Processing Station - Whispers of Slave Island epilogue/short

I never believed the Morality Police were real until they kicked in my front door. I was minding my own business, not hurting anyone, just sharing a stream of myself stripped down to nothing but panties, to a small group of simps.

It sounded like a bomb had gone off, and I shrieked, turning away from my stream to see what the hell had happened. The front door was off one hinge, hanging at a crazy angle, as three massive guys in all black poured into my studio apartment.

“What the fuck?” I screamed, just before one of them reached past my head and grabbed the back of my neck. He bent me in half, suddenly catching me in a headlock as I screamed.

Cuffs zipped around my wrists, and one of them sneered. “The slut is streaming right now…”

I flailed, but the vice grip around my neck wouldn’t loosen.

“Bitch is kicking,” the cop pinning me grunted. I wasn’t. I was trying to back away, twisting and flailing with everything I had, but he held me tightly. I felt my boobs bouncing, and all I could think was how I angled the camera so they looked perky and cute for tips.

Tears blurred everything. I couldn’t breathe and tried pushing my legs and knees against anything that would loosen that grip and get me some air.

Rough hands grabbed my ankles and yanked them up. With my hands cuffed, there was nothing to hold on to. I was held aloft by an arm around my throat and the men at my feet. A zip tie went around my ankles, and my legs were held firmly in place.

“What the fuck? I can’t breathe!” I cried out with everything I had left.

“Shut that fucking wailing up…” The man locking my neck grunted as I thrashed in his grip.

“Got her,” one of them said as I was yanked free of the choke hold, only to have something shoved hard in my mouth. They pulled back on it, straps locked in place around my head with a rubbery object wedged deep in my mouth. I shook my head and shoved with my tongue, but the gag was locked in, choking me as they unceremoniously dropped me to the floor. I was now completely hogtied, my wrists and ankles painfully ziptied together.

I struggled to draw breath through my nose, still blinded by tears, but glad to not have that arm choking my throat. A knee crushed down into my back. My scream was muffled, and I struggled, but with bound hands and feet. The guy jamming his knee in my back started giving me condescending commands.

“Relax, sweetie. You're under arrest for violations of moral turpitude. Just relax. Breathe through your nose.”

“Yeah, she’s broadcasting… Captured the whole arrest.” One of the cops laughed.

Another snickered, “Thirty viewers… Fucking sad. Say goodbye to freedom slut. Whores like you can no longer be trusted to manage yourselves.” The word whore hit me like a slap from my dad.

The one on my back was all business. I think deep down, he hated women, as he ground his knee painfully into me. “Alright, we got moral turpitude, Illicit broadcasting, resisting, assault on an officer… Anything else?”

The cop at my computer was watching the viewer comments, which were now streaming by rapidly… they were no longer stroking themselves and were now having an animated conversation. Sadly, I was too far from the screen to see what was said.

“Looks like one of the commenters is sporting a Canadian flag…”

“Sweet,” the cop on my back barked, “International wire transfer, that’s another 10 years right there.”

Ten years? No, that couldn’t be right. I’d just been having a little girlish fun, showing some skin so simps would buy me things. I didn’t do anything gross, just a little teasing, dancing, some slow stripping… Ten years was beyond unfair. I tried to say something, to beg… I’d literally do anything to get out of the cuffs and cover myself up, but the gag just made it a muffled jumble of noise.

There was a flash, one of the officers was taking a photo of my computer and streaming setup. He typed something on his phone, then turned to me. The guy on top of me held up a thumb, like some big game hunter that had just bagged a prize elk. The phone flashed, capturing me pinned to the ground, wearing nothing but panties. My mascara was running in streaks down my face, the one I’d spent twenty-four dollars on because it promised it was no smudge.”

As embarrassing as that shot was in court, it was the next several photos where the cops stood me up, chest exposed, cuffed, and crying, that made the judge lean in and really look at the monitor on his desk. There was another large screen monitor behind him showing everyone in the courtroom my humiliation and naked boobs. The bailiff snickered and adjusted himself right in front of me, and when he looked back at me, there was no doubt he was imagining my breasts, which were now hidden by an orange jumpsuit. I kept thinking about my mom and dad seeing those courtroom photos, knowing they’d never look at me the same.

