Popularity Ch. 01

"I'm so glad my daughter didn't exasperate you," my mother said, with a whiff of sarcasm.

"If I struggled and resisted and made a fuss, would it have helped me in any way?" I asked.

"Not really," the receptionist admitted. "The security guards would have grabbed you and you'd have been forced to comply. One way or another, you'd still end up becoming a slave."

"That's why I didn't make a fuss," I explained. "It wouldn't have done me any good, so why bother?"

"You're doing really well for your first day," the receptionist said warmly. "I am so proud of you."

Then, she pulled out a cardboard box and said, "This is the part where I ask you to take your clothes off and place them in this box. For the next four years, you're not permitted to have clothing, jewelry or personal items of any kind."

I knew that this moment was coming, but somehow foreknowledge wasn't enough to prepare me for it emotionally. Sensations of dread and helplessness washed over me like a tidal wave.

I mean...in addition to the receptionist and my mother, there were security guards and middle-aged men and women in the lobby. Having my mom and a dozen strangers watch as I took off all my clothes was...disconcerting.

My shoes and socks went into the box first. Then I unbuttoned the front of my jeans and pulled down the zipper. My jeans were skintight, so pushing them down my hips was something of a struggle, but eventually I got them off and stuffed them in the box as well.

Then I reached for the front of my shirt and began undoing the buttons.

"Does everyone need to stare at me like that?" I asked as I finished undoing all the buttons and shrugged out of the shirt. Men and women stared fixedly at me as I continued to strip.

Stripped naked in front of an audience of fully clothed men and women was a humbling and degrading experience. The air was thrumming with dark sexual tension, and I felt more sexually objectified than I'd ever felt in my life. There was an endless ocean of prurient faces ogling my boobs, my ass, every part of my body and it felt as if a crowd of thousands was eagerly scrutinizing my naked body.

"You're a remarkably beautiful girl with an exceptional body," the receptionist explained calmly. "It only makes sense that everyone wants to get a good look at you."

I frowned at the well-dressed government employee and bit back a caustic remark. She acted as if being forced to exhibit your naked body in front of total strangers was a normal everyday experience.

When I removed my bra, my nipples immediately felt super-sensitive, and upon direct contact with the cool air of the air-conditioned lobby they stood up hard and erect. When I dropped my top into the cardboard box, the cheerful young receptionist didn't even attempt to conceal the fact that she was staring directly at my bare breasts and rigid nipples.

When I was down to just my panties, I stole a glance over at the aloof, elegant men and women on the other side of the lobby. They stared openly, and one of them produced a phone and used it to take a series of photos of my nearly naked body.

Being naked in front of a dozen strangers was a new experience for me. I felt my face heat up with the flush of embarrassment as strange eyes bored into me and waited for me to remove my last item of clothing.

I felt a sense of helplessness and humiliation, however, I knew what I had to do. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slid them down my legs.

When I was fully naked, I dropped my panties into the box along with all my other clothes. I felt helpless and vulnerable as the receptionist and the respectably men and women in the lobby openly appraised my naked body; however, I also felt a pulsing fire in my loins. A heady thrill went along with my sense of helplessness and vulnerability.

"I'll also need your watch and any jewelry you might have," the bright-eyed receptionist said, "Slaves aren't allowed to own any personal property, so you'll have to surrender anything you have and give it to me."

I sighed, removed my watch, and dropped that into the box. My only jewelry was my high school ring. I pulled that off and dumped it into the box as well.

While the perverts in the lobby evaluated my naked body, the receptionist took the box with all my clothes and sealed it with packing tape. She then took out a wide-tip magic marker and printed my name across the top of the box in very neat handwriting. She also wrote some additional information on the box, including the date I arrived and the date I was scheduled to be released.

The receptionist carried the box to a locked door, opened it with her keys and placed the cardboard box with all my possessions on a shelf inside the storage closet. I couldn't help but notice there were quite a few other very similar cardboard boxes already being stored in there. This led me to wonder how many other naked slaves were incarcerated in this building.

After I was fully naked, my mother hugged me. She seemed to know that it was time for us to part. Then two security guards approached.

The security officers were both female, both tall and imposing looking. I estimated that each one of them was six feet tall at least and they were both athletic looking. They both wore very sharp-looking black and gray uniforms. They were both slender in build and both had high cheekbones and oval faces. One might even have called them attractive if not for the severe and unkind expressions on both of their faces.

"Miss Winter, please turn away from me and place your hands behind the back of your neck," one of the uniformed security guards said. I obediently followed her orders. She took advantage of my obedience and handcuffed my wrists behind my back.

