Westbound Pt. 03

Westbound Pt. 03

This is my attempt at a Tracy-style story, but set in the HCI universe from my other stories on Literotica. Themes include bondage, slavery, bureaucracy, public humiliation, plot exposition, corporal punishment, double-crosses, lesbianism, extortion, interstate commerce, and not-completely-consensual sex. And of course, everyone is over eighteen.

This is part three of three. I'd like to thank Joe_Doe_Stories for his advice and contributions, without which this story would have been less interesting and a lot less fun!

The lights flickered back on and I shook my head to clear it. Everyone had been thrown against the sides of their cages, the sides oriented toward the front of the truck. The trailer rumbled ominously, and a few minutes later it came to a halt.

The trailer sat for a few minutes in silence, except for the moans and exclamations of the women. I reached back through the bars: my clothes were not there. I had lost my grip on them during the rapid deceleration, and I could see them in a heap against the front wall of the trailer, well out of my reach.

The rear door opened and Nicolaides entered, carrying a canvas tool bag. "Blowout, ladies! Everyone out while we wait for repair."

He spotted my pile of clothes at the end of the aisle and walked straight for them. I glanced at Linda, who looked back at me with a surprised expression, then watched helplessly as Nicolaides gathered my belongings, including the collar I used to open the cage.

"Well, well, well," he said, then turned to me with a disgusting grin on his face. "What an interesting development this is." He bundled my clothing into the wall locker, leaving only the collar in his big, hairy hands.

"I need those back," I said, in the most confident voice I could muster.

Nicolaides made a show of locking the wall cabinet, then turned and smiled at me. "For safe keeping," he said.

"What?" I said, sounding as exasperated as I felt. "I don't need them kept safe, I need them returned to me now."

"Ladies, Back Hands," he commanded, ignoring me completely. The women backed up to their cage doors, seated with hands clasped low behind them.

Nicolaides started at the far end with Mary, reaching through the bars and placing handcuffs on her wrists, then moved on until everyone was handcuffed but me.

He squatted down in front of my cage, looking me over; I instinctively put my hands over my breasts. "Oh, we can't have that," he said, setting down the tool bag and pulling out a pair of heavy steel handcuffs.

"Turn around and place your hands by the opening at the bottom of the cage door," he said.

"Wait a minute," I said, "I removed my clothing in an effort to establish—"

"I'm not going to tell you again," he interrupted, and drew out of his pants pocket a small metal rod that he flicked with his wrist. It telescoped open into a sort of baton, but with a pair of copper spikes at the end. Suddenly a blueish electrical arc appeared between the spikes, making a sinister crackling noise.

"You wouldn't dare," I said, my voice getting a bit squeaky with fright. "Your manager said—"

"I'm the supercargo on this trip, which is like being the captain of a ship," Nicolaides said, clearly enjoying this. "What I say goes. And right now, I'm securing you like the rest of the cargo for health and safety reasons. You are welcome to file a complaint when we reach our destination. Now, Back Hands."

I glanced around at the others: I caught Linda's eye across the aisle, and she mouthed the words do it.

I'm not going to lie, I was trembling a little bit, and finding it hard to breathe, but I did what he asked and felt the cold metal of the handcuffs tighten around my wrists, first one and then the other. Remembering the electric prod, I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

I heard the folding steps drop down from the rear exit, then Chuy climbed in to the trailer. "Where's Miss Ontkean?" he said.

I heard Nicolaides say "Lucky Seven," referring to my cage number.

"For real?" Chuy said; Nicolaides took him by the arm and the two of them stepped outside for a few minutes.

When they returned, they began taking the women out of the cages one-by-one; unlike the previous times, they were attaching the coffle chain to their collars while inside the trailer. Finally they secured the last woman (Linda) and Nicolaides squatted down in front of my cage again.

"I'm going to open your cage, and I want you to sit there like a good girl until I tell you otherwise. Understood?"

I nodded.

"I need to hear you say it," Nicolaides said, "Company policy. Also" — I could hear his smirk in his voice — "You need to call me sir."

I leaned forward a bit, tightening my stomach in fear: this was bad and about to get worse. But I said what he wanted.

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"Good girl," he condescended, then took my collar (why am I calling it "my" collar? It's the one I took out of the cabinet to open the cage door, but it wasn't assigned to me... at least not yet) out of the tool bag and opened the door. Predictably I felt the smooth metal slide around my neck and close with a soft click that right now sounded to me like a cannon shot.

