Returned Merchandise

RETURNED MERCHANDISE

I had arrived in front of the loading dock behind the glass and steel structure of the Institute's tower with naked unwashed recaptured slaves. How had I ended up here? What could I have done to avoid it? Oh nothing is more disheartening than time spent pondering all that could have been!

A few months ago, before setting out on this Indenture, I met with the Institute Director on the level. Not a naked slave on the loading dock, recently captured for failing to pay a debt or subjected to punishment for some petty offense, I was received in Dr Crenshaw's exquisitely tiled pool area upstairs, naked but on an equal plane.

How did Dr Crenshaw put it? Casting a penetrating stare from The Institute's short, round butted physician Dr Amy to other naked section chiefs, Dr Crenshaw observed, "The repossessed indenturee regards their reduction to natural state as an humiliation. Do our captives appreciate the greater virtues of social nudity practiced behind the scenes: transparency, honesty, and equality?"

Standing naked in a line with other naked women, I wondered if any of the naked women on the loading dock appreciated the `higher values of social nudity' as I awaited my turn for the two security officers, one in blue the other in tan to cut the cable ties which bound my wrists behind me.

My current Indenture had begun in the urbane atmosphere of Dr Crenshaw's pool complex with a great deal of promise.

The Institute Director, Dr Philip Crenshaw, standing nude, between two burly male security, arms crossed over muscular chests, both gelded, emerged from his hot tub to personally greet me. Crenshaw's bare light skinned body stood out between his two burly guards, bare swarthy bodies glistening, waxed smooth. My eyes were drawn down from the hairy curly, dark blond pile on Crenshaw's chest to the Institute Director's bushy pubic hair partially concealing his dangling ball sac.

"Ellen," Dr Crenshaw, scrutinizing my person from my bare feet, between my legs at my slit, over the landing strip gracing my mound, up to my exposed cup 34C cup breasts, addressed me, "We come to an important decision point. In the Institute, all important discussions involving a valued indenturee are conducted in the natural state, not to intimidate the servant but to foster the Institute's premium in social interaction on the basis of trust, truth and transparency."

."My current indenture runs out at Midnight," I noted.

"Quite," Dr Crenshaw replied, "that your indenture is expiring underscores the importance of this meeting. An indenture is of course nothing more than a voluntary contract. You, the indenturee, cede your freedom for the security food, clothing, and shelter which the master must provide. Other benefits may include any lawful conditions to which your master willingly accedes."

"That sounds like gobbledygook," I chuckled.

"You the former teacher, I'm sure understand the concept perfectly," the Institute Director responded, "You are offered the opportunity to write your own ticket. This indenture holds some unique promises for your situation. It's in the non-professional caste at a Manor near the one where your husband is Estate Agent."

"In addition to provisos which enable me to maintain a relationship with my husband, I require conditions which would give me," I insisted, "privileges equivalent to those possessed by the professional caste."

"The good news," Dr Crenshaw reported, "is that the prospective Master is willing to accede to professional caste conditions. The question is do you want the security of an Indenture or wish to risk the rough and tumble world of free labor. Freedom means neither master nor servant is bound to each other; both employer and employee are free to walk away if mood or occasion arises."

At the instruction of the two loading dock guards on delivery to the Institute as `Returned Merchandise,' I bent over to allow the guard to swipe the code branded into my butt before I commenced my first Indenture. "By what authority had the manor to which my indenture was assigned sent me back here to The Institute as 'returned merchandise?" I cried out.

"That's a dumb question, sweetie," sighed the female guards in blue, "Read the terms of your indenture."

Early morning at Mugglin Manor, shortly after my arrival, Freida, a laborer attached to the Manor, once a rival candidate for the indenture as Manor Property Supervisor discussed the terms of her Indenture. I had questioned her shoulder length blonde hair and permission to sleep off manor property. "I thought all day laborers in the non-professional caste indenturees were supposed to be equal. I was unaware non -- professional caste laborers could earn entitlement to such special privileges."

Golden locks glimmering in the rising sun, Freida waited with me at the rear of the Manor House outside the exit from slave quarters for the laborers to form up and head for the fields. My white top, an oversized male T -- shirt reaching down to my mid -- thighs, fluttered in the breeze as bronzed slaves rushed by to form up. Sturdy black boots protected her feet, but only a deep bronze tan shieled her bare body.

"For the most part you're correct, Miss Ellie," With blue eyes gleaming, Freida who had been under consideration before my selection, explained the concept of the indenture which bound the laborers on a manor to the Estate, "My indenture, Miss Ellie, is just a contract. The indenturee may condition trading off her freedom for security upon terms the master agrees with."

Before I could nod agreement, the Master of Mugglin Manor, standing nearby in his black boots peering out of his signature open high collared black cape revealing a squat, hairy body, his penis hidden beneath a round belly rumbling, laughed, "I avoid boring discussions of the finer points of slave law."

As the Master walked away, I cautiously uttered a non -- committal comment, "Master seems to enjoy immersing himself in running his estate."

A pleasant smile graced Freida's face. "Hmm, for fun and frolic, yes, but attention to detail in the management of the Estate is not our Master's forte."

"I suppose that legal technicalities may bore him," I avoided criticizing the Master, "and he leaves such matters to others."

"The terms of an Indenture define our rights, why my tits are hardened by the noon sun beating down on my body and you are arguably entitled to remain fully clothed," Freida explained.

I laughed, "such as this fashionable man's triple X T -- Shirt. I think you'd prefer the outfit, a silk shirt and slacks that I wore when I reported in."

I sighed. At the moment the meaning of the exact terms of the Indenture I had proposed were the point of contention. My "unconditional right to wear clothing appropriate to the activity on and off duty" did not expressly say I could be fully clothed outdoors in the Manor's gardens overseeing slaves laboring in the fields. Would the black boots provided slaves emerging from slave quarters suffice as clothing appropriate to the task at hand? What kept the issue from being forced was the Med -- Tech's prescription of "gradually increasing increments of sun to form a protective tan before I could be worked out in the fields `in an undraped condition.'"

