The Cost of My Dreams Ch. 01

"Can I break position? My arms are getting tired."

"You can put your hands down but maintain position otherwise. Shouldn't that have been more along the lines of 'Six Seven One Nine begs her master for permission'?"

"Dad, I want to go to Mars. I want to be one of the first people on Mars and they'll have their slave girl hero with or without me. If that means going as a slave, I think I'm willing. I just don't know what I'm really getting into."

"If we'd been able to work on that right along, we might have done something to give you a better idea what you were signing on for. We could have had you regraded with extended display and a reversible auction. We could have maybe set up a FINO indenture or a slavecation, but as long as you had a shot at primary crew, that would have been too great a cost. It's too late now. Now you're just going to have to shut up and try to enjoy the ride."

"It's a small thing," he concluded "but I'd like you to remain naked and collared until your mom gets back. Maybe that will help you focus your mind on what the next two years may actually be like. Put on a practice video and show me all that slave yoga you've been doing."

I showed up in the conference room at 10:30 AM on the day of reckoning. I had the completed notarized contract and other forms with me though that wasn't really necessary; the documents had already been filed and accepted. I wore no jewelry other than simple stainless-steel studs, which had been provided by the company, to keep my ear piercings open. I wore a simple black shift and flats without stockings or underwear. Besides an accordion folder with the forms, I carried only my work ID and my cell phone. I had been assured that my cell phone would be conveyed to my attorney for safe keeping.

I'd spent the last few nights in a hotel at company expense after I'd vacated my apartment. The last of my stuff had been hauled to storage last night. Aside from the company credit card I had had no money; aside from my shift and shoes, I had no remaining clothing. My life was in trust pending my manumission.

In the conference room there were four people waiting: Harold Booth, who was the deputy project chief; Frederick Jones, who was a representative of the Florida Department of Agriculture; and two slave handlers who represented the Jacksonville Slave Market.

The guy from the Department of Agriculture called me over and he and Mister Booth examined my forms and Mister Booth put my cell phone in a prepared envelope. Mister Jones checked my work ID against the form and then scanned my implanted ID chip. He then ordered "Present," and I stood facing him, feet apart and hands behind my neck as he lifted my upper lip and checked my tattooed Slave Identification Number against the paperwork and his scan and the linked ID information from the scan. He then said "You are no longer a free person. Your name is now six seven one nine, from the last four digits of your SID. If asked, you will provide that as your name unless another slave name is provided by your owners or their representatives."

One of the handlers from the Jacksonville Slave Mart said "Six Seven One Nine, you are now subject to all necessary force and correction to assure your compliance with the orders of your owners and their lawful representatives, including trainers, processors, slave handlers, and any other authorized person, which currently includes all representatives of the Jacksonville Slave Market. Remove your clothing now."

I squatted and unbuckled my shoes then stood, used my feet to remove my shoes and pulled my shift over my head. Holding the shift in one hand, I squatted and picked up the shoes and looked toward a bin to my right. The guy who had told me to remove my clothing nodded and I placed my shift and shoes in the bin, then returned and knelt facing him with my knees spread, my head down, my left hand holding my hair up, giving access to my neck; and my right hand on my right thigh.

My handler scanned my implanted ID chip, picked up a red collar, synced the collar with my ID, and fitted it snuggly about my neck before locking it. He then said "You are now wearing a processing collar of the Jacksonville Slave Market. I am legally required to inform you that this collar can deliver a shock that is both painful anddisabling. Any handler can trigger it if needed, as can any policemen and a variety of other public officials. When you are checked in at the market, it will also be set to administerdisabling shocks if you attempt to leave the market."

He walked behind me and I held position silently. Then I thought I felt a slight shock from the collar. Then I felt a sold, but not especially painful shock and jumped a little. It took me a second to decide the appropriate response. Finally, I asked "Master?"

