Over My Limit Ch. 02: The Inspection

Two guards, one man and one woman, were waiting for me in the underground space, and as soon as the lift stopped the man took off my gag (oh, thank God!) and crouched in front of me and removed the dildo, then turned to his companion.

"She's pretty stinky - better get her cleaned up."

She nodded, and uncoiled a hose attached to a tap on a nearby concrete pillar. It was one of those car-wash types, with a big reservoir of soap in the handle, and she began spraying me with white foam. It was freezing cold, and I squirmed and wriggled, but she had no trouble covering me from head to toe, then turned the water off as he picked up a long handled brush and began to scrub me. He started at the top, washing my face and neck with the rough bristles, then my back and bottom, then he came around the front and did my tits and belly.

"Make sure you give her skanky crotch a good work over!" laughed the woman, and I squealed in pain as the hard bristles scrubbed my delicate pussy lips.

Once he was satisfied, she hosed me down with clean water, thankfully warm this time, and as she walked around me, she noticed the plug in my behind and yanked it out.

"Here, catch!" she yelled as she tossed it to the male guard. He went to catch it, then ducked, laughing, as he realized what it was, and it clanged harmlessly on the concrete behind him.

"Eww!" he said, "imagine how bad that thing smells!"

She focused the jet of water on my newly-liberated hole, then moved it under me and blasted my vagina. I tried to shriek as the water went up inside me, and she laughed again.

She finally turned the water off and stood contemplating me.

"I wish I had tits like that."

"Nah," he said, "your little ones are perfect."

"You're sweet," she replied, "but I bet if you were down her alone with her you'd be feeling her up."

"Yes," he smiled, "but I feel them all up, big or small. And don't give me that look - I've seen you stroke a few cocks when you think no-one's looking."

She blushed and giggled. "Yes, sometimes," she conceded, "I like having a little power over a guy who'd never give me a second look. I squeeze their balls just enough to make them panic. It's funny to see how wide their eyes get. Of course I can't really damage them - reduces the sale price."

He nodded knowingly, and scanned some paperwork on the vending machine.

The poles lowered my arms down to waist level and he unshackled my wrists, then quickly cuffed them behind me, while she undid my ankles.

"Alright, slut, in the van," she ordered.

I climbed in, and she strapped me against the wall like on my trip here, whilst the man got behind the wheel and drove us away.

The interior of this van was lit, and I could see her looking at me intently from her seat opposite me.

Finally, she spoke. "It must be so weird, knowing you're being sold in a couple of hours. I bet you'll go to a brothel. By law they're allowed six customers per girl per day, so what's that over six years? That's a hell of a lot of cock you'll be taking!"

I sat in silence and imagined it. I was supposed to dread the thought, but the truth is, it made my pussy juicy. I suspected it did hers too.

"Of course, if you're lucky some rich fuck will buy you for his yacht harem. I hear that lot trade girls among themselves like pokemon cards. Or maybe a pair of butch lezzers will buy you and sit their furry twats on your face for the next six years!" This last thought really tickled her, and she laughed uproariously.

A few minutes later, the van slowed, then backed up. She opened the doors and led me out into a small courtyard. Another guard was waiting for me with a slave collar. I was wondering when I'd get mine. As he snapped the hard black plastic ring around my neck, he asked, "Slave, do you know what this collar is?"

I nodded. "Yes sir."

"If you try to escape it will shock you. If you're too slow following a command, any guard can shock you, understand?"

I nodded again.

He uncuffed me, and I was finally able to rub my sore wrists, but then he took hold of one and fastened a plastic wrist band around it, like the type they use in hospitals. He scanned the barcode on it with a hand-held scanner, then scanned the paperwork the female guard was holding.

"Name?" he asked me.

"Jennifer Simons, sir."

He gave her a nod.

"Thanks, she's all in the system now."

She nodded back, then got in the cab of the van and they drove off, leaving me with my new captor. Other vans were arriving and depositing new slaves, all naked like myself. Each got the same treatment - collared, tagged, scanned.

My guard pointed to a door in the nearby wall marked "Female Slave Processing".

"Through there," he said, unnecessarily, and I walked through it into my new life.