"My contract leaves no room for interpretation. I am allowed to winter away from the manor," Freida thundered the words, "in my own home." With a smile, she added, "During the growing season, when the Manor is open, I continue to sleep in my own bed as long as I'm on time, properly present altogether ready to work. It's whatever power a desirable worker can persuade the Master to give up." With a grimace, she sighed, "You Ellie, not I, was indentured as Property Supervisor because I refused to give up those privileges."

"Is anything more maddening than wandering in the realms of the could have beens?" I offered solace.

I shook my head. The Master assented to certain conditions I had proposed conditions on an Indenture as Property Supervisor including one weekend off a month during the summer to visit my husband, the Estate Manager on a nearby manor. "My indenture prohibits enforced mating, allows me to remain chaste and faithful to my marriage, and permits voluntary reproductive sexual relations with my husband. The Institute reserved a right of first refusal over my first child."

"Generous terms for a slave," Freida chuckled.

Feeling the stubble atop my head I guessed my conditions were not as tough as those Freida demanded.

"A property supervisor," Freida sighed, "oversees the human capital of the Manor, the laborers. I wanted too much time away from the Manor to keep an eye on people at work in the fields."

"Generous term, Miss Freida," I interjected, "for merchandise or slaves."

"Tou·ché," Freida smiled. Feeling her belly, Freida bemoaned, "even carrying back," A dreamy smile blossomed on Freida's face, "the promise of potential profit from the Institute tying the Manor more closely to The Institute did not persuade the Master to offer me the Indenture as Property Supervisor. After," Freida chuckled, "eh `passing' my pregnancy test, I was loaded onto a meat wagon, a naked laborer only one, among many, nothing special."

"Nothing special," I exclaimed when I was offloaded naked onto the loading dock at the Institute, I was effusively greeted by the female guard in blue exclaimed, "Ellen, now you are one person we'd expect be privileged." Interrupting the lively chit chat between themselves to give me the once -- over, the female guard scrutinized my hair closely cropped to the skull in the kennel clip, my pubic hair fashioned in a neatly trimmed inverted V shaped landing strip, my skin smoothed body hair depilated.

The male guard in a tan uniform recognized, "Oh Ellen, what brings you back here? You were sent out of The Institute a couple of weeks ago. "

"`Ellen,'" the female guard in blue, confirming my identity, recited from my electronic file, "`female, age 27, second indenture, re-indentured, non-professional managerial caste, returned by Mugglin Manor as physically unsuitable to outdoor work under the sun.' Unsuitable?" The female guard exclaimed, "Look at her full body tan. Lift your boobles, sweetie, I'll bet you're tanned under there too?"

I was taken aback. I was welcomed back in one breath and treated like simple merchandise, the next.

"Go on, Ellie, sweetie," the female guard with a curious air of familiarity insisted, "I want to look under them cupcakes."

I obediently cupped my under-boobs and lifted them. I'd swear the male guard's nose came so close that I could feel his breath on my chest wall under my left boob; the female did lick the underside of my right breast crying out, "Devil made me do it!"

"In the non -- professional caste," I quipped, "`Merchandise' learns not to be shy."

"Ellen," the tan jacketed male guard addressed me, "you're Returned Merchandise. Why did they cram you in a shipment with unprocessed indenturees recently captured, returned or surrendered?" Looking around at the other women in line with the comment, the male guard added, "dirty, disheveled hair, bushy ungroomed, tangled pubic hairs, and filthy smelly bodies."

In my brief tenure as property supervisor at Mugglin Manor, I stressed neat appearance of the field hands, college students who had given their Indenture to pay for education as well as slaves brought from auction. One -- by -- one I reduced the scalp of each to stubble, with the Master of the Manor in an open black cape watching. To each female indenturee's protest, I told the Master, "Hair can be stored and sold to wigmakers."

With the Manor's Med -- Tech looking on with a grimace, the Master rendered me a compliment, "Everyone here finds new ways to spend my money. Only Ellen sees how I can turn a profit."

The Master's kind words brought a twisted, contorted expression to the Med Tech's face.

"Plus," I continued, "A scalped slave who scoots off is more easily identified." Pointing to the back of the neck, I added, "placing the bar code here would facilitate easy identification of slaves. "

On the loading dock, the female guard observed, "Now that you're properly identified. I'll talk to Dr Amy to give you a more appropriate homecoming."

The guards took me by the hand to guide me to Dr Amy. Though tired and haggard and showing her pregnancy to the point she could no longer button her white lab coat, Dr Amy interrupted her examination of a re-captured indenturee to give me a once over. "Have Ellen searched, photographed and put her in the cage in the dispensary to wait for me."

"It seems I've spent a lot of time in cages lately," I quipped with a sigh, "I'm just discharged after a harrowing 45 minute ride in the windowless Meat Wagon. I had a discharge physical and an on-boarding physical at Mugglin Manor."

I pictured myself on Dr Amy's gynecological table legs strapped in stirrups. Finding my money, Dr Amy could pocket it or report me and -- who knows? -- Would Dr Amy order my butt paddled raw and ship me to auction in the Meat Wagon?

The Meat Wagon picked me up at the auction house. There 'The Meat wagon' delivered naked slaves properly primed, prepped and readied for auction having been cleaned, perfumed, hair trimmed close to the scalp, body hair depilated. In exchange, The Meat Wagon received unprocessed slaves in their unmanicured condition.

Bent over hands clutching my knees, I presented my butt for swiping the bar code. The driver, reading the code, announced, "`Ellen, 27, second Indenture...' Heck you're just `Returned Merchandise.' You could have been issued a TP, Transportation Pass. Why did they ship you naked under guard?"

"It wasn't my choice," I assured the driver of the meat wagon.

"Nor mine," the driver advised me, "if you had clothes on I could let you sit up front with me. Naked you go in the back with the others, nothing special."

"You could lend me your top," I suggested,

With a pained smile, the driver apologized, "I'm all alone on this run of the Meat wagon. If I only had an assistant..." his voice trailed off. As I stood before `The Meat Wagon,' a simple unmarked white van, the driver advised, "Regulations, Ellen, we have to manacle you to load you aboard the prisoner van on the ride back to The Institute." To my protest, the driver decried, "I can't afford the risk."