He entered some information on a laptop. "When controlled by a handler, your collar can also administer a lessor shock, like that which you just experienced, to get your attention." He got a pair of handcuffs from the table, walked behind me and ordered "Backhands." I stood and placed my hands behind my back and was duly cuffed.

He got a marker from the table and, holding my left breast steady, wrote the administer disabling number 6719 and a notation I later realized was a reference to this project on my left breast. He grabbed a leash from the table, clipped it to my collar and asked the other handler to kennel me at the loading dock. The other handler took my leash and led me to the service elevator, got me to the ground floor, and took me thru the warehouse to two sets of kennels just inside the building near the loading dock gate.

One of these was a set of nine kennels which were each three feet wide by four feet tall by four feet long, two of which were occupied by two naked and collared women I knew as Angela and Susan from the group of nine women they wanted to be the fourth crew member. All of the nine kennels had shipping documents fixed next to the kennel door. My handler led me to a kennel on which the invoice included my photo and my SID. He unlocked the kennel, unlocked my hands and bid me enter. I dropped to all fours and entered, noticing a deep tray of what seemed to be kitty litter in the back of the cage. Then I turned to face my handler at the kennel door and knelt with my knees spread. He unclipped my leash and closed and locked the kennel door.

My handler then went to the other set of kennels, four of which were occupied by women I recognized we had trained with. Although collared, these women were still clothed. I noticed their collars were color coded; three green and one yellow. He unlocked one of the occupied kennels and bade a small black woman named Naomi, who was locked in a yellow collar, exit.

"Backhands," her ordered and handcuffed her hands behind her back. "You're still enslaved until we get you back to the office and process your manumission," he warned as he clipped a leash to her collar "but your services will not be needed."

She looked relieved as he led her away, back thru the warehouse to wherever she had reported this morning.

"Six seems an excessive amount considering only one of us will become crew," I said looking across to what I thought of as the B list girls. Or had they been the B and C list girls? Were they that worried about medical or training issues? Then I looked closely at a pale redhead among the B list girls. Her name was Erin. People think I'm very good with computers, modeling, and statistical analysis; Erin was better and was at least my equal in zero gravity activities and in knowledge of the machinery. Maybe they were still considering technical merit as opposed to slave rating. Or maybe they thought she could raise her grade after slave training. The condition of slavery itself might improve a girl's grade, if she accepted it was right for her.

A while later, something strange happened. A slave handler I hadn't previously seen brought down another clothed but collared, cuffed, and leashed woman who he kenneled with the other B list girls, but he then unkenneled one of the girls who had been there, cuffed and leashed her and, explaining that her services would not be needed, led her from the warehouse. According to my fellow slaves, the handlers were doing neither first in first out nor fist in last out. Evidently, even within the green collared girls, the B list girls were ranked and it was the top ranked girls, not the first kenneled, who might be sent to training and complete for the fourth mission slot.

Over the next hour or two, Cheryl and Denise from the group of nine women they most wanted were kenneled near me and two more of the B list girls were released, leaving only Erin in that set of kennels. Eventually, the two handlers from room 603 showed up as well as the two who had handled the B list girls. They unlocked Erin's kennel and bade her exit. She crawled slowly from the kennel.

"Backhands," the chief handler (the one who had collared me) ordered. Erin stood shakily and placed her hands behind her back. Once they cuffed her, the chief handler got out a cutting tool and stripped Erin while his partner held her in place. She struggled a little as her clothing was cut away; evidently she hadn't thought it would come to this. She had been wearing a bra and panties beneath her scorts and top. All were cut away and ruined.

The chief handler, checking Erin's paperwork and SID tattoo, got a marker and wrote the last four digits of her SID and a project code on her left breast while his partner continued to hold her in place. By the look on her face, she couldn't quite believe this was happening to her. He leashed her, led her to the kennel to my right, unlocked her wrists and had her enter the kennel before unleashing her and locking her inside. He substituted a shipping form from her paperwork for the one that had previously been on the cage. Then he addressed all of us.