"Found it," Chuy said, and handed something to Nicolaides. I heard the wall locker close as Nicolaides attached something to my collar. It had to be the plastic tag I got from Grace early this morning, Chuy must have dug it out of my coat pocket.

"Now turn around and come out of the cage on your knees, nice and slow," Nicolaides said.

When I turned around and looked up, I saw Chuy waiting behind Nicolaides, holding a length of chain.

For me.

So when I stood they locked the chain to my collar, and led me to the back of the coffle. I was locked in place behind Linda, and we all stood quietly in the aisle facing the back door.

Nicolaides stood behind me (I could feel his hot breath on my neck), and I felt his rough hands caressing my butt cheeks; I decided not to say anything, but I couldn't help trembling slightly.

"That's a good girl," he murmured. "Just couldn't help yourself, could you? Miss Ontkean had to find out what it's like to be a slave. All you educated professional bitches are the same: spend some time around slaves, and in no time you're hot for the collar. Is this what you wanted? Being touched by a man old enough to be your father? Getting wet because you can't stop me?"

He reached around to the front of my pelvis and ran his hands through my thick pubic curls, then started tracing his fingers along my vaginal lips. I shuddered and goosebumps broke out on my skin, but he was right about one thing: I couldn't stop him.

Nicolaides took his hands and grasped my breasts, fondling them; his fingers were wet, and smelled like my arousal scent. I stared at them, unsure what to think — I must be experiencing some kind of stress reaction. There is no way I am getting turned on by this. "Please..." I said.

"Please what?" he said.

"Please, sir," I said, my voice a bit shaky, "Please don't touch me like that. I'm not a slave, I'm a free woman. And as soon as we reach—"

He pinched my left nipple, hard, with his rough, hairy fingers. "Quiet," he whispered, and gave it a slight twist. I let out an eep but otherwise kept my mouth shut.

"Good girl," he said, slapped me on my bottom, stepped back and shouted "LET'S GO."

Chuy opened the back door, tugged on the lead chain, and Mary started forward causing each of us to move as the slack in the chains tightened.

Remember earlier I mentioned the term slave naked? It means when a woman is completely naked from head to toe except for her collar and any minimal restraints.

That was me now: I was slave naked. I had never done this before (except, I realized, that one time in Central America), not even play-acting with my ex-boyfriend or fooling around with my soldier. I couldn't do this. This is not right. I'm about to be marched slave naked out into public in a slave coffle. On the side of a major highway, no less. Time to end this bullshit.

I loosened the emergency beacon from the side of my tooth, and bit down on it, hard. There should be a response, usually a triple pulse of vibration to let you know your message was received.

Nothing happened.

Probably because I'm still in the trailer, might be blocking the signal. Like it or not, I had to wait.

Then the chain attached to my collar pulled me forward, and I marched out of the trailer, down the steps and into the night.

We were on the shoulder of the highway. I could see a line of road flares on the shoulder behind the truck, warning oncoming drivers; the old, gritty asphalt was rough on my bare feet. It was dark and there were no streetlights, so we had to be in the middle of nowhere, which is a good description of most of western Texas. We were stopped just before a small overpass, which Chuy was leading us toward; as we filed down the side of the truck I could see the shredded tires on the trailer.

But then I got some good news: four quick pulses on my tooth beacon. It must have picked up a cell tower somewhere outside and reported in. Help was on the way!

Chuy placed us under the overpass, ran a chain around a huge concrete support, and locked it to the chain on Mary's collar. We weren't going anywhere. He told us all the sit down, a truck had been dispatched from El Paso to come pick us up so we'd be moving again soon.

It was warm with a slight breeze, and we could sit on the thick grass near the support pole, so I wasn't uncomfortable. Traffic was sparse; occasionally a car passed by, briefly illuminating us in its headlights, but the rest of the time it was dark with a bit of light from the truck's headlights. I moved as close to Linda as I could, raising my knees up to try and hide my breasts and crossing my ankles to hide my crotch. A big rig drove past, and gave us a double blast with its air horn. I felt like a gazelle surrounded by lions.

I saw Nicolaides, carrying my bag, jump down from the cab of the truck and walk over to us.

"I had to make a few edits to your recordings," he said, and showed me the storage drive in my bag. "Basically everything from the blowout onward. Which reminds me," he said, removing the recorder glasses from my face and dropping them in the bag.