Even the other defendants in the arraignment were giving me sidelong glances and snickering. To say I was humiliated would be an understatement of gross epic proportions.

My court-appointed attorney advised me to plead out and hope for leniency. The moral turpitude laws were new, and many judges handed down the lightest possible sentence. One thing was certain: they had all the evidence needed if I pushed this to trial, and the judge there would then be required by minimum sentencing guidelines.

When the judge got around to finishing his inspection of the evidence, he asked, “And how do you plead?”

Closing my eyes, I could feel the tears being squeezed out. I took a shuddering breath, knowing this could be the last of my freedom for a decade… “No contest, your honor.”

“Alright… Given your forthrightness in this issue, we’ll drop the assault charges… Honestly, officers, she’s what? A buck ten? Two-hundred-pound officers had to struggle with this little girl?” There was some snickering in the crowd, but the judge continued without waiting for a reply from the officers who had arrested me. “Turpitude, resisting… I do believe that one, and… hmm, international wire transmission. That’s serious. Alright, we’ll call it twenty-five years…”

Twenty-five? I could barely comprehend the number. I’d be forty-five when the sentence was completed. My whole life wasted. The shock was almost as great as the noise my apartment door made coming off its hinges when they arrested me. I sat down heavily as tears poured down my face.

My lawyer leaned into me, urging me to stand… “We’ve got options, we can bring that down… You've got to stand before he hits you with a contempt charge… that can add another five years under the new laws…”

I let him pull me back up to my feet, but honestly, I just wanted to die right there.

The judge continued, “The cost of said sentence is estimated to be… two and a half million dollars… Would you like to defray the cost of your sentencing?”

I blinked through a fog of tears, unable to decipher what he was saying.

“A moment with my client, your honor?” my lawyer begged, then turned to me and began whispering. “If you can defray the cost, you’ll only get twelve years. If you chose prison, it will be the full sentence with a chance at parole in maybe fifteen…”

“I don’t have two million dollars…”

“That’s okay, we can plead indebted servitude. Instead of going to prison, you’ll be auctioned as an indentured servant. I think we can reduce it to ten years if you are willing… Just like we talked about… You get auctioned, the court defrays the cost, your sentence gets reduced significantly… But you’ve got to decide now…”

Ten years… No prison… Indenture was basically slavery… But there’d be no jail, no prison. I’d be able to do things with the indenture holder's permission… Slavery… It was still sounding a lot better than prison… Twenty-five years of prison…

“Yeah… I’ll do it. Indebted servitude, yes please…”

“No!” a shrill voice from the back of the courtroom screamed out. I turned to see a young woman with absolutely no fashion sense, hair that needed help, plain black framed glasses, and bleh clothing, just trash that was mishmashed together. She saw me looking and made eye contact as she continued screaming, “Don’t do this! You’ll be whored out like a slave! We’re working to free you all… Resist! Just hold out a little longer…”

A couple of the court-appointed guards in uniforms rushed over to her and started manhandling her. As they dragged her out, she kept screaming that indenture was slavery, sexual slavery. It made me think…

Twenty-five years in prison… Or fuck some dude that could buy my contract in auction… I kept picturing some crypto guy who’d fly me private, let me keep doing bikini try-ons for his friends. Maybe even let me post again with his permission. Like a sugar baby on steroids, right? Not much of a difficult choice. Her outburst almost made this easier for me.

The judge looked annoyed as they dragged the screaming protester out of the courtroom. He added as the woman was dragged out, “Sadly, I doubt she’ll have the option for indenture… Who’d pay for that?” There were chuckles among the men in the courtroom, but I noticed the other women waiting to plead were thinking. Some even looked a little relieved, like they’d made the same calculations I had.

The judge turned his attention back to me, “Alright… Do you stand by your decision for defrayment via indenture?”

“Yes, your honor,” I said more confidently.

