The Institute Precious Cargo

When the cargo vans rolled up to the 40 foot wrought iron spiked fences of the institute, I prepared for a sudden stop by grasping the overhead rail with one hand and I held my stomach with the other. Was my one-piece body suit uniform starting to feel a little too tight?

I was glad that none of the naked, repossessed female debtors, manacled and strapped to the benches running up the sides of the cargo van had thrown up during the night -- long drive. Geeze that would ruin my day, throwing up on the uniform I wore so proudly.

I had come into my indenture differently from these people who defaulted on their debts. My parents indentured me at age 18 to pay back taxes their small business had run up. Impressed with my athletic achievements in wrestling suggested an indenture in its Security. What differentiated me from the indenturees aboard the cargo van was the uniform I wore.

I preferred the uniform short sleeve blue body suit, basically a top that hugged my curves down from my shoulders to my crotch but left the groinal crease and flanks exposed. More modest female colleagues, even cute short and perky Elm, assigned with me to shepherd the female cargo, wore the optional dark pantyhose with the top.

I expressed concerns about putting Elm on the manifest as crew. She was a computer hacker who sought a career in Institute Security.

"Elm," Lt Bernie assured me, "is adaptive. She'll follow your lead. Just shepherd her through."

"Won't the others turn her in?" My tone would have shown I was unconvinced.

"The others on the team are more concerned about keeping the money and valuables seized from the indenturees to pay Elm much attention." In an assuring tone, Bernie reminded me, "Look at the numbers, the Institute will see the mission to River Bend as its most successful, unlikely to generate inquiries."

"And we're not going to search the crew to recover Institute property before leaving?" I asked.

"Are you envious?" Bernie chided me.

Oh, there were times I envied my female colleagues who sported the baggy trousers and shirt of the utility uniform. Yet, I was anxious to please Bernie despite the extra effort in grooming the revealing attire required. Body hair on the legs and the pubis had to be regularly shaved clean.

I was more daring primarily because LT Bernie liked the way the body suit displayed my long muscular legs. "Think of the way, the tight fit makes a sexy presentation. It must increase the humiliation of the irate repossessed males you force to strip, search and lock down in chastity for shipment in the nude to the Institute."

Bernie would have preferred I work the male prisoner's van. "To train Elm in security OJT (on -- the -- job) we need to place her with females. I must be there to guide her."

Right now, as the lurch felt when the cargo van ground to a sudden stop, that tight sexy fit made me fear I'd throw up. I had been suffering from a queasy nauseous feeling throughout the overnight excursion from the university town of River Bend.

Clenching my stomach, I wondered, was I pregnant or was it the power of suggestion? LT Bernie had the magic. He could weave a yarn you suspected was untrue; yet you'd believe him.

Believe something you knew to be untrue? I mused. Quite a contradiction you might say. Until you met Lt Bernie, the contradiction made no sense. A warm, fuzzy feeling fell over me as I thought of the contradiction. It isn't what Bernie said or promised, it was his smile that seemed to reach out to me, his gentle touch sent my skin tingling, the tone of his voice sent my hormones into overdrive, the gleam in his eye drove me mad with lust. I had the itch.

Bernie was different from other men. Tall, curly haired, Bernie cast a spell on everyone around him. With me my nipples hardened, my voice became inflected. My eyes were fixed on the twinkle in his. All I wanted to do was rip his clothes off and mine too, mount him and capture his member between my legs to slake the itch.

Bernie convinced me that he had a plan for us to branch off on our own.

"Branch off on our own?" I teased Lt Bernie, "Set us free, one happy family, you, me and baby makes three! What magic could make this possibly be?"

"I've found a computer hacker -- a good one -- right here -- among the detainees." Bernie pointed out Elm, a short slender girl with cup cake sized breasts. "The hacker could be creative with Institute and official records to say what we needed them to say." Bernie boasted, "This gem fell right into my hands. How can I -- eh -- we pass this opportunity up? All this hacker wants is the chance to get into Institute Security. You and I could jump from here, set up shop in town."

"To the truly affectionate, baby makes three is an appropriate admirable sentiment, but you've forgotten,' I smiled as I called to his attention, "the impediment, conception blocked by Birth Control Implanted." I sighed. Bernie was a dreamer, but even the most delightful dreams must face reality. "Do you have a magic wand ready to deal with that implement," I goaded Bernie.