"What could be more trembling," I replied as I turned to have the cable ties snapped on my wrists, "the horrendous nightmares envisioning, alternate realities conjuring, in the could have beens."

On the loading dock at the Institute, Dr Amy, with a friendly, overly familiar pat on my butt, promised to speak to Dr Crenshaw about waiving pre-physical detention in a medical `specimen' cage. "Dr Crenshaw is anxious to speak to you. You've had recent physicals at the Manor before it returned you. Is there any need to cage you?"

I sighed to myself. What difference did it make? I had just been off loaded from a windowless van where I was packed in with runners and evaders. As "returned merchandise," I might have regarded myself of higher quality than these scraggly naked bodies, mostly surrendered or recaptured slaves, packed tight together with me. Had I deserved rough handling? I hadn't violated the terms of my indenture.

Departing from the auction house, hands cuffed behind my back, I struggled to climb aboard the van, The driver, hands groping my butt, gave me a push aboard `The Meat Wagon.' "Second indenture!" declared the driver as he gave my butt the push that launched me aboard, "you should have learned to board transport."

My first adventure in professional caste Indentured servitude exempted me from most of the indignities faced by those in the non -- professional caste. Professional caste indenturees, like regular employees, have rights. Physical contact, when unavoidable, was limited.

Before my butt was pushed aboard the van, I had been caged at the auction house awaiting transfer to the Institute bound "Meat Wagon." Upon receipt at the auction house where I was held for safekeeping pending transfer to an inbound shipment headed for the Institute, my body had been appraised. "Damn shame," commented an appraiser as I stood for photographs.

"I've been photographed so often lately I feel like a porn queen," I snickered.

"I routinely document the physical condition of the merchandise on receipt and on discharge," chanted the evaluator in an impersonal tone as he teased my nipples, "clean, intelligent, literate, could qualify as governess, bookkeeper, office assistant, secretary... Wide hips, small breasts, sculpted butt, a little too thin to be a courtesan, not busty enough to be sent to a house, not tough enough to be a CP, common prostitute, but could amicably service a small time manor lord as a concubine."

The auctioneer, grabbing my jaw to move my head from side to side, commented, "Unblemished! This body would sell well on the auction block. Damn shame! But for the Institute's hold, the Indenture which binds this merchandise to servitude is open, non-professional."

Ugh, a body, merchandise? That's all I was. And you could say my predicament was all my fault. Nothing more unsettling than the meandering through the realm of what could have been. This misadventure began with the best intentions. I had insisted upon stipulations in my Indenture for protection of my person before I would assent to a non-professional managerial indenture to a manor as a property supervisor. The problem was I hadn't insisted that the terms be recorded in my electronic file.

Dr Crenshaw himself, meeting with me in his sauna, as usual in the unadorned natural state, penis proudly puffing up as it thickened, sack dangling, between his legs, congratulated me on structuring proposed terms, flattered me with the assurance, "Ellen, I should keep you for myself by sending you to law school."

My `rights,' at that moment in the auction house, if I ever really had any, hung on, I sighed as I kept my silence, hung tenuously on the auctioneer's willingness to honor the Institute's hold on my person placed by Dr Crenshaw.

"The Institute's hold," the appraiser grunted, "could of course be ignored -- if we wanted to risk the wrath of the institute and face a trip down one of these cat walks to an auction -- has put a hold on her. Best we can do is appraise this body, suggest sale at auction, and request written confirmation of a clearance for sale."

On the Institute's loading dock, Dr Amy rubbed her bulbous belly, as she spoke, "Best I can do for you, Ellen, is pass you through to the staff section for a warm shower rather than hosing you down with the livestock," looking around at the detainees, Dr Amy made an entry on her electronic notebook, "for medicinal purposes." Patting her belly, Dr Amy promised to return the clothes she'd borrowed from me a few months ago when I had been returned to the Institute for release or recycling at the end of my first indenture. "As you can see, I won't need your outfit at the moment. There have been changes around here." Nodding toward the entrance, Dr Amy signalled my guards to take me away.

The male guard ordered me forward, "On slave!"

"Legally speaking," I corrected the guard, "I'm contract labor: managerial caste, not a slave. I have certain privileges provided in my indenture, including the right to be appropriately clothed on duty."

Overhearing, Dr Amy asked the male guard to fetch the outfit I had `lent' her. "When I saw Ellen's name on today's manifest, I put her clothes out in my quarters to return them."

Leaving me alone with the tan jacketed guard at the entrance, the blue coated female guard addressed her colleague, "I guess you get to stick your fingers in a clean ho'."

I strived not to cringe as the guards laughed among themselves. Now relegated to the non-professional caste, I had to get used to the assumed toughness in the derogatory crude manner of speaking to slaves.

Drawing me into an embrace, the male guard in tan assured me that his colleague was only kidding. "She regards every wench in service as a whole." The male guard ordered me forward, "On slave! Oops, I forgot you're contract labor, managerial caste of course who come with certain rights including the right to be clothed on duty. Wearing clothes wouldn't be appropriate during a shower or a search, I gather."

Inside the reception area, a long row of prisoners, men on the right women on the left, was bent over at the waist. A guard in blue was standing behind one prisoner. The prisoner grunted when with left hand pressing down on the prisoner's hips, the guard wiggled his fingers into her anal cavity with his right. When the guard withdrew his hand, the subject jumped at the crackling sound of the shucked latex glove dropped into a disposal bin. With glee in his voice, the guard forced the prisoner's back down. "Easy, sweetie, more fun to cum, we've got more holes to probe."

Oh, I had been in servitude long enough to be aware that any indentured servant in the non -- professional class, could be subjected to a full body inspection almost at any time but invariably upon a transfer of responsibility for custody and control.

When delivered by Mugglin Estate's Manager to the auction house, I was clad in that oversized man's White T shirt and cast-off panties. On arrival at the auction house, I was first placed in "Time Out" an open-air waiting area outside the arena, while the Estate Manager purchased replacements slaves needed at the Manor.

