Case #802120 Ch. 01

Chapter 1: The Arrest

"I wasn't drunk -- I only had two glasses of wine!"

It's impossible for me to count the number of times I have repeated those words in the past week. I have said them over and over to everybody but nobody believes me. It was just two glasses of wine. Red wine. The Ambrosia of the ages; now the poison of our times.

It's been five years since the White Slave Act of 2000 came into effect so there was no chance to plead ignorance. Not that a respectable woman like me would ever openly discuss the subject. But I knew about it. Everybody in town knew about it -- in the country. Everybody knew at least one woman who had been enslaved under the provisions of it but I never for so much as a second ever imagined I would be one of those women. Not me. Surely, not me. I have never broken the law in my life! Why, at the age of 43, would I risk everything and break the law? Especially the "public drunk enslavement" law. I can't believe I was so stupid.

The bar I went to last Friday had a large, bold notice before you entered that warned "THIS IS A PUBLIC DRUNK ENSLAVEMENT BAR". It couldn't have been more plain a warning. Since the White Slave Act came out, I rarely drank so much as a single drink in a public place for fear of arrest, least of all in a bar. I never go to bars. Not in this day and age. They're just not my type of place and never have been. Not even before the year 2000, or B2K as it's now colloquially known. Why didn't I just go straight home after work, like I normally would do? I would never have gone to this bar if I hadn't let my boss (Nelson) talk me into it. He assured me it was just a regular bar and not one of the myriad of strip clubs that popped up like neon mushrooms over the past five years. He said this place had "ambience" and that it served a selection of fine wines. "All very European" he had said, and I believed him. Of course, it wasn't just me he invited. All the staff at the bookstore where I worked was invited. It was supposed to be a simple, social outing to celebrate a good month of sales. Some celebration it turned out to be.

The bar was as Nelson had described. The refined elegance of a cellar-like room, warmly furnished and intimately lit with soft lights and candles. It appeared to attract an affluent crowd of predominantly older people and had wait staff dressed immaculately in black-and-white uniforms. In fact, it all made me feel like I was back home in England. The wine list, as Nelson had promised, included Californian reds as well as imported ones from Bordeaux and Spain. They even sold Verve Clique which I fondly remembered was called "Old Maid" by all the snobbish wealthy people I knew when I was growing up. In short, it seemed a world removed from the brash reality outside its doors.

Nelson ordered two bottles of Old Maid for the table, and much as I would have enjoyed a glass, champagne has always gone straight to my head so I had him order me a glass of Shiraz instead. It seemed the safe option. The mood of our party was relaxed and jovial and the first glass of wine made me feel especially mellow and warm inside. A second glass was ordered for me, which I accepted without hesitation. I drank slowly and savored the taste. Sure, it was alcohol but it was expensive alcohol. It certainly wasn't the stuff "drunks" drink and with that thought in mind, I let Nelson buy me a third glass but on the proviso we ordered something to eat to go with it.

I only had a sip of the third glass and then let it sit on the table while I waited for a cheese platter Nelson had ordered for everybody to share. I knew if I drank any more without food in my stomach, I would start to feel the effects of the wine. I knew this. But still, when Nelson called for a toast to celebrate our sales victory, I didn't decline the glass of champagne somebody poured for me. There were three toasts in all, including one for Jenny from the accounts department who announced she was pregnant. After all the clinks of glasses; the self-congratulatory praises and cheers; and the mouthfuls of sweet, bubbly good-cheer, I looked at the crystal flute in front of me and saw it was almost empty. A hot flush immediately came over me and my head began to swirl. I panicked.

My memory of exactly what happened is a little hazy, but there's no way I would say I was "drunk". I've never been drunk in my life. Not ever. I was just a tiny bit tipsy. That's all. If only I had kept my mouth shut and not even mentioned how I felt. With still no sign of the cheese platter, I knew I had to do something to regain full control of my senses. Water was what I needed, but there wasn't any left on the table. I looked around for a waitress, but they were all busy elsewhere. Nelson even noticed my alarm and asked me what was wrong. The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them: I think I've had too much to drink. He gave me a concerned look but didn't say anything. I explained that all I needed was some water. Still he didn't say anything, but he stood and drew the attention of the barman. I really panicked now and felt like every eye in the room was on Nelson. On me. I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me. The barman rounded the bar and approached our table.