He banged his little hammer thingy, and I was whisked away.

It was sort of a blur after that. I had to affirm indenture a few more times, including on video. There was a whole list of expectations, including not trying to escape, or my time would be doubled. I was told that failure to follow any lawful requests of my contract holder could also land me back in prison, also with a doubled sentence. I agreed to it all, barely paying much attention; all I knew was that I wasn’t going to prison. Then I was given a thick manila envelope with my name and some sort of ID number on it and told that no matter what happened, I needed to hold onto that packet.

As the day went on, the room I was in filled with a steady trickle of women. We were placed on long benches with our hands cuffed to an eyelet between our legs. The packets were carefully placed next to each girl, so the name and ID were face up and easy to read. A woman two benches over had the exact same Target bralette I owned in three colors, and seeing it crumpled on the floor made me want to cry for some reason.

Small screens in the back of the bench in front played an endless stream of videos explaining the rules of indenture. The thirty-sixth amendment allowed indentured service for debt, and nearly everything except physical harm was allowed in pursuit of paying off that debt. It was repeated over and over, and over, that we could opt out now for an additional year on our original sentence. If we opted out later, the full sentence in prison would be applied with no time in indenture considered. Basically, you’d start the whole sentence fresh. Any attempt at escape would double the original sentence.

I had to call a cop over to let me use the bathroom at one point. The thick Latina had a black outline around her dark lips and unlocked me with a sneer. She used a club to guide me to the bathroom and into a doorless stall. As I stood there, she leaned against the stall, watching me and not turning around.

When I asked about some privacy, she laughed and said I should have thought about that before posting all sorts of skank videos online. She wasn’t turning around, and any business I had was everyone’s business now.

Ten years… I’d be thirty… Maybe spending that much time with the contract holder would endear me to him. Maybe we’d stick together. If I were bought as arm candy, who knows, maybe he’d take me out to clubs and restaurants and other fun things?

They’d only given me a disposable paper bra and panties under the jumpsuit. When I unzipped, I could see that the oils in my body had turned the throw-away garments clear in spots, just like fries in a paper bag. I had to pull down my panties in front of her, and she watched every moment of it with a smug smile. When I peed, it was so loud I thought the entire room outside could hear. When I was finished, she handed me exactly two squares of toilet paper… Two! As I fumbled to zip back up and cover myself, she commented under her breath that it would be the last time I had to worry about that.

The clock at the front of the room counted slowly. Some girls couldn’t read it and would ask about the time. I pretended not to know how to read an old-timey clock, so I wouldn’t get pestered with timekeeping all day. Some girls cried. Some entertained ideas like I had, telling benchmates that they would make their contractor fall in love, so the sentence would be an easy time. Someone spread an ugly rumor that we’d all be working in brothels.

Finally, as the clock neared six, doors opposite from the ones that we’d all entered opened, and a group of deputies began walking along the benches, unlocking us from our seats, but leaving our hands cuffed in front of us. As they released each woman, they would direct her to the doors and waiting buses outside. Our packets were placed on the seat, and our hands were cuffed to bars on the back of the seats in front of us. It was weird to be sitting on the packet I’d been told so clearly not to lose. As one of the last ones out of the court complex, I got a seat at the front of the bus, which had a cage separating the driver and the first couple of seats from the prisoners. Once that cage was shut, we began moving. I counted three long orange school buses painted in prison colors.

My seat partner wasn’t interested in chatting, and honestly, I wasn’t exactly up to the task either. We sat in silence, as did most of the women. A few here and there chatted with their neighbors, but most of us were too nervous. I’d never paid much attention to politics, so I didn’t know what the process for indenture was exactly. I’d seen the protests five years ago when the new amendments were first started, but each year fewer people protested.

The buses drove through the night for hours. We finally turned off the freeway and approached a massive compound surrounded by wire gates twenty feet high and topped with razor wire. An enormous sign had been erected next to the gate reading:

UNITED STATES / ISLA SERENA JOINT NAVAL BASE

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

I’d never heard of Isla Serena in my life.