In the non -- professional caste, my complaint of being treated like a child fell on deaf ears. Ignoring me, the male attendant ordered me to strip.

After the T Shirt came off, I allowed it to billow in the breeze. Sliding the panties off, I kicked them up in the air above my head and caught them in my hand as it floated on air. Onlookers inside the enclosure -- other slaves -- and ordinary passersby on their way to the auction house outside the fenced - in waiting area clapped.

"Nice," commented the male attendant, "Exotic dancers owned by the clubs won't usually put on a public revue." Walking around me to give me the once over, the male attendant added, "Nice contrast, the white covering against the deep dark tan."

Bowing to my audience, I smiled and said nothing.

It was a routine I practiced at the Manor when the Med Tech prescribed nude sunbathing in increasing dosages on an unshielded Manor house sundeck. The Master on the sundeck in his open black cape revealing a hairy body often watched my ritualized strip routine. After a few days, the Master had the Med -- Tech join me in my dance.

Strategically turning her back to our master, The Med Tech complained "A Med Tech handling slaves is entrusted with valuable property." A scowl contorted her face. "Forget that I am professional caste and should be given time to take the courses and study for med boards for my full MD license. I should not have to entertain the Master with an erotic girl -- girl love scene."

My first performance with the Med -- Tech was a little raggy. Her beady dark eyes cast a dull look of disdain. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the Med Tech on the second-floor porch overlooking Master's fields, we removed items of clothing on command, leaving us to dance topless. White panties made a nice contrast to the Med Tech's dark olive skin. Her beady eyes matched the color of her darked tits. Our Dance in our white panties was dispirited until the Master ordered, "grab her and take her."

I'm pretty sure Master was probably ordering the Med Tach to make her move on me. Instead, dancing and turning face to face with her, I swept her panties off. A look of shock appeared on her face. Her public hair was an untamed ball shaped clump. In a sweet soft whisper, I promised to make her body presentable for our Master's delight. "Why should our Master waste his man-stuff on a slave girl when he owns your beauty as well as your brains?"

Lowering her to the ground. I planted my face between her legs. When my tongue glided over her clit, the Med Tech locked her legs over my head. She tightened her grip when she came. How long had I remained under the harsh sun locked in her embrace. When we rose, I attempted to draw her into an embrace. I desperately wanted to conclude with a kiss on her lips.

Turning me around, her beady black eyes inspect my back. "Slave," The med -- Tech addressed me, "Quite a burnt derriere! your butt is going to ache tonight. Stay indoors. Wear loosely fitting clothing. Better yet wear nothing. Try to sleep on your belly, tonight. Maybe you'll be able to work on our performance for our master tomorrow."

"You want to do it again tomorrow?" I asked the Med Tech.

Pointing to our caped Master looking over his fields where naked laborers were toiling, the Med Tech observed, "Standing in his open cape, looking over his acreage, watching naked slaves bare butts bronzed working his fields gives our master a rush of power..." The Med Tech sighed, "But he's a bag of jelly underneath, transfixed by the illusion of his own power. So, tomorrow we dance."

At Time Out, in front of the auction house, I ended my little dance routine with a split. Gracefully leaping to my feet to lean on the table at the entrance to the waiting area, I presented my butt to allow the male attendant to scan my barcode while the female guard turned my simple covering inside out to feel along the stitching. The attendant announced "Ellen, female, age 27, 5 ft 2 in, 125 pounds, breast size 34c, hair color brunette. Re-indentured as a Manor Property Supervisor. Current indenture, classified non -- professional supervisory caste. Hold placed on the merchandise by the Institute."

Feeling along the seams of my T shirt, Time Out's female attendant reminded the male, "Ellen, female, age 27, re-indentured, as a Manor Property Supervisor?" The female attendant laughed, "This one, a couple weeks ago, yapped at your order to strip. She claimed her indenture allowed her to remain fully clothed."

Giving me a playful slap on my butt, the male attendant quipped, "Last time you removed designer slacks, a silk blouse and a matching bra and thong to allow me to read your bar code."

Once my clothes were off and my bare body was bent at the waist for a reading of my bar code, the attendant announced, "Special privileges, not recorded in servant's electronic file, are not binding on strangers who did not agree to the indenture."

"So, sweet stuff," the female attendant, holding up the T shirt and panties, assumed a mocking tone, "who left you with these rags when she swiped your sweet nothings? Was it your Estate Manager? Did he give your fancy duds to a favorite? Or perhaps your Master kept your outfit as a prize for himself or gave it to a favorite, a guest or one of his daughters?"

I threw the attendant a pleasant smile.

I was in front of the entrance behind the Manor house to Slave Quarters when Freida jumped out of a pickup driven by a grizzly farmer, dark hair cut short. Quickly stripping off her cutoff dungarees and denim crop top, Freida threw her panties at her smiling chauffer. Standing naked on the running board, Freida, heavy boobs bouncing fought off the chauffer's playful attempt to draw her back into the cab of the pickup. "Later," Freida cautioned him, "We have an option on additional land..." She waved as the pickup pulled away.

I shook my head, "Just a matter of business?"

"That's all," Freida replied, "Hot insemination before witnesses present in Dr Crenshaw's pool complex. Brought in buck naked and hooded. On hands and knees I'm entered me from behind every night until I passed my pregnancy test."

"Sounds like fun," my tone was dry.

"Quite," Freida replied, "I knew I was pregnant -- heavy boobs --" She cupped the underside of her breasts and dangled them in my face -- "long before Dr Crenshaw acknowledged the tests had verified it."

"I guess he was having too much fun," I quipped.

"Pure caprice, enjoying subjecting another to his whim and wishes," Freida expressed the belief, "Just a probe busting through lover's gate no warmth, no cuddling, no afterglow, no emotion."

"And for you?" i asked,

Freida laughed sarcastically, "A matter of business, add up the plusses and minus and calculate the net gain, take the course most profitable, a question of dollars and cents."

In Time Out, the attendants had me standing there naked hands behind my head while the attendants decided whether to conduct a more thorough examination. "Returned as defective merchandise, skin too fair," the male attendant observed as he circled around me. "Is this a joke, she's as bronze as an... Even her arm pits are tanned."