"Yours has been deactivated," Bernie announced.

At those words, I suddenly felt strange. My clothes felt too tight. The restriction of a bra made it hard for me to breathe. My tits hurt. My tight muscular belly felt soft. Was I pregnant or was it the power of suggestion?

I might have ran off in fright except that Bernie began to explain his win -- win proposition which would bring wealth to the Institute and resolve the problem of progressive impoverishment in Society at large.

Around me in the van, working class girls in the cargo called each other by their last names. Over the next few days they'll learn that an indenturee has no clan and no last name. Voluntary indenturees like Bernie, passed naked through a door with the legend institutum est nostra familia, the Institute is our family. Though enrollment was less ritualized for those like me voluntarily surrendered by a parent, the concept is the same, an the institute has replaced our natural family. In security we belong to each other. That's an even harder cultural shock than indenturees allowed only such clothing that the master permits.

Our cargo reflected the progressive decline in the economy. With our cargo van paused at the checkpoint to examine the manifest, our cargo of naked females from various walks of life, college girls who overspent their allowance, housewives who charged to make ends meet, recently discharged hospital and university employees whose salaried positions had been replaced by indentures fell silent as the cargo anxiously awaited the unknown.

Nerved up, the girls' breasts heaved. Their beating hearts echoed in my ears. In bound the girls were figures on a balance sheet. Once received by the Institute, the girls faced classification based upon their figures, physical appearance and intelligence. Beauty sells. Didn't LT Bernie tell me that?

Most looked at each other for reassurance as they looked ahead into the unknown. One coed may not have known any more than any other what lie ahead, but she did know who to blame for her predicament. She was eying me bristling with hatred and contempt.

During the roundup in River Bend, I walked in on Tom "Cat," a team member, `messing with inventory,' extracting favors from that buxom blond in exchange for release. Naked upstairs in the crews' quarters, Buxom Blondie, taunting the Cat, daring the Cat to thrust a full eight inches into her, reminded the Cat of his promise to return her clothes and let her out the front door. He agreed. I watched the Cat, twirl her around in the shower, bend her at the waist to take her from behind. The other member of the team standing by meowing to cheer `The Cat' on hadn't noticed me.

Announcing my presence with a hearty, "`At ease!'" I took charge..

The girl protested that she was promised release.

I commanded that she be locked up. 'You are property," I roared, "The Institute will decide what action will be taken with respect to diminution of the value of your person at auction,' I looked her over from her painted toenails to her neatly trimmed bush and bright red tits on delicious cup D boobs, before I snickered, "'if any.'"

Silence fell on the crew watching on in the shower. I knew I had to take action. I ordered our guy's derrick capped. A team member was about to throw the Cat his clothes. "Stop," I screeched, "leave him like he is buck naked. Cap his oil well and lock him up behind the wire for shipment back to the Institute with the roosters."

It was a proper measure of punishment. One could not disagree the charge of promising to release a nubile subject likely to sell well at auction justifies looking up the team member for shipment to The Institute to decide the ultimate punishment is proper.

Lt Bernie disagreed. He persuaded me to compromise. Tom Cat would come out from behind the wire but remained capped. Bernie opposed all punishment, "Just a guy letting the juices flow." At my insistence the offence of messing with inventory be recorded and referred to the Institute to decide any additional punishment.

I dug my heels in on keeping Tom Cat in the cock lock. With LT Bernie on this mission, I, though a sergeant, bunked with the crew. Tom watched my every move grooming myself so obviously, I offered to depilate Tom's pubic hair. "Shave your balls clean," I promised him.

"Only if afterwards I can spear you with six - seven inches of," Cat taunted me, "of sizzling skin."

"I won't permit to fraternize. Even if a subordinate burns with the itch, his slithering snake will not wind and wend through my insides. Agent Tom, it may be rough," I refused Tom's overtures, "You may look, admire, and wish, but you cannot touch."

Reluctantly, Bernie left Tom Cat on report and in the cock lock. Sheepishly Bernie pointed out, "Tom bent the rules just a bit for a little fun to satisfy the itch. So do we."