It was a small room, like a police booking room, complete with the striped height chart along one wall. The opposite wall to that one was glass, on the other side of which I could see people milling around in an area a bit like the concourse at a sports stadium. There was even a hotdog stand visible in the distance. There were big tv screens on the walls of the room, and the wall opposite me had another door just like the one I came in through. In one corner of the room was a beaten up looking medical examination table, and in the opposite, by the window, sat a heavy woman, about fifty, in an ill-fitting prison-guard style uniform. She stood up with a sigh.

Beyond the glass, people had noticed some activity in here, and a few gathered to watch - some couples, a group of young men, a few professional looking types making notes - I knew these were slave brokers, probably acting on behalf of wealthy individuals who thought the actual process of buying a slave beneath them.

She picked up a large camera from under her chair. "Stand against the lines," she ordered.

I stood against the wall, mug-shot style. The collar felt heavy on my neck.

FLASH. "Arms up". FLASH. "Arms down, turn to your left." FLASH. "And your right." FLASH. "Turn your back to me." FLASH.

The flashes had drawn more attention to the window, and my body had kept them there. I'm blessed with a fine figure and large, perky breasts which I usually like to show off, but instinct made me cover my tits and crotch with my hands.

"Hands away!" She ordered, "Those are potential buyers - you should be happy they're interested. Now up on the table."

I sat on the exam table. She pulled out the stirrups and roughly grabbed my feet and jammed them in.

"Scoot right down."

I reluctantly slid my bottom down to the very edge of the table, and my legs spread wide. The window was crowded now, people craning their necks to get a view of my spread cunt. This was so humiliating, even more so than this morning.

She crouched between my legs. FLASH. "Spread your labia." FLASH. "Now your cheeks." FLASH. She leaned in and got a closeup of each nipple. FLASH. FLASH.

"Now I'm going to search you for contraband."

I was confused, I was naked already. She pulled on rubber gloves. Oh.

"Open your mouth."

She felt around my mouth, pulling my lips out and running the foul-tasting rubber over my gums. Then she carefully checked my scalp, running her fingers all the way down the length of my long dark hair.

Then she stepped between my legs. I noticed she was carefully not to block the view from the window as she pushed two fingers up into my vagina and felt around, then pushed a single digit up my bottom. Satisfied, she pulled off the gloves and tossed them in a small trash can by the door.

"Up."

Relieved, I lifted my legs out of the stirrups and got to my feet.

She was beginning to point me toward the door, when there was a tap at the window. She looked over. A man behind the glass was beckoning her towards him. No, not her, me.

"Go over there," she said, "do what he tells you. Remember, you need to sell for at least what you owe, otherwise you might get another enslavement."

I walked over to the window, which was now crowded, dozens of people staring at my naked body. I felt a familiar tingle in my cunt. I glanced up at the screens on the walls; they were displaying the photo, huge, that she took of my fingers spreading my shaved cunt-lips.

The man who beckoned me was standing in the middle. He gave the universal 'give me a twirl' sign. I turned around slowly until I was facing him again. I wiggled my bottom a little as I turned. He gave a satisfied nod. Then he pointed at my chest and made a twisting motion.

I hesitated, unsure what he meant.

"He wants to see your nipples hard."

I took my sore nipples between finger and thumb and began rubbing. I gave them a good twist and tug until they were rock hard, then let my hands fall to my side. I bounced on the balls of my feet a little to make my tits jiggle. He beckoned me closer, closer, closer, until my breasts were pressed against the cold glass. He nodded, but then turned and moved away through the crowd, which quickly filled his space. People were taking photos. I remained in place, wondering what to do. Didn't he like me? I took a step back from the cold glass.

A smartly-dressed woman behind the glass makes a complicated gesture to the guard.

"She wants to see your pink close up. Turn and bend over and spread your lips for her, as close to the glass as you can."

I did as she said, bending all the way over and putting my hands up between my legs and spreading myself wide. This was somehow much more humiliating than being on display in Humiliation Square. Maybe because I was doing the displaying, trying to please her, rather than just being helplessly restrained.

Bent over in that shameful position, looking back between my legs, I saw the woman crouch down and take some closeups of my pussy.

