Too Good to Be True Ch. 02

On my first day, the company assigned Michelle, a bubbly blonde in her late forties, to show me the ropes. She took me under her wing and after a short time without me even asking, I knew most of her life story. She had worked in many different jobs, as a kindergarten teacher, prostitute, waitress, in deep space mining, as an assistant to a now deceased mob boss, had served multiple terms of slavery, one of them voluntarily, plus the occasional stay in various jails for minor offenses. And now she was trying her hand at IT customer support.

The job itself was a lot less interesting than Michelle's eventful life. It was mostly an ordinary call center gig, similar to the ones I had worked to finance my studies. I was sitting in a large open plan office with dozens of other agents, answering the phone and trying to solve problems with the vast number of shitty products the company sold.

I wasn't particularly fond of the office because it seemed a bit sterile, but at least the soundproofing was top notch. When you sat at your desk, a damper field made sure you didn't hear a peep from anyone else - it was quite impressive, sitting one meter from a colleague and not hearing a single word.

While none of the support issues were particularly tricky, I had plenty of gaps in my knowledge which slowed me down considerably. I frequently overran my time quota checking documentation and received very painful shocks, which they called "demerits." They weren't as bad as the one the med tech had administered, but they were a powerful force to keep me focused. In any case, they were bad enough that I went back to the clinic to have that valve installed. It's just one less worry when you're zapped.

*

Three frustrating days into the job, after dozens of punishments, I received a message asking me to report to the training center on level 241. I was a bit anxious and asked Michelle what to expect.

"The training center is fine. Don't you worry, dear. It's a bit like detention back in school. You'll stay overnight locked in a room on your own to study. In my first month I spent most nights there. It's not bad, compared to my apartment at the time, the training center is a luxury hotel, it's clean and comfortable. Think of it as an investment, you'll get zapped a lot less if you take it seriously."

Michelle had spent more than a decade of her life locked up in various cells and cages, so I was a bit worried about her standards. At the end of my shift, I was still very nervous about getting locked up, but having no other choice, I took the elevator down to the 241st floor. There I walked up to the reception of the training center where a middle aged man was standing behind the counter. I introduced myself.

"Ah, yes," he said, checking his terminal. "Please take a seat, someone will be with you in a minute. Oh, and hand me all your electronic devices. There's a scanner by the door - if you try to conceal anything we'll confiscate it, including your clothes. You will get everything back tomorrow morning."

I did as I was told and he put my comlink - the personal communication device - into a labeled plastic bag which he locked into a drawer in his desk. After a few minutes on the couch, studying the boring corporate artwork, a bulky guy in a security uniform approached.

"Take her to room 46," the receptionist instructed him. "No restraints, and she can keep her stuff if the scan checks out."

The guard unnecessarily grabbed my upper arm and took me through the security port behind the receptionist's desk. The world behind these doors was quite different from the office world I had just left. The long corridors had the distinct flair of a prison - concrete floor and walls lined with steel doors on both sides.

My room, or cell if you like, was a small windowless room, two by three meters with a cot, table, chair and a floor toilet with a water tap. All "furniture" was made of polished steel - thankfully the cot had a thin mattress, a pillow and a blanket. There was a computer embedded in the table containing my training manual.

My stomach sank when the heavy door was slammed shut behind me. I walked up to the door which unsurprisingly had no handle on the inside. I was locked in and would go nowhere until they let me out.

This cell reminded me of the times we went to see my sister when she was locked up in pre-trial detention. How thin and scared she had looked in her prison uniform and restraints, it had been heartbreaking. I called on every power in the universe to give her strength and protect her.

But it was no use, I had to force myself to focus on the here and now. With nothing else to do, I sat down and studied the manual, making the best of the situation. After all, this would have been the exact same thing I would have done at home. On the plus side, there were absolutely no distractions and at least my commute had been extremely short.

*

A couple of hours into my studying session, a tray with some bread, a plastic bottle of water and an apple was passed through the meal slot in the door. I ate some of the bread and continued studying until I felt the effect of all that water I'd had.