When the guards opened the gates, and we came to a stop, there was no yelling or screaming; they just directed us off the bus. The guards outside then directed us into the building in single file. It was surreal in its orderliness. So mundane that all I could think about was scratching my wrists, eager to get the cuffs off.

Once inside the door, we were split into a dozen different lines. I followed the one I’d been guided to and approached the man sitting behind a booth and a computer screen. When asked, I put my packet on the counter, and he opened it and leafed through it. He typed on the terminal as the lines behind me began filling up. My stomach kept making that nervous gurgle you get before a wax appointment, except there was no appointment, no numbing cream, no nice lady telling me to breathe.

Finally, he slid my packet back at me and nodded me through a turnstile past him. I went through it to what looked like a workstation with three people in white lab coats. Some sort of device hung from a thick electric cord from the ceiling.

When asked, I handed my packet to the one in charge. He turned to another man in a lab coat, who then turned to a work terminal and began typing. The third one was a woman, almost my size, who wouldn’t look me in the eyes at all. She simply said, “Tilt your head to the right,” and pressed the hanging device to my exposed neck.

“Try not to move,” she said as the man in charge took hold of my cuffed wrists, “this may feel a little weird.”

Before I could ask any questions, the device made a snapping noise, and a jolt of burning sensation shot through my neck. I jumped and shrank back, raising my hand to my neck. The man holding my hands stopped me, saying, “You weren’t supposed to move.”

“It’s okay, she’s tagged.” The woman said while looking behind me for the next person in line.

“Tagged?” I stuttered.

The man holding the cuffs binding my wrists looked at the left side of my neck, inspecting the area that had gotten the sudden shock. “Yup, looks good. You’ve been branded… A lovely little barcode to wear for the rest of your life. Move along.”

He put a hand on my ass and gave me a little shove. That made me jump forward, moving with the flow, exactly what he’d told me to do. I wasn’t sure which was more shocking to me at that moment, the ass grope or the fact that I’d been tattooed.

Staggering along the line on the floor, I reached up and felt my neck. Sure enough, there was something slick, almost greasy feeling, and a series of raised bumps, but long up and down. I toyed at it as I shuffled, wanting and not wanting to see what they’d done to me in a mirror.

I approached the next station, another three people, two women this time, and a man. All in lab coats. I realized that the last station hadn’t given me my packet back. I wasn’t sure if I should go back or continue on.

The woman in charge grabbed my cuffed wrists, and with a flick, they opened, and my hands were free. I rubbed the wrists, glad to finally be rid of the binds.

“Go ahead and remove all your clothing.” The woman said matter-of-factly.

“Excuse me?” I stammered.

“Your clothes, take them off. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

I didn’t know what to say. The request seemed outrageous. Both women stood in front of me, arms crossing as if determining how much of a problem I was about to become. The man sitting at the terminal looked up with disinterest. He’d seen this played out a bajillion times.

The woman who had freed me held up a pair of medical scissors. “We can do this without your cooperation if needed.”

I looked across the room at other lines and saw women in orange jumpsuits stripping down. Some did so blasely, without a thought about it. Others blushed deep crimson and covered themselves with their arms. In every line, however, women were stripping.

Not wanting to make a scene, I gulped and reached for the zipper. Hell, I’d already been through this in the bathroom earlier. It was what everyone else was doing, and so I just did it. Slipping the jumpsuit off and stepping out of it in a pile on the floor along with the flip flops that had been issued.

“Pick it up, fold it, and hand it to her,” The woman said in such a monotone that I knew she’d probably said it a thousand times before.

I still had the disposable bra and panties, my only cover as I bent down, grabbed the jumpsuit, and folded it quickly. I wanted to press it in front of me as cover, but reluctantly gave it away.

“Disposables as well.” She said, bored.

I gave the other woman the flip-flops. She waited, then cocked an eyebrow and said, “All the disposables.”

Now I was blushing. I’d be completely naked, marching along a line to see who knew how many others before getting clothes again.

The lead woman laughed, “The terptitudes… Every fucking time. No problem showing their pussy to strangers, but they start blushing like virgins once they get here.”