When she was done and stood up, I did too, and turned back to the crowd. I looked them over, some looked like they could afford a slave, but most looked like ordinary people, just out for a day's entertainment, ogling naked slaves, like I used to do with my friends. It was kind of like a day out at the zoo.

The woman was typing on her phone, maybe sending someone the photos of my pink? When she looked up at me again, I raised my arms above my head and let my tits sway from side to side, hoping to please her. Maybe she was a scout for a high-end brothel, messaging a buyer.

The crowd was growing, more people gathering at the back, craning their necks for a view of my naked body. Phones were held high to get a better shot.

A young man gestured that I should push a finger up inside myself. I was about to comply when the guard shut it down.

"Get back over here, slave, and take the test."

I turned back to her, and she handed me a clear plastic cup. "What test?"

She gave me an 'are you stupid?' look.

"The pregnancy test, dummy. Now hurry up and pee in the cup."

I was horrified. Even though a whole crowd had seen me piss myself uncontrollably earlier today, this setting felt much more intrusive and shameful.

"Please," I begged, "Can't I at least do this part in private?"

She held up a remote control. "I can always activate your collar and then dip the stick when you're writhing in pain on the floor in a pool of piss," she said. "Your choice."

I realized she wasn't kidding, so I began to squat.

"No, over by the window - they like to see this part."

Oh God, this just got worse and worse

Reluctantly, I walked over to the window. I squatted down, using one hand on the glass to steady myself, and pressed the clear cup up against my pussy. There are dozens of phones now, crowding the space in front of me. I hung my head in shame and tried to relax enough to start the flow. It was an effort, but finally I let go first a trickle, then a hot stream of piss into the cup. I stood up, and the guard handed me a pregnancy test stick. "Dip it in, then hold it to the glass so they can verify the result."

It was the longest three minutes of my life, standing there naked in front of dozens of strangers, holding a cup of my own steaming pee, waiting to show them the status of my uterus.

The test finally showed negative.

"Good," said the guard, "You're done here, move on to the waiting room. Toss those on your way."

Through the door was indeed a large waiting room. Opposite me there was a small receptionist-style window. On either side of the windows there was a door, one labeled "1", the other "2". There were about two dozen chairs around the walls, and about half of them were occupied by naked women wearing slave collars. I took a seat. None of the others even looked up at me.

After about ten minutes, the glass window slid open, and a dumpy middle-aged woman leaned out, scowling. She pointed, seemingly at random, at two women.

"You, door one, you, door two." She ordered in a bored voice, and slid her window closed.

The two chosen women quickly got up and went through their designated doors. We craned our necks to see if we could hear anything from behind the doors, but there was nothing.

About every fifteen minutes, another two girls were called through the doors, and eventually I was directed through door two.

A male nurse dressed in scrubs was waiting for me. He looked me up and down and grinned.

"I bet you'll fetch a pretty penny," he said, "follow me."

He led me down the hall, then to the right into a typical medical exam room. He had me stand on the scales (125 pounds), measured my height (5 ft 8) and took my blood pressure (110 over 70). Then he picked up a tape measure.

"Arms up."

He took my measurements, having a good feel of my breasts as he did so. (36,25,34.)

Next he led me across the hall into a larger room. There was a table in the middle, loaded up with complicated-looking electronic equipment. On the side facing the controls was a simple office chair, but on the other was a much scarier looking chair. It had the feel of an old-fashioned electric chair, wooden, with a high back and solid arm rests with leather straps. Of course he directed me to that chair. As I sat, I noticed a large hole in the seat, and I hoped that meant I won't be there long enough to have to piss through the hole into a bucket. He directed me to sit up straight, and strapped my arms securely to the armrests. My instinct was to resist, but of course it would be futile with the shock collar around my neck.

He knelt and fastened my ankles to the chair legs with more leather straps, then went behind me and threaded a strap through the back of my shock collar so that I was completely immobilized.