"Yes?" he asked.

"The lady needs a glass of water," Nelson said.

I blushed and gave the barman a sheepish look.

"I think she's had a little too much to drink," Nelson added.

I was mortified. The blush of my face became a flush that burned hotly. I dared not look back again at the barman. My eyes burned and I felt sure they were now completely bloodshot. The barman didn't say another word. Instead, he quietly turned on his heel and returned to the bar. While he was away, I just sat there with my heart pounding furiously in my chest. Nelson appeared to be oblivious to the trouble I sensed he had now gotten me into. Nobody else at the table seemed aware of what was going on and their conversations swirled around me -- a fog of babble. It felt quite surreal.

The barman finally returned, accompanied by two men. They were well dressed in dark suits, their faces smoothly shaved and expressionless. I knew even before they announced themselves they were officers from the Public Slave Office. I pretended everything was normal and desperately hoped somebody at the table would engage me in their conversation. None did. Attention slowly turned to the two men and the conversation around me fell silent.

"That one," the barman said as he pointed to me.

I stared intently at the almost empty champagne glass in front of me and cursed it under my breath.

"Ma'am," one of them said.

I tried to smile and look innocent. The guilt I felt was palpable.

"Ma'am, please stand up," the second officer said.

"Me?"

"Yes. Please stand up."

"Why? I haven't done anything --"

"Ma'am, please stand up. That is an order."

Other conversations at surrounding tables suddenly went quiet. I struggled to me feet.

"See?" I asked after I finally stood straight. My knees felt like they would buckle at any moment. I and gave the two officers an uncertain smile.

"How many drinks have you had?" the other asked.

"Two. I've only had two glasses of wine, officer."

The combination of guilt and dread made my mouth feel dry. The words came out slightly slurred, but still I persisted in trying to sound completely sober.

"Two. That all I had," I babbled.

A few strands of hair suddenly decided at that moment to spring free from the clip on my head. They fell across my left eye and just hung there, partially blocking my vision, which I realized was already slightly blurred.

"We'd like you to accompany us to --"

"It's OK officer. I'm OK, really I am," I said. One of my knees finally collapsed under me and I dropped with a thud back in my seat. More hair dropped over my face.

There was a long pause. My work colleagues began to look nervously away from me -- distancing themselves from me, as if I had become a dangerous liability to them. There were murmurs of disquiet from others in the bar. I just sat there smiling stupidly -- idiotically -- and continued to mumble that I hadn't done anything wrong at all.

"We'd like you --"

"Look, really, I'm fine. I'm fine..." I interrupted, polite but I could already sense an argument developing -- and argument I knew I would surely lose.

The people sitting either side of me suddenly parted to allow the two officers to flank me.

"You're under arrest," one of them said as I was grabbed.

"No! Why? I haven't done anything. I only had two glasses of --"

"You're under arrest, pursuant to the White Slave Act of 2002, for being drunk in a public place."

"And for resisting arrest," the other officer added.

They dragged me inelegantly from the table; my feet peddled in the air above the floor as they carried me a short distance to the bar and pressed me against it.

I protested as politely and calmly as I could, but they weren't listening. One arm and then the other pulled behind my back. Cold steel manacles locked around my wrists. One of the men had a hand pressed between my shoulder blades and kept me pinned to the bar while the other busied himself with another set of manacles. They snapped with a ratchet noise around my ankles -- a short chain between them limited my steps to six inches at a time when I was finally led, like a convict, from the bar.

"There's nothing to see here folks," one of the officers said I they led me through the room.

People weren't staring directly, but I could feel their eyes on me.

The cool night air outside chilled my flushed face. A car marked with the sign "Public Slave Office" was parked outside and I was roughly bundled into the back seat of it. A short drive later and I was escorted into the processing center.

The booking officer, like the two who had arrested me, seemed completely disinterested in listening to my claims of innocence and dismissed them with a "yeah, yeah, sure you are." He wrote down details -- my name and everything -- and finally, with a lecherous wink, indicated to the two officers that I was "all theirs."