The other woman nodded, “Every fucking time.”

A quick look left and right confirmed the other prisoners were doing it without a fuss, and I didn’t want to be a problem maker. I crossed my arms and pulled the bra up over my head. I folded it quickly and handed it to the woman with my jumpsuit. She just tossed it in a bin, along with the flip-flops. My nipples hardened the second the cold air hit them and I hated that my body was advertising itself.

I didn’t want to give up my last shred of dignity, but more importantly, I didn’t want to go back to twenty-five plus one. I grabbed the waistband on each side and slid the panties off in one go. When I went to hand them to the woman with my jumpsuit, she grimaced and pointed to a trash bin.

Letting go of the panties felt like throwing away my last shreds of dignity. I stood there looking into the half-full bin, so many other panties, women like me thrown away.

“This way,” the woman in charge said, her voice tinged with irritation now. I turned back to see all three of them looking at me, my hands moved automatically to cover myself.

“A three?” the man asked.

“Definitely,” the woman in charge said.

The woman who took my jumpsuit dropped it into a cart with many others. They’d demanded I fold it for no reason. Bored or power tripping, they’d demanded I fold it so they could just drop it into a bin. She picked up a large marker from the desk the man was sitting at and waved me to her.

The other two weren’t even looking at me any longer, their eyes drifting down the line to the next woman approaching. As I timidly stepped up to her, she uncapped the marker and quickly wrote the number three over my left breast. It happened so fast I didn’t even think to pull away. The others didn’t bother to look up. The woman with the marker pointed along the colored line on the floor, guiding me to the next station.

Naked, I followed the line, not wanting to look up, not wanting to see anything but the colored line on the floor. I shuffled quickly to the next station and was relieved to see partitions that offered some hint of privacy.

Three office cubicle walls in a U-shape offered a small pool of shelter in the vast, open gym-like space. I followed the line into it, glad to finally be behind something. Tucked between the low cubicle walls was a barber chair with a bored older man leaning against it.

He nodded to the chair, then leaned and brushed it with his hand, sending a scattering of different colored curls to the ground, but not cleaning it off thoroughly. He nodded at it again as I stared in horror; the thought of sitting in strange womens’ discarded hair seemed dirty to me.

My hesitation caused another man, bigger, bulkier, that I hadn’t noticed, to snap to attention. He stepped to me, pointing at the chair, “Have a seat, or I can sit you down.”

Glancing up in surprise, I could see in his eyes that he was serious; he’d grab me and sit me down, and there’d be nothing I could do to resist it. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a lovely face to meet in a bar or shopping, but here, with his hard eyes and demand to do as told, I looked away in shame and sat as quickly as possible.

“Grab the armrest and keep your hands there.” The larger man demanded, “And don’t move them.”

I sat there stiff as a board, clutching the metal frame as the older man stepped back into view with a pair of clippers in his hand. I wanted to say something, but the larger man’s hands clamped down on my shoulders. There was nothing I could do as the older man leaned in, the buzzing shaver running through my hair. He moved around me quickly as locks of my hair fell like snow. The shock stunned me into a stupor.

It only took moments, and the buzzing stopped. Cool air tickled across my head as tears welled. The breeze touching my scalp felt wrong, so wrong. I used to spend forty-five minutes every morning with the curling wand so it fell just right over my boobs for streams. Now there was nothing left to hide behind

“Spread your legs.” The man pinning me down said with a certain amount of glee.

I forced my knees apart, too numb now to resist.

“She’s shaved already… slut.” They laughed.

“All done, let’s go.” The larger man said as his hands lifted from my shoulders. Dazed, I did as he said, standing as my own hair fell from my lap. A hand on my shoulder stopped me long enough for the older man to write the number 2 on my chest.

I was pushed out of the cubicle as another naked woman came around the corner. Her wide eyes said it all, she was horrified at what she saw and knew she was next. I looked back down at the floor, only wanting all of this to be done with. I followed the line further into the vast open space, not looking around me at anything. I was fixated on the line following it to what felt like my doom.