Next he began fiddling with the equipment on the desk. He unspooled some wires with round flat disks on the ends, and spread some cream on the underside of the disks. He began sticking them to various parts of my naked body - one above my right breast, one on the inside of each wrist, one on each temple and one on each side of my ribcage. To put those last two on, he lifted my breasts, which was totally unnecessary given how perky they were, and was obviously just another excuse to fondle my tits. I wondered why he felt he needed an excuse - I was completely at his mercy, after all. Lastly he pulled out two wicked-looking clamps on wires. He grabbed each of my nipples and rubbed until they were erect, then put the painful clamps on them. God, my poor nipples were really being put through the wringer today!

He lent in close to my face.

"Too bad we're so busy today," he said with an evil grin, "otherwise I would have liked to give you a quick pelvic exam."

He slid his hand up my naked thigh until he was touching my mound, then pressed a finger downwards between my legs. Here we go, I thought.

"Open wide, or I press the button," he snarled. I opened my legs as far as the restraints allowed and soon I felt his middle finger pressing on my clit. I resented the power he had over me, and yet still my body reacted to the pressure. As he began a circling motion, I felt my face flushing and my breaths quickening.

"I don't think you should be doing this," I muttered.

"You have no right to think, slave, you're just property, and the sooner you realize that, the better it will be for you."

The finger moved down between my lips.

"Wow, you're really wet," he grinned, "you really like strange men fingering you."

"No," I lied.

He pushed the finger inside me, then smeared the growing wetness up over my clit. I was completely helpless, in his power. He could do anything he wanted with me. My whole body was tingling.

"Tell me you like it," he whispered into my ear, "Tell me you want more, tell me you want me in your cunt."

"I like it," I moaned, "I want more, I want your cock in my cunt."

His finger speeded up on my clit, and I was getting close already.

"Tell me what else you want me to do."

"I want you to bend me over the table and cum inside me." I whispered, alternate waves of sexual excitement and shame washing over me.

His other hand was in his pants now, masturbating furiously while he continued to rub my clit.

"Make me come," I begged, "Please!"

Suddenly, with a loud groan he came in his pants. He pulled his sticky hand out and put it up to my mouth, and without having to be told, I licked his fingers clean.

"Please finish me," I pleaded.

But now that he'd shot his load, he was all business-like again.

"Your inspector will be here soon." He said, and briskly left the room, leaving me restrained, wired up, and panting in frustration.

About fifteen minutes passed. I regained my composure, and tried to make out what the devices on the desk were. There was a computer with the screen facing away from me, the control box for the sensors attached to me, another, smaller box with just two dials, and a virtual reality headset. On the left-hand corner of the desk was a large red button.

The door opened, and a tall, blonde, pretty woman with a full figure in her mid thirties to early forties walked in. She was wearing a smart business suit, sensible shoes, below-the-knee skirt. She looked for all the world like she was attending a job interview, not here to inspect a naked slave girl strapped to a chair.

She sat down and began typing at the computer, never once having wasted a glance on me. I sat in silence.

After a few minutes, she finally looked up at me.

"You will call me ma'am, understand?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied.

"Good," she smiled, "I'm here to do your slave inspection before your auction. I'll be taking a medical and sexual history, as well as running some response tests. Those sensors strapped to you are part of a lie detector. If you lie to me, I'll press this red button, understand?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied again.

"Good. Let's start with medical. Do you take any medication?

"No ma'am."

"What about birth control?"

"I have a subdermal implant, ma'am. It has about six years left."

"Any surgeries?"

"Just appendix removed when I was eleven."

"Broken bones?"

"Left wrist when I was fifteen."

"Are your breasts natural?"

"Yes ma'am." I said proudly.

"When was your last period?

"Ended about five days ago, ma'am."

"Tampons or pads?"

"Tampons, ma'am."

"Good, now sexual history. Remember to be one hundred percent truthful."

"Yes, ma'am."

"How old were you when you first had sex?"

"Nineteen, ma'am." With each answer, she typed.

"How many sexual partners have you had?"

"About one hundred fifty, give or take."

At this she looked up again.

"Seriously, what are you, twenty-five?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Bit of a slut, huh?"

"I guess so, ma'am. I was raised by nuns, so I really let go when I got out."

"I suspect I'll need to access the extended question pack," She said, using the computer mouse.

"Let's see..." she said, squinting at the screen, "I haven't seen most of these questions before, my, my, they're very explicit! Of approximately what proportion of your lovers did you know their name?