After I was naked and handcuffed the congenial bureaucrat at the desk turned to one of the security guards and said, "Constance has been assigned as Alex's handler. If you could escort her to Constance's office, I'm sure she'd like to get started molding this raw civilian into a trained OPS asset."

The guards each grabbed one of my arms and roughly 'escorted' me down the hall. They were needlessly rough, but when I complained that they were manhandling me, they ignored my complaints and continued to treat me like I was some sort of dangerous felon.

We left the lobby and headed through a plain, white door behind the receptionist's desk. Naked and handcuffed, I was taken down a long, stark hallway with doors on either side. The last door on the left had Constance Weaver printed on it in bold, black lettering.

One of the guards knocked and a female voice bade her enter. Constance's office was understated, with a plain desk, a computer, a printer, a fax machine, a phone, two filing cabinets and an office chair. The most impressive thing about the office was the woman occupying it. She was tall, slender, graceful, and quite athletic looking. She had an oval-shaped face, high cheekbones and hair that was midnight black. She looked up from her computer screen, favored me with a wicked smile and said, "You must be Alex."

She stood up and walked over towards me. She was wearing a fashionable, black blazer, black dress pants and a white, button-down shirt blouse. Her standing so close and dressed so dapper made me feel even more naked than I had in the lobby.

"I've read your file," she informed me as she placed a hand on the flesh between my shoulder and my neck. "You're highly intelligent. Men and women of high intelligence are often proud and spirited. However, here pride and spirit will get in the way. Here, you'll be expected to be an obedient and submissive sex object. It's my job to break your spirit and strip you of your pride."

I tried and failed to suppress a groan. Four years of being under Constance's thumb was going to feel like forty. It was going to be an agonizing ordeal to be her naked plaything. She pushed down on me and curtly ordered, "On your knees, Alex."

It was difficult getting down on my knees with my arms bound behind my back, but I did the best I could. It was awkward, but I somehow managed to get myself arranged on the ground kneeling without assistance.

Constance looked down at me, seemed satisfied with my submissive kneeling stance, and continued.

"Now," she said, "I've been calling you by name, because that's what you're used to, and it was easiest to process you that way. But for most of our personal interactions, you won't really need a name. 'Slave' is quite adequate and a good deal more accurate."

I flinched visibly at that pronouncement. My handler either didn't notice or didn't care. I squirmed, feeling the stainless-steel cuffs bite into my wrists as I fidgeted.

"I oversee a considerable number of slaves in this job and a key responsibility of mine is to mold them into having a proper slave mindset. This means treating you with abuse and contempt."

My head hung low at this. I already knew that I would be sexually abused and objectified while being incarcerated at the OPS facility, but somehow hearing Constance explain it out loud made all so much more real and demoralizing.

"Of course, since we're stripping you of your arrogance and your dignity, one of the first things we'll want to do is remove all of this," Constance announced.

Constance Weaver squatted down and placed her hands on my inner thighs. She pushed my legs apart, putting my pubes indecently on display, and then she grabbed my pubic hair. My pubic hair wasn't phenomenally long but it was plenty long enough for Constance to grab a healthy handful.

Constance pulled. I gasped. It felt like my pubes were about to be yanked out by their roots.

"Waxing is very painful," Constance informed me. "It's cruel. However, that's not the only reason we do it. Pubic hair allows a woman a certain degree of modesty and dignity, as it obscures their genitals. By waxing your pubes bald, you'll be twice as naked and exposed. And that exposure will leave you feeling shamed and vulnerable. It's a good mindset for a sex slave to have, so we wax the pubes of every slave who comes here, shortly after they arrive."

At Constance's behest, the security guards dragged me out of her office, down the hall and into what looked like a doctor's examination room. My handcuffs were removed, but only so that I could be bound in a more convenient way to a device that somewhat resembled a gynecological examination chair.

I was ordered to sit and spread my arms and legs far apart. Leather straps were then buckled around my wrists and ankles. I struggled against the leather restraints, but they held me effortlessly in place, no matter how much I strained.

"Struggle all you like," Constance said. "You'll never be able to break from those restraints. However, you look quite fetching when you make the attempt, so please continue to squirm, strain, and flex your little muscles. The more effort you expend, the sexier you look."

I panted and ceased my struggles. I went limp in my bonds and waited to see what would happen next. That's when a cute woman dressed in medical scrubs padded over to where I was bound.

"Hello Alex, my name is Anne," she said, congenially enough. She explained that she would be removing my pubic hair. She had a boyish haircut, kind eyes and a friendly smile, but still, she assured me, what she was about to do was going to hurt.