Next was a station with plastic sheets hanging to form a broad tent. A woman in a lab coat and rubber boots beckoned me toward her. Hunched and wishing to hide I stepped up to her as she explained. The sound of running water was unmistakable underneath her loud voice.

“Listen carefully. You will step inside. You will place a foot on each of the prints on the floor. You will place your hands on your head. You will remain that way until told to leave. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and she practically shoved me into the tentlike structure hanging by wires. Inside a shower head hung, dripping water in the center. Two women were inside, they wore nothing but wet, long plastic aprons, and I saw that both had barcodes on their necks.

“Come on, this way.” One snapped. She grabbed me by the shoulders and marched me to the center under the showerhead hanging high above me. When she got me into place, she smacked my arms, “Hands up, sweetie. Yeah, I cried too my first day. Save your tears. You’ll need them later.”

I didn’t want to touch my head but a smack to my ass urged me to comply. I didn’t have much time to dwell on the degrading pose as the other woman lifted a hose with a metal lance attached. She aimed it at me, blasting my chest with a clear oily spray. I yelped, and she hosed me in the face, my mouth filled with a bitter, foul chemical taste.

As I sputtered, she lowered the spray, coating my whole body in viscous fluid. She stopped the travelling stream for a moment to spend extra time spraying up into my bare vagina. The other barked to keep my arms up.

The woman with the hose stepped around me and sprayed my backside down as well. When she got to the small of my back, her partner demanded, “Bend at the waist. Grab your cheeks and spread.”

“What?” I said, trying to turn.

A sharp, painful slap to my butt made me yelp.

“Just do it. Don’t make me call a guard, they don’t like getting wet.”

Closing my eyes, I bent at the waist and reached back. I’d barely pulled the cheeks apart when the spray blasted against me, forcing another yelp out.

“Stand still… We can do this all day if needed.”

I stood there in that humiliating pose, pulling my ass cheeks apart as they pressed the hose right up to me. The stinging pressure from the hose made my legs shake before the spray finally moved down away from my butt. Not knowing what to do, I stood there bent over as they finished.

Water erupted from the showerhead, raining down on me. “Go ahead and stand-up sweetie, you’ll be standing like that plenty when you get assigned to your brothel.”

Eyes closed, I let my hands wander away from my ass. I covered my chest with my elbows and put my face in my hands. These two had obviously gone through what I was just now, but they had no time to comfort others, they just did their job. It was all so unfair, I just wanted to cry into my palms and vanish.

The shower died down to a steady drip, then the woman with the hose took a marker from her apron and wrote a three on my wet skin. The other numbers survived, a fuzzy three, then twenty-three.

“Move along, honey. You've got a long night ahead.” Another slap sent me staggering forward. They ushered me out of the tent, still dripping and naked, following the line again. This time, I glanced to the left and right. Other women were staggering out of tents, also dripping, each with numbers on their chests. The woman to my right was obviously ashamed, staring at the ground as she followed her line. The one to my left looked angry, her face twisted in rage as she stomped to the next station.

A waist-high medical table and three men waited. One sat to the side of the table with a computer, the other two were younger men, fit, with military haircuts. These didn’t have lab coats on, just the guard uniforms I’d seen back at the trial.

“Step up to the table, press your thighs against it.” One of the military guys barked. The other came up behind me without a word.

I stepped to the table and felt my wrists grabbed and then restrained with zip ties. They cut into my skin, and both of them suddenly shoved me down across the table. One pinned me there while the other gripped my wet calf, attaching my ankle to the table leg. The other was pulled away a moment later, leaving me spread-eagled, bent over the table. The one pinning me down slipped a collar around my neck and locked it to a hook built into the table. I wasn’t going anywhere.

Behind me, I heard movement, but couldn’t do anything to see what was happening. All I could do was look at the man on the computer, who didn’t even bother to look at me. Something wet and greasy was slapped up into my crotch, then massaged into me, coating my pussy, with a little extra attention spent between my butt cheeks.

“Hey!” I cried out, “Hey!”