I tried to show no emotion.

"Not our business," retorted the female attendant, "Do we turn her insides out?"

Then suddenly, just at that moment, I earned an unexpected reprieve. An incoming group of fully dressed men and women were separated just outside the Time Out area.

Looking at the tearful goodbyes exchanged between surrendering indenturees just outside Time Out, the attendants agreed that the new arrivals were more likely to have money and valuables secreted on their persons. Nodding at me, the male attendant exclaimed, "this slave -- what's her name -- Ellen? --- has already been picked clean up the line somewhere."

"Dollars and sense tells us," the female agreed, " we're more likely to find money or valuables on these new arrivals."

The attendants posted outside the enclosure allowed a few minutes for hugging and kissing. I shook my head. I thought aloud, "A few moments to reflect, wistful sighs of regret, painful wonderings, hot it could have been."

Directing me to find a place within the Time Out enclosure to sit, the attendants, as well as the audience which gathered, focused attention on the incoming indenturees. The indentured women, ushered into this enclosure, were stood in a line. Handbags were left on the table where the attendant checked the contents. Though there were some scraggly women in the array, most ladies were neatly dressed, properly groomed. A few sported heels.

I found an open spot on a couch, likely discarded from the lounge. My companion on the couch looking over the new arrival, was astonished, "Coming here so well dressed, where did they think they were going?"

The female attendant went from woman to woman collecting jewellery in an ordinary pot. To those who requested a receipt, the attendant assured them they could file a claim upon their release seven years hence. Then with a slave in medical scrubs behind the row pulling a bucket on casters collected their clothing item -- by -- item progressively denuding them first taking their shoes. The female attendant helped steady those few indenturees struggling to maintain balance on one foot removing one heel then the other.

Then a new barrel to take skirts or slacks rolled out to the high-pitched squeal of casters squeaking once again. Collection of panties drew a few comments from the female guard. Holding up thongs and waving them in the reddened face of their former owner, the female attendant commented, "so pricey, so little fabric, no wonder so many people go bust." The ladies standing in the row there were presented naked from the waist down.

Outside the gate, passersby paused to watch the mortification of the surrendering female indenturees. A few took note of the reduction of the males in the other cage, but their hairy bodies were stripped quickly with little ceremony.

"The men were ordered to strip without ceremony. Why not just tell the girls to girls to get undressed?" asked an indenturee sitting with me on a discarded couch.

"Dragging out the ordeal," I shook my head, "ritually exhibiting the ladies half naked on display establishes the power relationship."

Collection of tops and bras left the ladies lined up exposed to view and to the ribald comments of the crowd that gathered. Some ladies thrust their chests out. Defiantly daring the hecklers, these bold few taunted the crowd, "Cum on! Try to take some!"

When other red-faced ladies tried to use their hands to cover their breasts or their crotches, the male attendant growled, "Hands at your side, slaves." A few minutes went by before the female attendant dispersed the line-up, with the words, "You are slaves. Who or what you were in the past is no longer."

Outside Time out, an attendant directed the crowd to disperse, "Show is over. Be about your business."

The crowd drifted over to the male Time -- Out Enclosure where the men were being fitted for chastity cages. Each man, head bowed in humiliation, penis shriveled, and scrotum drawn up against the body in fright. Silence fell on the crowd. The male attendant handed his female counterpart a box labeled "male chastity device" with the direction, "Show 'em how it's done."

"The show is about to begin," my companion on the couch chuckled.

On the second floor porch in the rear of the Manor House, The Med Tech and I were limbering up for our performance. "Show and ritual have a great deal to do with control in indentured slavery," The Med Tech confided in me as she removed her lab coat, in preparation to begin our routine which preceded the nude sunbathing which the Med Tech herself had prescribed. "Keeps you out of the fields," the Med Tech reminded me.

Over the weeks at the Manor, there had been much transformation in both of us. My skin now bore a deep bronzed hue. New fashionable tennis whites which nicely contrasted with her darkened olive skin a gift from the Master now adorned her body.

Our dance had evolved into smooth movements as I caressed the curves in her body from behind, grinding my breasts into her back. She thrust her derriere into my gut and wiggled it down into my mound. "A man would have plowed me by now," she whispered.

"Maybe the Master will buy us a double headed strap-on," I suggested.

"And your husband wouldn't object?" the Med Tech prompted me.

"A double -- headed dildo is a fake. It isn't real," dreamy tones entered my voice, "and thus not an act of disloyalty to the marital relationship. it's purely entertainment, a part of a job to amuse and placate our Master."

"Hmm, interesting observation," the Med Tech released a dreamy sigh, "Who is controlled by the show?"

At Time Out, the show began. Silence fell on the crowd which had gathered, as the female attendant, hips swinging with exaggeration, approached the first male on life. "Hands on your head, slave," the guard ordered. "The male body is remarkably simple."

Feeling the man's scrotum, the attendant observed, "A simple power pack contains two eight, maybe, nine ounce spheres which produce a powerful, toxic serum. A simple projectile shaped delivery device implants the toxic cocktail of baby batter. The objective of a cautious Master is to avoid unnecessary interaction between the sexes and unplanned, potentially undesirable reproduction."

Opening the box containing the male chastity device, the female attendant fell to her knees in front of the mortified man with the explanation, "The iron jock has three parts, a ring has two loops one to snap in around the penis and a lager one to fit around the scrotum," the female attendant kneeling in front of the first male indenturee in the line, quickly lifted the male genitalia to secure the ring in place.

"The objective," the female attendant explained aloud, "is to place the rings," the female attendant turning to the crowd with a smile, jiggled the ring to test it, "to loosely attach to the male accoutrements to prevent strangulation of the nuts, yet securely enough in place to immobilize the male organ."

Having secured the ring in place, the female attendant, holding up a curved tube, promised to fit it over the male probe, "This pipe slips neatly over the male projectile to contain it and prevent erection. The cup closes over the scrotum." With the clicking sound of locking steel, the female guard declared, "The male is now contained."