Without those glasses I felt truly naked.

————————

A large RV motorhome approached us, the driver hitting the brakes so hard that the tires SQUEALED as he spotted the gaggle of slave sitting on the grass by the underpass. For a moment I thought he was going to drive into us, but he went under the overpass and pulled over to the side, parking on the shoulder. I watched with a mounting sense of dread as the door opened and the driver shambled out. He was fat, over 50, I'd guess, with a bad haircut and a sandy dad-stache. He looked at the truck ahead of him with the damaged tire, then looked at the naked slave girls. Smiling with his crooked teeth, he made a beeline for us.

"We have company ladies," Nicolaides said, chuckling. "PRESENT!"

The other girls all stood, held their heads up, pulled their elbows as close together as they could making their chests stick out, and spread their legs wide. Chest out, chin up! I stood too, but with my head bowed to hide my face, bent over in a fruitless attempt to cover my breasts, my legs crossed to hide my pubes.

Nicolaides smiled as he walked down the line; he stopped in front of me and pulled a short, thick piece of leather from his back pocket, not much over a foot long and an inch or so wide, but very stiff with a D-ring on one end; it looked like something a prison guard would own. He used the tip to lift up my chin and smiled at me, moving in so close I could feel his hot, stale breath.

"You too, Frankie. You're cargo now, remember? You're not special anymore, which is what you wanted. That means you present, same as the rest."

The RV peeper moved in for a closer look. Fishing shirt, cargo shorts, camouflage-colored Crocs, and red baseball cap. "I'm not presenting for that pervert," purposefully hissing my open defiance loud enough for the fat tourist to hear.

Wait a minute, I thought — did Nicolaides just call me Frankie?

"I was hoping you'd get all slave stupid," Nicolaides said, chuckling. "I'm the captain of this ship, remember?" he said, tapping my chin with the heavy strap. "And since I don't have to sell your pretty ass, I can do what I've wanted to do since the moment I met you."

Nicolaides placed his hand on my belly to steady me, then raised the strap high in the air. I felt the pain explode across my bottom before I heard the whoosh or the sharp crack of impact.

Nicolaides wasn't playing; I had defied him, and now I was being punished.

"Whip her, Master! She disgraces our coffle!" Linda said, laughing.

"Yeah, whip her naughty bottom," Brooke said, joining in on the fun.

"She has it coming! Strap her good!" Kenzie added. WTF you two?

It was almost a festive atmosphere, my "fellow" slave girls laughing and cheering him on as he whipped my bottom, hard. I cried out, I sobbed, my face wet with tears, I twisted my cuffed arms and did a little jig, knees up high with each stroke, my breasts bouncing around as the fat tourist watched my discipline with open amusement.

Nicolaides used each stroke to drive my status home:

"YOU

(CRACK!)

WILL

(CRACK!)

OBEY

(CRACK!)

LIKE

(CRACK!)

ANY

(CRACK!)

OTHER

(CRACK!)

SLAVE GIRL

(CRACK! CRACK!)!"

I, for my part, dutifully agreed, shrieking in between sobs. "Please, Sir! Please, Master! I'll be good! I'll do whatever you say, Master!"

I hated the son of a bitch, but in that moment I truly believed I would.

"Make her suck your cock," Linda suggested helpfully. The other girls laughed.

Thanks, ladies. Feminist solidarity in action.

When Nicolaides finally stopped my ass was cross-cut with a series of painful welts — honestly, I had lost count of how many times he hit me. I knew sitting would be impossible for a while; even if I did get my clothes back, I knew I'd probably prefer making the rest of the trip pantsless and lying down. I felt like I'd suffered a bad burn from just above my knees up to the small of my back.

"PRESENT!" he shouted.

The laughing coffle fell silent as they thrust out their breasts and strained to spread their legs wider. This time, I joined them, exposing myself fully in the humiliating pose traditional to a slave girl in an inspection pen.

"Good girl," Nicolaides said. "You're a fast learner."

So my "slave experience" included being stripped, collared, cuffed, chained to a coffle, marched outside, displayed like a piece of meat, and harshly disciplined on the side of a public highway.

As bad as it was, it was about to get worse.

Casually giving my tortured bottom a firm squeeze of ownership, Nicolaides left his newly-collared and freshly-disciplined slave girl quietly sobbing in her chains as he turned his attention to his visitor.