There were no surveillance cameras that I could see, but I held off on using the toilet for as long as I could. Eventually though, I had to answer the call of nature. I used the blanket to shield myself from any possibly hidden cameras, pulled down my panties and squatted over the hole.

With that taken care of, the rest of the evening was long and uneventful. I managed to get through two hundred dense pages until my eyes were too tired to read and my mind shut down. Still, it had been a productive session - I had selected the chapters where I thought I was weakest and it became clear that I could have been a lot more efficient at my job. Following my time-honored tradition, I rewarded myself for my hard work with a quick orgasm under the blanket. I had masturbated in all kinds of places, but a prison cell was a first for me. Hopefully, this would not turn into a regular thing.

*

In the morning, after a good night's sleep on the surprisingly comfortable mattress, banging on the door woke me up and a meagre breakfast was passed through the meal slot. I ate and spent another half hour reading the manual before they let me out and ordered me to report to work. Not without telling me that my meals and accommodation would be deducted from my salary.

Back upstairs I met Michelle. She hugged me and wrinkled her nose.

"Girl, you smell kinda ripe."

She had a point, there had been no shower in my cell and obviously I was wearing yesterday's clothes.

"I know, sorry! But you were right, it wasn't so bad."

"Don't worry, sweetie, I brought you some clothes and toiletries. There's a gym a couple of floors down, go and wash up before your shift starts. And you should keep an emergency overnight kit here, like most of us do, just in case."

*

During lunch break I recounted my experience. I certainly would have preferred to study at home, but I had to admit to myself that my first time being locked up had been strangely exciting.

"Alright, jailbird," said Michelle when I had finished. "Let me tell you about my first time, maybe it'll serve as a warning to stay out of trouble."

Always keen to learn more about her exciting life of crime, I offered my sandwich and she took a bite.

"Thanks, sweetie. So ... I was about your age, maybe a couple years younger, when they drafted me into the Navy. I couldn't afford the bribes, so I ended up in uniform, like most of my friends. Some nationalist pigs in government decided they wanted a piece of your people's mining outposts - long time ago, before you were even born."

"Ah, right, the border wars. We learned about it in school."

Our teachers taught us the invading forces had been defeated in a string of glorious battles. I wasn't sure how much of it was government propaganda, but even more neutral sources agreed that the invasion had been a spectacular failure, aborted only after heavy losses.

"Yeah, well, you won't read about it in our history books, for obvious reasons. Anyway, I was assigned to kitchen duty because I managed to get my hands on a fake culinary degree. It was absolutely obvious that I didn't know enough to boil an egg, but my Sergeant covered for me and taught me stuff. It was a win-win situation - I didn't have to die in a landing pod and he didn't have to go to the whores and could spend his money on booze instead."

My idealistic self didn't approve of these kinds of deals, but not wanting to die - I could relate to that.

"Well, we had a good thing going, but I got greedy and wanted to make a bit of cash on the side. The war wasn't going all that great, so I figured people needed distraction and entertainment. There's always money in helping people to escape the daily grind, especially in war time - remember that, it's a life lesson. Anyway. At the time I didn't want to get into prostitution because it didn't pay well - it still doesn't, just in case you're wondering. To get a bigger piece of the entertainment pie, I set up a drug running business through the kitchen, which was not a bad choice logistically. Nice little business, loyal customers and very little need for advertising. But there was another lesson I still had to learn: ambition is no substitute for skills. I thought I was smart, but I had no clue how to run a proper drug operation."

Michelle chuckled, took another bite out of my sandwich and paused for dramatic effect. I was at the edge of my seat.

"It didn't take long until shit hit the fan. My career as a drug kingpin imploded when a competitor ratted me out and stole my stash. Everything I had built was gone from one day to the next and I didn't even see it coming. It was a very professional takeover, impressive, you have to respect that. In hindsight he did me a favor - with the stealing part I mean - because without a lot of evidence they could only sentence me to two years."

"Two years slavery, you mean?" I asked.