“Quiet cunt.” The military guy working the grease into my butt said. “We can gag you if needed.”

He’d simply greased me up, no asking, no waiting for permission, just applied lubricant without any regard whatsoever. I was a task and nothing more, there was no joy taken in feeling up a strange woman’s pussy. Just meat to be prepared.

They wheeled something behind me, and after a moment, I felt something pressed against my vagina. The sensation only lasted a moment, and a phallus was pressed up into me. I struggled to resist, trying to squeeze my thighs together and tensing up, but it wasn’t large, it was smaller in fact than any of the boyfriends I’d had sex with.

“Relax. Don’t tense up.” One of them said as I continued struggling. I wanted to cry out, but could only whimper and moan.

“Did she juice up?” one of them asked, as if I was enjoying it.

“She will in a moment…” the other replied.

Another phallus pressed to my asshole. Even though I’d had more than my fair share of sex in college, my butt was still virgin territory. I begged, “No, please…”

“You like this?” one soldier laughed.

“No!” I exclaimed, only to have a rubbery object shoved in my mouth. I tried to shake my head, but they just held it in place as they forced the rubber phallus into my mouth. Again, it was smaller than average, but enough to prevent my speaking. Once that was done, they returned to my ass, shoving another in me. I groan and cried around the rubber cocks invading me, but they ignored me completely, as if they’d never even heard.

“We’re ready.” A soldier behind me stated with no excitement.

“Alright,” the man at the computer said. “Testing oral.”

There was a whirring noise, and the phallus in my mouth began expanding. It got wider, stretching my jaw until the ache was so strong I thought my mouth would split. That stopped, but the phallus continued growing, longer now, creeping to the back of my throat. I thrashed as it reached the back, and my gag reflexes kicked in. I thrashed, and thankfully, the swelling stopped, then deflated.

“Gagging at six,” the man at the computer reported.

“She’ll get used to more… She’ll get plenty of practice.”

The man at the computer nodded, “Cunt check.”

The whirring started again. I felt the cock inside me growing. I gasped as it filled me and started squirming, hoping to dislodge it somehow. It grew, getting more and more violating with each moment. There was a brief instance where it felt almost good. I whimpered, hating my body for even associating the word with what was happening to me. For one horrifying second my hips rocked forward on their own, like muscle memory from a boyfriend I actually liked, and I wanted to scream at myself for betraying me. Then the moment was over, and it started hurting, stretching me painfully as it continued. I grunted as the whirring continued. It filled me completely, reaching deep inside to places I never imagined. As I broke into frantic whimpering, the stretching and filling stopped and subsided, leaving me a shaking mess of relief.

“That took a while,” one of the soldiers stated.

“The turpitude cases are always whores.” The man at the computer reported, “She's had enough cocks to loosen her up.”

“Too bad for her.” The other soldier said, “Brothel for the sailors most likely.”

I wanted to whimper, to beg for it to stop.

“Ass now.” The computer guy reported.

The whirring started up again, and I wanted to scream. Not only the stretching, but it was sinking painfully into me. I yanked back, trying to break the restraints through sheer force of will, but the pain persisted, stabbing deep into my guts. I shrieked around the rubber cock, and they just chuckled. An eternity later, the whirring stopped, and the cock in my ass started shrinking. I whimpered in relief. I’d have sucked every single one of them in gratitude.

“Anal for her is going to be rough. No experience at all.” The computer tech said. “But that cunt… It's already snapping back. Perfect elasticity. She’ll make a good barracks cumdump.”

Another shrugged, “The broken ones always go to the soldier, brothels aren’t even good enough for them…”

“She’s got a cute face… I’m betting airtight by morning.”

They continued talking around me, with no regard whatsoever to my thoughts or feelings. I was just meat to be packaged and shipped off. Not even a person, just holes, that’s all they measured.

“Aright… Measurements done.” The tech said. The soldiers released me from the table but left my hands behind my back. I felt every pair of eyes measuring whether my boobs were still perky enough to be worth money.