Another set of eyes in the cargo van were upon me. The lock on her face bore an expression of astonishment than hostility.

Oh yes, Bernie and I did bend the rules. Bernie and I'd go -- alone -- for a private tryst in a vacated apartment the team had recently cleared out and fuck ourselves blind. I'd start off on top riding that erection rising above the clump of curly black pubic hair.

Occasionally, while we were engaged in flagrant dilecto, a runner, an absconding indenturee who had evaded us, returned to the apartment. At the sound of a key turning in the lock, we were on the alert. Creeping to the door, I smiled at Bernie as we waited for the visitor to enter. The risk of getting caught was part of the fun of satisfying the itch.

The chill, as the cold night air met our sweaty bodies, peaked our excitement. Our senses were elevated. I could smell her perfume. I say that because usually the midnight caller would be a woman, one of the occupants who managed to get away or the landlady who came by to steal. The female homing instincts draws them back.

The door would open. Our guest would hesitate. Did she smell our sweaty bodies or sense our malicious presence? I learned in Security training that socialization teaches people to override instinct. Bernie and I were naked, reeking from juices flowing in our sex-capde. If the caller turned on her heel and ran off, we'd have to let her go.

As our guest entered, we'd take her down. Swiftly wrestling the intruder to the floors, LT Bernie held her down while I stripped off her pants and felt her butt for the tell-tale bar code creditors insisted be seared into the left cheek over the hip. "One of ours," I'd announce. Ball gagged and bound, our spectator watched our sex-exercises with a look of terror.

With our audience stripped naked and secured, soon to join other indenturees as a figure on the shipment manifest, I'd resume my pole dance riding Bernie's projectile, occasionally throwing a disdainful glance in the direction of our terrified captive. Bernie would knock me over and attempt to take me doggystyle from behind. We'd rock together and I'd wrestle with him, first on top then underneath him.

"I love the way you curl your legs around my rib cage," Bernie praised my technique, "to squeeze the juice out of me."

I'd tighten the lock my thighs had on Bernie's rib cage. "Good to the last dew drop, distilling, from you into me dripping, skin sizzling, bodies rippling, Love inspiring" I exalted in the strength of thigh muscles exerting a hold on Bernie, "No truer words more alluring, terms meant to be endearing!"

"Just think," Bernie wooed me, "How much fun we could have putting our heads together to make mischief."

"All the time," I reminded Bernie, "regulations only allow two people to get it together twice in a row in the same gender role. Third time, you have to be penetrated," I chuckled, "play the girl."

Feeling my stomach, I mused. I had risked playing the girl in our mating ritual too many times.

Out of sight of the crew, Bernie and I said our goodbyes as I prepared to leave the dungeon where we held repossessed indenturees pending shipment back to The Institute. To keep others in the crew from learning his true intents and purposes, Bernie had an excuse to miss the shipment. Later the hacker's programmes would create the false records that Bernie had been killed in an accident. I was queasy.

"It's fool proof," Bernie allayed my fears, "my plan to create a business which draws out women in financial difficulty promises to produce even more wealth to the Institute at a limited the expense."

"How can you be so cock sure?" I asked. "I need to know. Returning to the Institute pregnant puts me at great risk."

"Ah," Bernie dismissed my concern, "on your return, the Institute probably will give you a superficial once over and call it a physical. It'll be a few months before you start showing. By then, get assigned to another run to River Bend. Have the hacker assigned to your team."

"And if I'm tested properly or start showing?" I asked.

"Before you start showing, you'll be sent back here and we'll be together. By then," Bernie explained, "I'll have set up a business to attract women in financial difficulty and identify defaulters for collection--at the Institute's convenience. And it's so simple. The Institute with its elaborate capture teams never thought of having the debtor come to us, as opposed to requiring us to look for them."

"That simple?" I chided Bernie.

" Times are such," Bernie affirmed, "I can sell horny men porn at top price while desperate women will come to us cheap. When their appeal runs thin, they're identified and available to The Institute to be repossessed."

Before departing for home station at the Institute, Bernie advised Elm to follow my lead and do whatever I told her to do.

I looked down ready to tear away from Bernie to board the cargo van.