The sound of a click brought nervous laughter from the audience. When the laughter subsided, the female guard, tugging at the device, rose her feet. "Depending on your master," the female attendant advised the indenturee, "you may be provisionally released from chastity generally or at certain junctures during your servitude."

I sighed as part of the duties I performed as the titled property supervisor at the Manor, I removed the chastity cages before sending male fieldworkers to the showers twice a week. The Med-Tech's direction to me to oversee en -- masse sperm extraction was overruled by our Master who demanded her participation in the sperm harvesting.

"The result would be a rape, a mandatory deseeding of every male involved, a disastrous loss of the Manor's profit." I advised the Master. "A better idea would be taking the males one -- at -- a -- time. Individually taking each male extract his yield, remove body hair, massaging in a depilatory cream, wash him down, toweling off, and reattaching the cock blocker."

To the Med Tech's objection to individually handling the male indenturees, I reasoned, "Taking each male by himself gives them the opportunity to exaggerate what went on in sperm extraction. Indeed, working two against one, the Med -- Tech and I could work together topless, two women working together present a cock -- tease, not an invitation."

Before the Med -- Tech could voice an objection, I added, "Our Master could preside over this ritual cleansing observe in his ceremonial high collared black cape and boots."

Without hearing the Med Tech's objection, the Master, turning to address the Med -- Tech, ruled in my favor, "Our sales of the gametes of college men raises the funds for your medical education. So, you put yourself on the path to the full MD degree with each productive cock."

The Med-Tech shot me a look. Was it contempt or disdain, fear, hatred or disgust? I couldn't tell.

The Master, patting the Med -- Tech on the shoulder, smiled, "Cocks mean bucks."

In the male enclosure at Time Out, the female attendant asked with a sigh, "how much more cock do I have to block?"

Back at the manor before shipment as Returned Merchandise, the only male free from the cock block was our Master. At today's ritualized functions, I, clad in an oversized male white T shirt, found myself in Mugglin Manor's communal shower. Looking on were the Master in his trademark open cape with a high back collar and black boots. Next to the Master of the Manor was the Manor's Med Tech clinging to the indicia of her authority the white lab coat and stethoscope. My task today as the Master's Property Supervisor was depilating the hair from the female indenturees' bodies. Bodies were bronzed from working nude in the fields of the Manor. Fortunately, almost all the female indenturees kept legs and underarms shorn.

"From the upper lip to the chin, arm pits, pubes and legs, appearance of female indenturees is everything. It determines the value of the merchandise," I told the Master.

Passing by me, feeling the stubble of my scalp, Freida quoted a truism. "All life, said the muse, is a matter of contract. In indentured servitude, the recorded terms govern the extent of the Master's power in the relationship."

The Master passed off Freida's apology for lateness. His open cape unable to conceal his burgeoning erection. The Master was intent on beginning the spectacle. I nodded to the Master as I began to carefully trim the female indenturee's pubic hairs. When I reached Freida, she teased me, "doesn't my indenture allow me to keep my locks?"

Smoothing the stubble with a damp rag, I reminded Freida that her indenture protected her locks but not her curls. I then applied the depilatory cream.

Counting out the seconds needed before the pubic hair vaporized in a fizzle, I told each to find a spigot to wash off. "A landing strip is left on females, where males are shaved clean. While pubic hairs are darker than the stubble atop," I rubbed the stubbled scalp of one of the slaves, "at the auction house, the landing strip can be taken as proof of the subject's natural color."

With the Manor's Med Tech head bowed, stony faced in her usual attire white lab coat over slacks arms crossed in silence standing by ostensibly to render any first aid which might be required, Master asked, "Why do you take the women en masse and the men one -- by -- one?"

"In a group, men are prone to aggression; less testosterone, women are not," I replied as the Master admired the sleek skin of the girl's underbellies of the females as they filed into under the spigots to remove the goo. Complained Freida as she waited her turn to claim a working spigot, "What kind of health spa is this? No bottled water, no glasses of Rosé waiting after my facial and body waxing." The shower room went into an hysterical fit.

As the goo dissolved in the sprinkling droplets falling from the ceiling, bare white splotches appeared on the lower abdomens and mounds where hair had been removed.

I nodded to the Master who told The Med Tech to undress. With head lowered she hung her stethoscope on a hook. Removing her lab coat, she unbuttoned her print blouse, swept off her blouse. and unhooked her bra. Her breasts bouncing free, the Med Tech encaptivated not only the Master whose erection stretched toward its maxima, but also the indenturees who started to cheer her on. Panties were gone revealing a hairy bush shaped like an ice cream cone.

Gasping, Freida screamed, "Anyone who went down on her would get a mouth full of hair," brought a round of laughter.

Taking scissors, I held them up to silence the indentures before I trimmed the Med Tech's pubes evenly close to the skin. "Now you'll be able to see your toes when you wiggle them," looking over at the Master, I added, "let's leave you with what your Master expects to find in the middle of the night, a hair free pussy."

I smeared the cream over her lower abdomen over her mound and into the folds of her vagina. "Wait," I warned her, "I can't work it in, just yet." I held her at bay. "Wait until we go under the shower." She reached under the T- Shirt sent it across the room. She ripped the cast-off panties from my body.

"Ellen seems tanned enough to join us in the fields to work with us," sneered one of the indenturees, "What makes her special?"

When I estimated the time right, I locked the Med Tech in my embrace and danced across the tiny octagonal tiles white with black edging to a spigot and worked a glop of frothy suds into the darkened olive skin of er breasts and butt before I dared fondle the troth between her inner and outer lips and massage her clit.

"Don't stop," she pled, as we crashed to the floor with the warm spray falling on us. Our lips locked. We ground our pubes together. My tongue worked its way down between her nips through her cleavage to her belly button into her slit, lathering her clit. My heart beating faster, my legs were lifted, I screamed, "Fuck me. I need to be plowed by eight pulsating inches."

I gasped when my body was enshrouded in a cape, I was fated to be taken from behind by our Master.