"Yep. Collecting evidence is a lot of work, so military police just slapped me around a bit during interrogations. It all felt half-hearted - remember, there was a war going on and everybody had more important things to do than dealing with a 19-year-old criminal. A couple days later I was court martialed, whipped in front of the crew, and thrown in the brigg. That was my first real jail experience - full lock-up, 24 hours a day in a cell, seven days a week. The guards took their liberties with us girls, which wasn't so bad, because it helped to pass the time. We got regular beatings, too, and these I enjoyed a lot less, I can tell you."

"Wow, that's rough."

"Come on, I got off easy. I sold loads of drugs on a Navy carrier and all I got was fifty lashes and two years. With proper proof they could have sent me away for thirty years. Or just assigned me to combat duty - I wouldn't be here today if they had. Whatever. I'm not sure how much time I spent in lockup, it must have been at least a month, maybe two. None of which counted towards my two year sentence, of course. But finally they handed me off to a passing slave ship."

I was riveted. I knew several people back home who had served sentences, including my mom before she got married. Most refused to even acknowledge the fact they had, and absolutely nobody was willing to talk about it as openly as Michelle. The prospect of ending up in slavery was my worst nightmare, but at the same time I found the stories fascinating.

"It was the worst travel experience of my life, seriously. Now, I've been on plenty of slave transports over the years and that's never nice, but this - unbelievable. We were zip tied hand and foot and crammed into cages. These things were so small you couldn't even turn around, like coffins made of steel bars. And they fitted us with feeders, ugh. You know, shackles and chains I've worn half my adult life, you get used to them, but feeders I really hate."

"Feeders?"

"That's a kind of gag with a tube running to your stomach. You cannot close your mouth and talking's impossible. Real nasty. They use it to pump water and food into you when you're on a long trip or if your owners are lazy, sadistic bastards. Anyway. Imagine lying in a cramped cage for weeks, hands tied behind your back, in a cargo hold with thousands of other people. The smell alone ..."

She glanced at the break room clock.

"Oops! Duty calls, sweetie."

I stared at her with eyes wide open. "But, but, you're stopping now?! You can't leave me hanging here!"

"Long story short, they chipped me and made me harvest Segaya roots, mostly. Brutal work, really, no juicy sex stories I'm afraid. Moral of the story, don't run drugs unless you know what you're doing."

"Or maybe not at all," I noted.

"You're such a girl scout," Michelle laughed and stroked my cheek. "So cute. Now come on, there's customers who want to yell at us."

*

The week after my first night in lockup I studied two more nights in a cell in the training center, and additionally most of my waking hours at home. My philosophy had always been that when you do something eight hours a day, it's a lot more fun when you're good at it. And my work paid off, I felt well equipped to handle the majority of cases and would be shocked no more than two or three times a day. Things were looking up - or so I thought.

In my third week, I was called into my boss's office for the first time. I knocked and entered the room and was greeted by a scene for which I was completely unprepared. A middle-aged man - presumably my boss - was sitting on his desk, pants around his ankles while my colleague Sharon knelt in front of him performing oral sex, paying no attention to me.

"Ah, there you are," he greeted me, as if nothing unusual was happening. "Nice! You're a real hottie, just the way I like my girls. Fantastic legs and your tits - wow, just wow."

"Th-thanks," I stuttered, watching Sharon's performance, like in a trance. Had I just thanked him for sexually harassing me?!

"You would look even greater on this."

He pulled his penis out of Sharon's mouth and waved it at me, making suggestive moves in my direction.

"Come on, help your colleague out."

I stood there, frozen. My previous sexual experience had been limited to a couple of boys my age and a drawer full of toys. Never - outside of porn, that is - had I seen something as big as this. It was impressively long, almost as thick as my forearm, and fully erect. He must have had some work done, this was not normal.

"Hey, sugar tits, wake up! It's not going to suck itself."

Finally I snapped out of my state of shock and I turned away, utterly disgusted. Like every woman, I've had men cross the line to sexual harassment. But this! I was horrified and fled his office as fast as I could.

"Think about it," I heard him shouting after me, "but don't wait too long!"

*

During my next break, after some lousy calls and two painful demerits, I finally had a chance to talk to Michelle and tell her about my bizarre experience.

"... and then he ... he wanted me to go down on him," I finished my report, shuddering in disgust.