"What's the problem?" Bernie asked. "We won't betray the Institute. We aim to streamline the Institute's processes of collecting defauters."

"Bernie, like me, you're an indenturee. You pledge your person for a reward at the end of your term," I explained, "to you it's more like a job. At the end of my term, only release awaits me. I have only the hope of extending my indenture. Freedom is its own punishment."

Biting my lip, putting aside my misgivings, I boarded the cargo van to leave River Bend enrapt in the dream.

High pitched chirping female voices had bristled throughout the long overnight haul from River Bend. Although my stomach was queasy, it was necessary to listen. The captives might give up information the Institute might seek about location of spouses, other debtors and runaways.

I did not have to wait for that sudden stop at the gate to be jarred awake from the dream. Along the way, two coeds gossiping spoke of LT Bernie running off with a professor that the capture team dragged in.

"Wendy Sue Miller?" asked her companion. "That blob?"

"Professor Miller, to you sweetie," the gossiper informed her companion, "Miller bought a sports car that didn't work -- fell behind on payments -- brought in raised a ruckus when she was asked to strip. That curly haired guy got called out of his office, felt her up. Thrown in the cage naked with the other girls, Miller tells the guard she won't be there long."

"And Professor Miller is naked locked up," her companion asked, "how does she get back to the street?"

"Curly head returning with her clothes calls her out of the cage," the gossiper recalled, "She's holding her hands out. After he dismisses the guard, Curly hair holds Miller's clothes. You want these, Curly says, pushing the clothes into her. You provide me with a stage, audio -- visual equipment and prospective starlets., you get to keep out of the cage."

"You talk as if what you propose to do in a guaranteed success," Miller protested as she pulled her clothes out of Bernie's hands.

"Sex sells," Bernie declared, "Horny men will pay buy porn. We can get desperate women trying to work their way out of debt cheap.'"

By contrast chatter among the laid off employees displaced by indenturees was hardly so revealing. One wistfully moaned, "If I only known I could have volunteered for an Indenture and been guaranteed a transfer to my old job, seamlessly."

Smart ones kept their mouths shut. Likely the taciturn few had been through the process before and had a parent, spouse or friend willing to redeemed them.

Awaking from the dream and emerging in a nightmare, I was glad that the silence at the gate gave me a few moments to think. I had to face the Institute's Provo, the chief of security. What should I say?

Taking a deep breath, I climbed down from the side door of the van onto the macadam, I could hear the lively banter from the cargo van holding male prisoners. It confirmed my view of keeping the sexes separate. Bernie and I discussed the point in a private moment together. "The men are bound hand and foot; their cocks are locked down. What trouble could they cause."

Clutching Bernie's testicles, I reminded him, "We may have a few husbands and boyfriends. We can't the mix them together. That invites a man frustrated by the constraint of the cock and ball jam to prove he still had a pair. While these globules," I squeezed his nuts, "remain attached, a man may feel it necessary to put up a fight."

The gate guard allowed me to call the provo from his guard shack near the gate. I advised the Provo that I needed to talk to him before the capture team can be reintegrated into the Institute.

"But the indenturees themselves can be processed," The Provo questioned. "That seems odd."

"The reason," I assured him, "must be explained in person. Make no electronic notes, I'll explain why in person."

What followed was a whirlwind, I briefly spoke privately to the Provo who took out his notebook and started to dial Dr Crenshaw. "Your communications are being monitored. I suggest you tell him in person."

Elm and I were brought to the medical Department where we sent to separate special examination rooms. Mine had a gynecological table in the center of the room with a detention cage in the corner.

"Paper chart, Dr Amy," The Provo ordered Dr Amy, a young honey blond female doctor clad in white lab coat who emerged from a hidden sliding door.

"Dr Portent," Dr Amy corrected the Provo, "it's more professionally sounding that way."

Smiling, the Provo overlooked the rebuke. "Report directly to Dr Crenshaw, chart to be hand carried and delivered in person, no electronic communications."

"You are certainly taking this seriously," I declared.

My comment ignored, I was escorted to the cage and ordered to pass my clothing through the horizonal slit at breast level in the bars. Upon receiving my clothes through the bars, The Provo, holding up my body suit, Provo exclaimed, "Guy magnet," before depositing it in a clear plastic sac.