"Troubles with your truck?" the fat man said. "Need a hand?"

"Naw, thank ya though," Nicolaides replied, slipping easily into a good-ole-boy Texas drawl. "It's nothing we can't handle."

"Troubles with your slave girl?" the fat man said, smiling as he looked my naked body up and down. I shuddered under his gaze.

"Not at all," Nicolaides said. "In fact, you're welcome to have a look."

Nicolaides smirked at me, tapping the strap against his palm in a threatening way as the fat man wandered over for a closer look. I didn't dare move.

"Go ahead," Nicolaides chuckled, "Squeeze her melons. They're farm fresh!"

Nicolaides moved behind me, reaching around me and inserting his hand between my widely spread legs. I gasped as I felt his middle finger worm its way into my pussy, while his thumb expertly rubbed my clit.

The bastard was trying to sexually arouse me, after giving me the worst beating of my life. I started to curse at him, but just as my mouth opened I felt the side of the punishment strap tap lightly against my thigh.

The tourist overcame his reluctance and took both of my breasts in his sweaty hands, squeezing them roughly and rubbing his thumbs over my stiffening nipples.

"Wow, these are nice tits," the fat tourist said, breathing his beer breath into my face — I tried hard to stay expressionless. "My wife won't let me go to the slave markets. She's a total bitch about it."

"She asleep in the camper?" Nicolaides asked.

"Yeah, along with the rug rats."

"How many kids ya' got?"

"Three. Two girls, and a boy. The girls are both in college at UT. One's working on her PhD, if you can believe that. The boy just graduated from High School, and now he's washing cars. He's our underachiever. It's his birthday today, actually, that's why we went to the lake. Wow, she's really getting hot, isn't she?"

I was. My breathing was getting more ragged, my nipples could cut glass, and Nicolaides had worked three fingers inside of me. I was lubricating all over his hand like a common slut. My face burned with shame, but I was also on the road to an orgasm...

Then, as if on cue, things got even worse. The door to the RV opened and I watched as the fat man's burnout teenage son shambled out. Torn jeans, ratty sneakers, army jacket, dyed black hair, heavy metal T-shirt, the birthday boy headed straight for us, smiling broadly as he watched his father fondle my tits.

"So it's his birthday, huh?" Nicolaides said, rubbing my clit faster. "Would you like to give him a present?"

"Hey, Dad, what's up?", the teenager said, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Heya, Zeke," dad said. "I just stopped to see if I could give this nice fella a hand," his father said, seemingly unconscious of the irony of him squeezing my tits as he said this; Zeke's smirk showed that at least he did. "You didn't wake up your mom and sister, did you?"

"Naw, I don't think so." Zeke looked up and down the coffle of naked slave girls, all standing at attention with their legs spread and chests pushed out. "Wow. You got some fine looking slave pussy here, mister. I wish I was ridin' with YOU."

Another car drove by. Someone leaned out the windows and shouted "Nice poontang, ha-ha!"

Welcome to Texas.

"You should send HCI a resume," Nicolaides said, ignoring the catcall. "We're always looking for bright young men interested in the slaving business. In fact, maybe we can start off by showing you one of the perks. See this little bitch here, juicing herself all over my hand? See the way she's humping my fingers? She's slave hot, and since your Dad told me it's your birthday, I figured she's probably dying to get down on her knees and give you a birthday hummer!" The bastard quickly side-eyed me, grinning, then said to the kid, "Whaddaya say to that, cowboy?"

"No!" I hissed, protesting even as I gasped with pleasure from his fingers. "No FUCKING way!"

Nicolaides laughed, and tapped his strap a bit harder across my bottom before speaking to me in a low voice. "Now don't go all slave stupid again, slut, so soon after the last time. Or did you want me to warm your butt a little more before this young man shoots his load into your dainty little mouth?"

The feel of the strap tapping my welted bottom instantly awoke me to the realization that I WOULD do whatever he ordered me to do. The only question was whether I would be whipped first.

Swallowing hard, I sank to my knees in front of the smiling teenager. He was a bit chunky, although not as fat as his father. His hair was stringy, he didn't smell very good, and he had several large zits on his face. I looked over to the truck, thinking of my clothes and ID, which were locked in the wall cabinet in back. So close, yet so far away! I couldn't even see it, as the beaten up old RV blocked the view, a perfect metaphor for my predicament.