I felt nimble finger part my vaginal lips to allow the Master's throbbing penis to be launched deep within me touching off convolutions from my core. As the waves of spasms spread through my body. I laughed, I cried, I wanted to be faithful to my husband but I enjoyed the transgression. Did I have any choice?

At some point I lost consciousness. How long had I lay on the floor with the steady spray of the shower falling on me?

Freida's sharp reproof of an indenturee brought me to. consciousness. I yelled for someone to turn off the shower. Helped to my feet by Freida, I moaned that I felt strange all over. Clutching my breasts, I declared that they felt unusually heavy.

"Unprotected," Freida noted, "You've been plugged."

Inside the Institute, I was brought into the staff communal shower. My escort, the tan coated guard left me to shower by myself. "I'm sure you know how to handle what you need to do on your own."

At time out, I was called to the counter and directed to report to the Auction House on my own, "the Institute will pick you up there." Pointing to my White T Shirt and panties, the attendant remarked, "You won't need them. Find your way inside yourself."

I had felt the eyes of 1000 casual onlookers silenced by the spectacle singing my bare skin as I made my way through the crowd stepping at a casual pace toward the entrance to the auction house. I had reached the male enclosure where men genitalia bound in wire sadly looked away, when I heard my companion protest, "I came here in my own clothes, not this white T shirt." I turned to see my companion was returned to her master's custody. Her protest was dismissed with a simple "file a claim."

Seconds later, the gate to female time out enclosure was opened and the surrendering women were directed to report to the auction house. The group gathered at the gate unsure what to do.

"Go on," urged the female attendant, "your surrender is not complete until you report to the auction house. Upon receipt at the auction house, your surrender will be duly recorded."

At that, the women raced past me to the catcalls of the crowd. "Aren't they afraid of an escape?" said one onlooker.

"Where are they going dressed like that?" asked another.

I spent my last night at Mugglin Manor in the cell in the basement which housed the slave quarters. I had just returned from a visit to my husband. On my return to Mugglin Estate, I was met by Freida in the entrance way. Naked and barefoot, Freida ordered me to strip. I laughed, "Out of the fields so early? Can't you wait for tonight?"

"Everything off! Master's orders, you're to report to the Med -- Tech for a physical," Impersonal in her tone, Freida refused my request to shower right there before I reported for a physical, even when I invited her to shower together with her.

"Are you embarrassed you are starting to show?" I asked.

"Get your clothes off," Freida's tone was brusk, her face expressionless.

As I removed my silk blouse and bra, I faced Freida supporting my under -- boobs with the palms of my hands jiggling them in her face. "Sure you don't want to shower together? My husband enjoyed watching me jangle my boobs in the shower."

Stretching my top to inspect the fabric, Freida noted, "At least, this came back in one piece -- and you too. How did you keep him from ripping your clothes?"

"I promised," I reminisced as I slipped off the slacks, "to make it worth his while. I forced him to the ground. I was on top and rode him hard all weekend."

Folding my clothes and leaving on an entranceway table, Freida directed me to bend at the waist for a reading of the bar code. I questioned, "I'm gone for the weekend. Did you forget who I am so soon?"

Without replying, Freida, swiping the bar code on my butt, announced aloud, "Ellen, female, age 27, re-indentured as a Manor Property Supervisor. First indenture completed: professional occupation teacher, current indenture, non -- professional managerial class."

"Not a fine how do you do and welcome back? I was astonished.

When Freida ordered me into gym, I reached for my clothes, Freida advised, "that won't be necessary."

On my departure to visit my husband, Freida had been warm and friendly. Rubbing her expanding belly, Freida discussed freely her own plans to use the money from this pregnancy to improve the farm. "Maybe at the end of this indenture. I'll be the Lady of the Manor and hire you as my grandchildren's teacher."

Feeling the silk of my blouse Freida expressed interest in buying my clothes for her daughter. Then, Frieda advised me, "Don't go. Our master may go erect when he wields a wicked paddle on the bare bum of a trussed up naked female slave, but he's easily led and you may be undermined in your absence."

In the gym with the Master looking on, Freida was taken first. "Thank you, Doctor," Freida courteously addressed the Med Tech..

"Thank you for the courtesy title. Me? I'm not yet a full-fledged doctor. I'm only qualified to handle slaves," the Med Tech explained, "Breathe in," The Med Tech held her stethoscope under Freida's left breast. A hand gently swept over Freida's stomach, the Med Tech, noted, "You're coming along fine. I'll have to send you down to the Institute for a pre-natal check up in a week or so."

"Oh by the way," the Med Tech offered congratulations to the Master, on Freida's pregnancy, "Master, this hearty farm girl in gestation won't show till ready for delivery. Going to market on speculation?"

The Master shook his head, "not mine to sell. In her current indenture exempts she's rented her to Dr Phil Crenshaw at the Institute who wanted to cross her strength into his genius. The Institute directly delt with her. Dr Crenshaw expects crossing of his eh -- great intellect with Freida's superior physical strength will produce a sturdy male heir to his fortune."

My physical promised to be more intrusive. Bent over buttocks spread, I heard the screech as the Doc donned surgical gloves. Reading the barcode on emblazoned under my right hip, Med Tech announced "Ellen, female, age 27, 5 ft 2 in, 125 pounds, breast size 34c, hair color brunette. Re-indentured as a Manor Property Supervisor. Current indenture, classified non -- professional working caste. First indenture professional caste teacher honorably completed. Indentured to work under the hot sun in the fields of Mugglin Manor."

"Relax," the Med Tech ordered as she laid a sturdy hand on my hip. I gasped when she plunged to then three cold fingers past my sphincter muscle into my rectum. "Cough," she ordered. Withdrawing her hand, the Med Tech reported, "Sphincter muscle tone good. Remain bent over touch your toes," the med Tech ordered. Discarding her gloves, the Med Tech, placing a firm hand on the base of my spine, observed "good strength and flexibility."

"So, this slave can be certified for duty outdoors?" the Master asked.

"No!" the Med Tech decided. "Continue to introduce this slave to controlled increments of sun exposure to darken her protective tan. Her skin color remains too fair to have her work in an undraped condition," The med tech stressed the word undraped, "for a full day. Return her as defective merchandise. Remove this slave to a holding cell. Ship her out in the morning."