They shuffled me along a corridor, through two steel-barred gates, and into a small, windowless room. It could have been any "interview" room I'd seen in police dramas on television, except there was only a single, hard-backed wooden chair in the middle of the room. And a camera; a video camera on a tripod.

"I'm going to remove the cuffs in a minute. Are you going to give us any trouble?" one of the officers asked.

It seemed a totally absurd question to me. Of course I wasn't! But I gave a meek reassurance anyway.

After the cuffs were removed, I was told to sit on the chair and face the camera. The second officer had already positioned himself behind it and started filming.

"According to law, I will now read you the White Slave Act of 2000," the first officer said.

He read slowly enough for me to understand the legalese and the gravity of the situation I was in. He gave particular emphasis to the section relating to being enslaved by order of a magistrate and made it clear that, if they formally charged me tonight, I'd face court the following morning. There was no mention of being bailed until that time, or even legal representation. I was reminded that, as part of the introduction of the White Slave Act of 2000, the judicial system was changed from an adversarial one to an inquisitorial one. This meant that, unlike in the past where I would have been presumed innocent, I would now be considered "guilty until proven innocent". My heart sank.

The Slave Act had a number of provisions that permitted the accused to be summarily dealt with by the arresting officer or officers. I could, I was told, avoid court completely if I agreed to confess my guilt. He went on to explain that, if I chose this option, I would automatically be considered a "person of limited rights". It would be a temporary arrangement and full rights would be restored after the successful completion of my punishment. As it had been made so clear to me how dire the alternative was, I reluctantly agreed to be summarily dealt with by the two officers.

"Good," the interrogating officer said.

It was the first time I had seen any expression at all on his face, and it was one I could see revealed his perverse delight.

"Let's begin. I have here a statement for you to read out loud for the camera."

My hands trembled as I held the laminated card and quickly scanned the words I was to read. It was a pro-forma type of statement, written in simple English, which essentially was a confession to the crime of being drunk in a public place. After a moment of being allowed to prepare, I read through the statement and then handed back the card.

The officer then read out a statement of his own -- one that accepted my testament as the truth and which declared that I was now a "person of limited rights". He concluded by turning to me and asking if I understood what that meant. I nodded and said "yes."

"What's the number on the arrest sheet?" the officer asked his partner.

"802120," he replied.

"OK, slave 802120, strip."

The sudden realization of his command sent a shiver through my body. He called me "slave" -- a title I had never considered beyond it being something somebody else might become. And he wanted me to undress. Right there and then, in front of both of them and the camera. I began with my shoes and removed them.

My fingers hesitantly picked open the buttons of my dress. I had to stand to remove it, and it dropped silently to my ankles after I shrugged it off my shoulders. I stepped out of it and gently kicked it aside.

It felt suddenly cooler in the room, standing there in my underwear and stockinged feet. My skin prickled with a rash of Goosebumps. The tight elastic waistband of my pantyhose rolled down over my hips and eventually to my ankles. I could feel a strange tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach as I removed them completely and then reached from the clip of my bra. The bra strap went suddenly slack around my ribs and I slipped it off my arms. I was alarmed when I noticed my nipples were stiffly aroused -- a fact I'm sure didn't go unnoticed. My thumbs hooked into my panties and, after a nervous moment of contemplation, I pushed them quickly down my legs and kicked them free of my feet.

"Put your hands on your head, slave 802120."

I had tried to keep my nudity covered with my hands, but the instruction was clear. My fingers locked together behind my head and I stood there, completely naked and trembling while the first officer collected my clothes from the floor. I watched silently as he bundled them up and deposited them into what looked like a laundry chute in the wall. The muffled sound of my shoes bouncing away down a metal duct confirmed it was a chute.

"I think we should also charge her with creating an attractive nuisance," the second officer laughed from behind the camera. His partner also laughed and then sat on the wooden chair.

"Over my lap, slave 802120," he said.

