner, she saw a lady in an apron take Michelle away from some warehouse crew asshole and pull her back into the grooming room; it looked like Kiara's message had arrived just in time.

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The first time a man — old enough to be her father, no less — put his rough hands on her vaginal lips, Michelle blushed hard and barely stopped herself from hyperventilating. She was equal parts scared and humiliated, and she hadn't even made it to the auction yet.

She was out in the public Inspection area, her hands manacled to a chain over her head, her naked body stretched taut against a tall metal pole, barely balancing on her toes. For some reason, her nipples were as hard as erasers and stood right out, drawing attention to her breasts. At least she hadn't been de-voiced or (even worse) gagged.

It was bad enough having the creeps run their hands all over her skin and touching her most intimate parts, but the comments were somehow worse.

Some of them she expected, like the unshaven guy chewing on a toothpick who said "I'll bet you got a sweet little fortune cookie down there, don'tcha?" before running his hands all over her crotch, lingering on her clitoris and flicking it with his fingernail.

But at least he spoke to her like a human being. One guy had a whole phone conversation while inspecting her, and never said anything to her or even looked her in the eye. She'd never felt like such a piece of meat before: "Yeah, slim pickings in the Prime auction today, but there's one who's a pretty hot Asian girl — no, not one of them skinny Taiwan refugees — I know, I know, they all die of radiation poisoning before they can earn out, I remember the last one. Listen to me, this one is American, in great shape, not even twenty yet, she should hold up just fine. What? Oh yeah, they'd love her, I bet she could do at least a dozen drillers a night easy..."