The Master looked away, as Freida escorted me to a cell in the servant's quarters where servants were held pending punishment or transfer. In the cell, Freida apologized for locking it shut. "You might wander off." I turned away in disgust when she offered an apology.

In the morning, Freida returned with the Estate Manager. "I guess you've already taken my place as Property Supervisor." In her hands were my designer outfit I had worn reporting in at Mugglin Manor. "Spoils of war."

"No," Freida reminded me as she handed me a condom holding rolled up fresh $100 bills, "I warned you against the trip to meet your guy. I knew the Med Tech would want you gone."

"I had to... have an explanation for producing for the first born for Institute," I muttered.

"Now, I'd like to buy that outfit for my daughter. I'll be rotund in a month and unable to wear it. So will you. This way we can share the bonus I got with the promotion." Like you," rubbing her rounding belly, Freida chuckled, "I took more away from this indenture than I really wanted to. I'm to be shipped to the Institute in a week or so. I can deliver your money to you."

I hesitated to agree to the arrangement. Though neither of us were permitted as non -- professional indenturees to handle money, almost all non- professional indenturees had some money hidden. If even it were found, most times small amounts would be ignored. Larger bills such as the ones handed me rolled in a condom could be confiscated on physical inspection upon change of custody.

When Freida asked, "What! Don't you trust me?"

I merely smiled. I had learned the wisdom of keeping my thoughts to myself. To Freida's promise to have the money sent to me once I arrived at the Institute, I held up the condom. I snickered, "Seems I should have had these inside me this weekend full of the warmth of love juice but with nothing so sweet as cold hard cash."

Squatting, I opened the folds of my vagina lips and slid the condom inside and held it in place with a tampon.

"Ugh," Freida gagged with the warning, "The alternative to trusting me is taking the risk of detection and facing the consequences. Claiming to being on your period won't exempt you from prying fingers wiggling their way in during a cavity search. Some guards along the way get a particular high out of humiliating women by finger fucking them. All they want may be to play with your clit, but they'll take what they find inside. A thorough search along the way and you'll lose the money."

Left on my own in the shower at the Institute, I quickly looked around. In the trash was an empty box of condoms. "Hmm some one has been busy," I smiled. The extracted tampon went into the sanitary waste. The condom went into the empty box and rolled the box into the discarded towel I used to dry off.

Leaving my clothes on the table, the guard was one who liked to talk dirty during the search. Asked whether I preferred the cavity search bent at the waist or thrown up against the wall, I boldly acknowledged a preference for the throbbing mass hardening and expanding until it shoots its warming man juice inside me rather than wandering fingers.

Breaking off contact with the wish he could produce the warm infusion to accommodate me, the guard instructed me to report to the photo lab for full body photos and then to the Dr Amy's examination room. "You need not dress. The photo are taken nude. Slaves can walk the corridors naked."

Photos were taken full frontal, back, and with arms over my head, each side. Then an additional frontal view was taken. Ordered "legs spread as far as you can and cunt lips opened with those nimble fingers," the photographer explained "I need to contrast the intensity of the full body tan with your natural faint pink inside."

I don't know how long I sat on Dr Amy's examining table before I collapsed on the cot in the cage to sleep. When roused for the physical, I listlessly complied with the usual blood and urine specimens. I was on the table, legs spread locked in the stirrups when Dr Amy confirmed my pregnancy. "Your husband's?" she asked.

"Too much fun on a weekend together," I replied.

Entering the pool complex, I found myself in the midst of a pageant. The Institute Director, tall and lean Dr Philip Crenshaw, skin moist, body glistening with speckled with water droplets, ascended the white marble steps from his hot tub. His dangling ball sac bounced as he climbed onto the blue and white tiled deck of the pool complex.

On either side of Dr Crenshaw, stood his personal security detail, two burly naked geldings arms crossed over muscular chests. Smoothed, swarthy, waxed bodies of the strapping guards contrasted with Crenshaw's bare light skin, bushy pubic hair partially concealing his dangling ball sac.

Behind Dr Crenshaw seated on the edge of the hot tub, bare bellies bulging, dangling their toes in the tub were his sister, dead center, roly -- poly Dr Amy on my right, his tall dour, flat chested lawyer with the hint of a bulge on the left,

"Ellen," Dr Crenshaw, casting a penetrative glance at my bare 34c breasts, spoke "We return to a critical point: freedom or re-indenture. All the important discussions at the Institute particularly involving an indenturee are conducted in the natural state. You are familiar with this practice and its purpose to promote transparency, honesty, and equality and not to intimidate the servant but to foster the Institute's premium in social interaction on trust, truth and transparency."

"I assume that your hold on my person runs out at Midnight," I noted.

"Quite," Dr Crenshaw replied, "You are reminded that our arrangement, the mutual bond between you and the Institute in an indenture for years is a voluntary contract. You, the indenturee, cedes your freedom for the security food, clothing, and shelter which the master must provide. Other benefits may include any lawful conditions you propose and to which your master willingly accedes."

"That gobbledygook brought me to the condition I find myself in returned to the Institute hands manacled, naked in a shipment of runaway slaves," I chuckled.

"Your rejection by Mugglin Manor relieves you from your indenture," The Institute Director replied, "If you re -- indenture, the Institute will champion your claim for payment of your entire indenture from Mugglin Manor. Otherwise, you will be released and as a freed woman you may pursue the matter on your own."

"I'd end up, in debt trying to enforce what should be mine. Swept up by a capture team, I'd be stripped, shorn and shipped to auction," I griped.

The Institute Director responded, "I was impressed by your negotiated terms of your non -- professional caste indenture at Mugglin Manor. The Institute will send you to school to study slave law. You are considered in the cadet class, treated as non -- professional caste by The Institute; professional caste by all others."

"You set me up," I complained.

"No," the Director replied, "You were tested."

"And if I had failed?" I asked.

"We live in the actual happenings, without wishful imaginings, untroubled by overthinking all those could have beens." Came the reply.