I looked at him as he patted his lap. It didn't take long to guess what he intended to do. Spankings were something that I had grown up with, but they had never been as perverse as the one I felt I was about to receive. I draped my naked body across the officer's knees and wriggled into a balanced position. His hands, large, warm and strong, pulled me higher onto his lap and then, without warning, slapped my bare ass several times with hard, stinging blows. I gasped and tried to contain my noises for the first two or three, but once the yelps started, they got increasingly louder and more sharp.

"Stop fussing!" the officer said, slapping me even harder to emphasize the point. "A big, soft ass like this -- I'm barely touching you."

I felt embarrassed by the way he talked about my ass. It's largeness has always been something that I was very self-conscious of. He repeatedly slapped it until I was kicking my feet off the floor and squealing loudly.

"Spread you legs, slave," he said when he finally stopped hitting me.

I could feel his hand already trying to separate my thighs. My toes danced across the smooth vinyl floor as I inched my legs apart.

"Further," he repeated a number of times.

I spread my legs as widely as I could manage.

"Is your pussy wet?" he asked.

A breath stopped short in my throat. He slapped my ass really hard and then asked the question again.

"No," I softly whispered.

"No?"

His fingers grazed lightly up between my legs and traced the furrow of my pussy. I shivered at his touch. It was so intimate -- so unexpectedly tantalizing -- that I felt an instant rush of arousal, but I tried to lie. "No."

"No?"

He slapped me several times again until I was kicking and squealing.

"No!" I shrieked.

"You know it's an offence to be untruthful to an officer of the Public Slave Office, slave 802120?" I remained silent as his hand now cupped my pubic mound and his thumb sensuously wriggled in search of my clit. He didn't have much trouble finding it as it had swollen in anticipation of receiving stimulation. In was impossible to hide the fact when he found it. I moaned softly and squirmed on his lap.

"Answer the question, slave."

"Yes," I mumbled.

"What's that? I can't hear you?"

"Yes!" I gasped as a bolt of delight tingled my clit.

"So. Tell me the truth. You're pussy is wet, isn't it?"

His thumb's motions against my clit were driving me insane with perverse pleasure. It was incredibly humiliating that he could have gotten such a reaction from me so quickly. "No," I finally said. It was now a deliberate lie told in a coy tone that I hoped would encourage him to continue. Instead, his hand suddenly disappeared from between my legs and a shower of stinging slaps rained down on my burning ass.

"Tell. The. Truth!" he said with each slap.

I bit my lip and remained silent, except for the occasional yelp if he hit the same place twice too quickly.

The spanking stopped and his hand returned to my pussy. His fingers rubbed my clit while his thumb slipped easily into my pussy. It wriggled inside me, moving quickly in and out like a small cock.

I closed my eyes tightly and tried to fight back a loud moan of pleasure. I couldn't, and the empty room reverberated with the noises of my uncontrollable delight. There was no holding back the orgasm that suddenly gripped all my senses and I gyrated my hips enthusiastically in response to his stimulations. I could hear them making crude comments -- a kind of verbal humiliation to punish me for my reactions. But, right before I could experience the wonderful all over shiver of a full climax, he stopped and told me to get on my feet.

The effects of the wine had worn off, but I was still dizzy when I stood. I absently combed my messy hair with my fingers and watched as he removed his trousers and boxer shorts. His cock danced obscenely up from his loins and he sat down again on the chair.

"Sit, slave 802120," he said, indicating his cock.

I hesitated for a moment and then started to position myself straddled over his legs facing him.

"Not that way. Turn around and face the camera," he said.

I stepped away and turned around. As I backed myself into position I instinctively reached down between my legs to take hold of his cock.

"No hands!" he barked. "Put them on your head."

I placed them on my head and cautiously lowered my ass until I felt his cock close to my pussy. There was a point where I couldn't stop from sitting completely, and I collapsed onto his lap -- his hard cock impaling me in one swift, smooth action. My toes could barely touch the floor and my entire weight now rested on his lap.

The sensations of his rigid cock inside me took away my breath. He began to grope my breasts with his hands, finding my stiff nipples and twisting them firmly between his thumbs and forefingers. I wriggled my hips and squirmed to enjoy the full pleasure of his cock.