"Slaves," he said "time has expired. This is the final makeup of the group for processing. These will be your companions and your competition for a trip to mars."

He went to Erin's kennel and asked "Nine One Two Five, think carefully before you answer, because if you failed to follow instructions this morning, you did so as a free woman. If you lie to me now, you do so as a slave. Did you follow instructions and give yourself an enema this morning?"

"Yes master," she answered, a little unsurely. "This girl gave herself a two-quart enema per instructions at 6 AM this morning before this girl showered."

He asked us all individually, and everyone except Cheryl said she had. Cheryl admitted she had not and the chief handler detailed the two handlers to take her to a slave bathroom and give her an enema, then clean her up and bring her back. He also directed us, one at a time, to urinate in the kitty litter while he watched. He had to use the shock collar to convince Denise to answer nature's call but eventually the five of us complied. He had us bring the kitty litter bins to the front of the kennels and, when Cheryl returned (excuse me, when Three Five Nine Eight returned) he shackled her feet with 18 inches of chain between her ankles and had her go to each kennel, collect and empty the used bins into a dumpster, collect and empty the unused bins into a barrel secured in the docked livestock trailer, and stack the empty bins in two stacks near the barrel. They then removed her shackles and locked her in her kennel.

The kennels were loaded by warehouse slaves using manual cage lifts as a forklift would have been both overkill and more dangerous. They loaded the empty cages first, securing each kennel to the floor or to the cage below it and then loaded the six of us, not stacked.

I was starting to sweat when they closed the rear gate and started taking us to Jacksonville. The breeze thru the open ventilation grates was a relief. Two of the handlers rode with us in the trailer but made it clear that they didn't care if we talked quietly, as long as we didn't bother them. Both of them sat on chairs that folded out of the side of the trailer near the back and wore seatbelts. One of them worked on a laptop while the other played with his phone.

Partway to Jacksonville, the handler on the phone decided to try other amusements. He got up, drew his remote for the collars (called the "shocker" for obvious reasons) and walked over to my kennel.

"Six Seven One Nine, do you belong in a collar?"

A standard question with a standard answer. "Yes master, this girl belongs in slavery and is properly enslaved."

"Six Seven One Nine, did you go to university?"

"Yes master, this girl attended the University of Maryland and the Georgia Institute of Technology."

"And now you're collared, same as any other slave."

Not quite true, but no point in quibbling. I definitely didn't want to look like the slave who thought she was someone special. They'd beat that attitude right out me. "Yes master, I am now collared the like any other slave." I knew my screwup before I completed the sentence and I was relieved I received only an attention shock. "Sorry master, this girl is now collared like any other slave."

He opened the door of my kennel and pointed at his feet. I knelt at the door and, tentatively, I started to lick his boots.

"You have much to learn, Six Seven One Nine."

"Yes master, Six Seven One Nine is grateful for the opportunity to study and train to please her masters." Yet another standard response.

"Use your mouth for the purpose God intended," he commanded, unzipping his pants and pulling out his dick.

Just one of the many, many things I would have to do whether I wanted to or not. I raised myself from my heals and, steading myself with my left hand on the kennel door, first sniffed, then kissed and licked his penis. Then I took it in my mouth and started the blowjob proper. I'd always enjoyed a good blowjob. His penis was clean and he smelled OK and even seemed like an OK guy, but it wouldn't have mattered if he'd smelled like a skunk. The ride was in progress and I would suck many men and lick many women before it ended. Still, I'd always enjoyed giving head and being ordered to do it actually added a certain spice. I tried to get into the spirit of the thing by rubbing and fingering myself with my right hand. Lathering up, they call it. It had just started to feel really good when he came in my mouth. Remembering protocol, I opened my mouth to show him the cum on my tongue before he directed me to swallow.

"You have much to learn, but finish lathering up. Make sure all your slave sisters know how you're turned on by giving blowjobs," he said, closing and locking the kennel door.

The man was not entirely wrong. I was turned on and it only took a few minutes before I brought myself home.