One guided me to the line to the next station and quickly wrote a two on my chest. I followed the line in a daze. I wasn’t even a person with a name anymore, just a bald, tagged, measured thing that used to do ‘girlfriend experience’ streams for ten dollars a minute.

The next station had a white wall and a camera on a tripod. I didn’t even hear the others now, my mind was clouded. I let them move me around like a doll, posting me against the wall for a photo of me standing there nude. Then down on my knees. Then, legs spread for a shot between my legs. And finally bent over to get a picture of my exposed butt. Reduced once again to parts. I got a two on my chest this time.

I sleepwalked to the next station. Still befuddled. I was guided to a chair and sat down. They fondled my boobs. A woman stroked the nipples, getting them hard. They weren’t mine anymore, so I sat there without any reaction, letting them talk about my boobs, about the piercings I would get. There was no discussion about whether I wanted pierced nipples; it was simply done to me. It hurt. And when it was done, a tag hung off my left boob, the barcode matching the one on my neck. They weren’t even mine to be shy about anymore. They were just handles for whoever ended up owning me.

Finally, at the last station, they checked all my paperwork, double checked the tattoo and tags to ensure the numbers matched, and then had one last use of my body… No, their body. They counted the numbers that had been written on my chest and announced that the score wasn’t low enough for auction. I’d be assigned a brothel. Just meat for soldiers to use en-masse. A hole of holes for use. They discussed this among themselves, not with me. My participation wasn’t even considered.

From there, the lines converged. I was standing in a row of similarly shaved and naked women, all cuffed, heads bowed, awaiting uncertain fates. We moved slowly out of the huge building and into the cold night air. It was a short path to a dock, then up a ramp to an ancient-looking freighter. One girl still had perfect acrylics, baby-pink with tiny rhinestones, and I hated myself for being jealous that hers hadn’t broken off yet.

As I stepped onto the gangway, a portly man with grey streaks in his grimy hair was talking to two older soldiers who carried themselves with an air of quiet command and authority.

“There were some discrepancies on the last trip. A couple of missing brothel girls…” a soldier with salt and pepper hair stated.

“What are you accusing me of? Skimming? There are three hundred girls this trip, more than enough for the whole island.” The boat skipper snorted.

“We’re issuing three hundred six, we expect that many to arrive in port four days from now… Undamaged.”

“Don’t worry about my boys, I’ll make sure they only play with the brothel cows…” was the last thing I heard as the line moved up the gangway.

The ship wasn’t large at all, much smaller than a cruise liner. But it was old and decrepit. The thought of four days on this rusting hunk of junk filled me with dread. Moreso than the thought of being at the mercy of the fat captain’s men… Out in the Caribbean waters, no law, no supervision, just hundreds of girls to play with before they were delivered into slavery.

We descended into the dimly lit underbelly, and the smell of machinery and fuel fumes was overwhelming. Rust and grime covered everything. Marched into a long cargo bay a series of pipes ran the length of the room, lifted a few inches up off the floor. We were marched along the wall, one of those pipes running ankle high along it. The handlers told the women in front of me to get down.

I watched as their zip ties were removed, only to have their left hands cuffed to the pipe. They couldn’t even stand up fully. Bent over and restrained by an arm, they started sitting naked asses to the cold, grimy metal floor. I was treated the same way, just another sow in line.

When they finished locking rows of girls to each pipe, a heavy-set woman in uniform announced to the entire room, “Listen up cunts! Get some sleep, enjoy what downtime you can. We start training in the morning. And in a few days, you’ll be dropped off on beautiful Isla Serena to enjoy the rest of your sentences. Lights out!’

The row of bare bulbs winked out, leaving us in a stifling darkness. I could hear movement, girls clutching themselves, the rattle of cuffs, coughing, whispers in the dark, but I couldn’t even see my free hand in front of my face. I lay down on the metal floor, feeling grit bite into my side. I wanted to sob, but it would do no good. I could only wonder about four days of training, of sailors free to do as they please, and an island of brothels where slavery was still real.

A low rumble shuddered through the ship, and I could feel the slightest of swaying. My old life was now being completely left behind.