"Ripping hair out by the roots is never painless," Anne explained, "however, it'll take about a month before it begins to grow back, so this is something that doesn't need to be done that often. The convenience of only having to do it once a month is why many women prefer waxing over shaving."

Anne made an adjustment to the bondage device that held me and suddenly something padded pressed at the small of my back. After a series of clicks, it arched my back so that my torso was above my head, ankles, and wrists.

It was awkward and disconcerting for me. It meant that my naked breasts and crotch were thrust up and obscenely on display. My legs were forced wide open, and my boobs and pubic lips were as exposed as much as anatomically possible.

Anne stood between my widespread legs and smoothed melted wax into my pubes, then waited for it to harden. My legs were spread pornographically wide, and my vagina was indecently on display. I felt helpless and exposed and I began to chew nervously on my lower lip as the wax cooled.

Then there was an explosion of pain as the lovely charming young woman roughly yanked dozens of pubic hairs out of the delicate flesh of my exposed vulva.

"Aaaaahhhhh!" I screamed in inarticulate pain as Anne held up a clump of wax with a bundle of my pubes embedded in it.

Anne was professional and methodical. She ripped out one patch of pubic hair after another until all that was left were a few delicate hairs near my perineum. She used tweezers to pluck those out.

My vulva was left completely smooth and bare, leaving my pink, swollen labia shamelessly exposed and on display for Anne, Constance or anyone else who cared to look.

Constance, Anne, and the security guards all had an excellent view of my naked body as my vulva was waxed and tweezed and denuded. My feelings of helplessness increased as Anne did her work, and I felt a throbbing in my loins as I embraced those feelings of helplessness and exposure.

After Anne informed me that my pubes were completely bald, I assumed that I would be released from my restraints, but instead, Anne pulled out a tube of some sort of medicinal cream and began to rub it into my exposed pudendum.

"Aaahhh," I gasped and tried to close my legs together. After my pubic hairs had been ripped out, the entire area around my pink slit was sensitive and even a gentle touch hurt.

"Sorry," Anne said apologetically, "but I have to rub this in after waxing. In the short term it hurts, but in the long term, this will keep your skin soft, smooth, and healthy."

I whimpered as Anne rubbed the gel into the delicate flesh of my anus, my pink slit and the surrounding vulva. At first, it was intensely painful, but as she continued to rub it in, it felt phenomenally good. Of course, I wasn't about to admit that.

My vulva was now completely smooth and bare, leaving my pink, swollen labia shamelessly exposed and on display for anyone who cared to look. With my back arched, my pelvis raised up, my pubic hair gone, and my legs spread pornographically wide, my sex was shamelessly on display like never before. The devious minds that designed this procedure deliberately planned it out to steal a girl's dignity and leave her feeling utterly exposed and humiliated.

With the requisite amount of medicinal cream rubbed into my abused vulva, Anne placed her hands on my breasts. She rubbed her fingers up and down my enticing curves, then she trapped my nipples between her thumbs and index fingers. She rolled them between her fingers and remarked on how unresponsive they were to external stimulation.

"They're not unresponsive," I countered. "I just don't get turned on when I'm felt up by girls. If I were being groped by a cute guy, my nipples would be standing at attention right now."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Constance frowned at me, and lines of annoyance formed on her face.

"The slaves here do not get to choose their sexual partners," Anne explained as she pinched my nipples. "During your time here you'll be expected to service anyone who desires you."

"I'm going to put you down for sapphic training," Constance added. "You need to be able to please women as well as men. I can't have our female VIPs complaining that you're being cold or uncooperative towards lesbians."

She made some notes in my file. Then she walked out of the room, leaving me there, naked, with my legs bound apart, indecently wide.

I turned to Anne, gave her a plaintive look and said, "Sapphic training?"

"It means, you can expect to have sex with every woman who works here before you're made available to the VIPs."

She proceeded to knead my breasts and toy with my nipples while adding, "And I hope you're a fast learner. Because if any of the employees complain that you have poor sexual technique or that you lack enthusiasm in bed, you will be punished."

"Punished?"

"Constance believes that pain is a great teacher. You'll be punished repeatedly until people are happy with your sexual performance."

Anne stopped kneading my breasts. She turned away without another word and left the room, closing the door behind her. With no one watching, I struggled once more against the cruel restraints, sobbing profusely, feeling utterly defeated. But way back in my mind, an idea started to grow.

I could become the most popular slave in the OPS.

I had four years.