"Going down ...? You mean, suck his dick?" asked Michelle and giggled. "And you don't like a healthy protein shake?"

"Ewww, Michelle! Gross!"

"I'm trash, I know," said Michelle, clearly amused. She wasn't taking me seriously.

"You never fucked a professor to improve your grades?"

"Absolutely not, I worked hard for my grades! Help me out here, Michelle. What do I do? Just tell him no and ignore it? File a complaint with HR?"

"Forget it, they won't lift a finger to help you. There really isn't much you can do, don't forget that he holds the trigger to your chip. My advice: Let it happen, it's just ten minutes and you'll be back at work. I've got some lube in my purse that you can borrow."

"Seriously?" I was outraged. "I'm supposed to let him blackmail me into having sex with him?"

"Dear, that's how the world works. Of course it's evil shit doing this to a free woman, but what's the alternative? Drag out the drama until he wears you down? In a way you're unlucky that he can only tickle you with these low level zaps - if he had full access to the chip, you'd be begging to suck his cock already. In my experience, there's a lot of comfort in knowing that you don't have a choice. Mark my words, you will give in eventually. And when you do, he'll fuck your ass to teach you a lesson. Did he show you his dick yet?"

I sighed. "Yes, he did. What a creep."

"Then I don't have to tell you what that'll do to you. The last one who turned him down was Darla, at least for a while. She won't say how he made her, but now she's getting her shitter stretched at least twice a day. That woman will soon be in diapers if she isn't already."

"What if we all talk to HR together? He can't go against all of us."

"No, thank you." Michelle laughed dryly. "If you refuse him, he'll take it as a challenge. I don't mind the zaps, but my contract extension is due in two months."

"Please, Michelle?"

"Sweetie, I'm not an engineer like you, to me this is the best paycheck I had in years. I've got debts to pay and if I fall behind they'll collar me again, for life this time. Can you imagine what that means at my age?"

Like for many young women, being enslaved was my biggest fear. It was bad enough serving a few years when you're young and healthy, but as a lifer there's absolutely no protections. I shuddered at the thought.

"So, sweetie, if getting my next contract means spreading my legs on an office desk for some jerk, then I'm sure as hell gonna do it. I've been a prostitute, I've been a slave, I've fucked for a lot less."

*

Of course I got her point. And if I couldn't even get my friend Michelle to take a stand with me, who else was I supposed to ask? Most of my colleagues were immigrants or former slaves, they couldn't afford to be idealistic. Was I just repeating the old family mistake of challenging authority until it destroyed me? It sure looked that way. So I continued my work pretending nothing had happened, even though this bizarre scene was constantly on my mind.

*

After two days when I had hoped the whole situation was over, I was called into his office again. With trembling hands I knocked and entered the room. It turned out I had good reason to be nervous.

"Ms Shelby, I'm afraid your performance has been deemed unsatisfactory. In accordance with your employment contract, article seven, section two, I'm assigning you to additional training." He nodded at the security officer. "Let's see how she likes two weeks downstairs."

"This is unfair, sir!" I protested. "My ratings have improved, I'm down to a couple of demerits per day. I don't need additional training, I'm doing well."

I really didn't want to spend the next couple of weeks in a cell, I was sufficiently familiar with the material by now. But my protests fell on deaf ears. In retrospect, I should have been suspicious - for my previous stays at the training center, I was simply asked to report to the receptionist.

"Get her out of here," ordered my boss. "And I want to see her in handcuffs. Maybe that'll cure her attitude."

"Handcuffs? What!? I didn't do anything," I protested. Getting locked up for two weeks was bad enough, I certainly didn't want to be paraded in front of my colleagues like a criminal.

"I don't think there's a reason for that, sir," said the officer. "She's chipped and nothing in her file suggests she's a risk to herself or anyone else. Actually, there's no need to involve security at all, she could have self-surrendered."

"And I don't think it's relevant what you think. Cuff her. Now. Or I'll file a complaint with your supervisor."

"Good luck with that, sir," said the officer, opening the door for me. "Wait at the elevators, please. I need a word with your boss about the misuse of company resources. I'll be with you in a minute."