by John Benson
The vid pick-up was in her hair, disguised as a dragon fly jewel with crystal eyes, so Brenda must look straight at the official, feigning rapt attention.
"Welfare and crime budgets were going through the roof," the official lectured. "We couldn't build prisons fast enough. Something finally had to give, and what finally gave was the paradigm. There had to be a different way."
Brenda knew all this, but it would play better in the words of the official than if she tried to put it in narration. "So we went back to an even older paradigm," she said. "Slavery. One that had been completely repudiated."
The official smiled. "But we're not repeating the mistakes of the past," he said. "That slavery was based on ethnic prejudice and was hereditary. This is based on the individual's ability to correctly run his own life. And slaves are not given childbirth licenses. There will be no permanent underclass."
"We used to be all about freedom," Brenda said. "Then suddenly this abrupt right-hand turn."
"Competing goods," the official said. "Freedom is a good. But so is food and shelter and medical care. And so is low taxes. Slavery cures homelessness, since the responsible party is obligated to provide. Slavery instead of incarceration for non-violent crime keeps taxes low, and provides labor for domestic service, child care, elder care, agricultural. You name it."
"Factories," Brenda said.
"No," the official said. "We stay away from occupations where there are still strong trade unions. It's a sort of an unspoken bargain. We don't compete with union labor directly, and in return they keep their opposition muted. What's your intended slant on this piece, Miss Smith? Op-ed. Expose, what?"
Her business suit was a tad uncomfortable in the warmth of the room. "Sort of something for everyone," Brenda said. "Mainly human interest. Lurid details to titillate those who want to be titillated, and to offend those who would rather be offended. But I need this background to frame it. Put it in context."
"Sort of entertainment masquerading as hard-bitten reportage."
A bit cynical. A bit too close to true. Brenda squirmed. "I can do social commentary with a message underneath as long as I'm entertaining about it," she said. "We all make our Devil's bargains. You have yours, and that's mine. My hardest job is going to be getting inside the slaves' heads. Making friends with them so they will trust me with their private truths."
"Unless you would like to report from personal experience," the official said. Was there just the slight hint of a smirk?
Fear knotted in her belly. She hoped she'd failed to understand. "I beg your pardon?" she said.
"Let us put you through slave training, Miss Smith. We couldn't let you wear your vid pick-up of course. But when it was done we'd have no objection to however you chose to portray your subjective experience. What do you say?"
The only personally possible answer was 'no.' The only professionally tolerable answer was 'yes.' She'd be giving up her body for the cause. A hero. Maybe even win a prize. "And you'd let me go when it was done, and I could write it any way I want?"
"Of course, Miss Smith."
A visit to Hell. The opportunity of a lifetime, at once horrible and wonderful, and she began to shake. "All right," she said.
"Give me your pick-up, Miss Smith. I'll put it right here in this shielded box where it can't hear or see anything. You'll have it back when this is done."
Now? Right now with no time for second thoughts? "How long?" she said.
"A few weeks," he said. "A few months. We don't know how easy to train you are. But you'd take longer than that trying to acquire the trust of others, yes?"
Yes. She took the pin out of her hair. The eyes glinted as she laid it on his desk. The official picked it up almost as if it were a real insect and the shielded box snapped closed. Her witness was gone. This might not have been such a wonderful idea.
"Chip her," the official said.
Two men and a woman entered the office. The men held her arms. The woman put something cold to the back of her neck. It hissed. The little chip dug deep down inside her flesh. Brenda screamed.
The building would know her now. Know that she was a captive, not to be let out. And the chip would broadcast her emotional state, so they knew exactly how well they were getting to her. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
"Phase one," the official said.
They took her to another room, and took all her clothes away.
She was young, with pigtails and a pinafore and miles of cowboy rope. "Tie me up," she told Chuckie the neighbor boy. "You're the mean villain and you just caught me and tied me up."
"How come?" said Chuckie the neighbor boy.
"I don't know. Because you want to. And then when I'm all tied, I can't stop you no matter what." Brenda's little heart went thump. She knew this was naughty. She just wasn't clear on why. Chuckie trussed her up good. She was so helpless. He could have done anything.
"Bye now," Chuckie said. "I can do anything I want and you can't stop me and what I want is to leave you like this for your mom to find. Bet she gets good and mad."
"Chuckie you big old rat fink. Please don't do that."
"Bye Brenda."
"You rat fink. Chuckie. You darn old rat fink." Brenda tried to get loose. If her mom caught her like this she'd get a spankin'. But Chuckie had done too good a job. She was really really tied.
Brenda woke. She was naked, face up in a bed. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the frame. So she couldn't touch herself, they said.
What was that dream? A repressed memory, or a false one. She didn't remember the episode, but it felt so very real, especially the feeling she was going to get a spanking. Brenda squirmed. The fact that they wouldn't let her touch herself made her want to touch herself. Damn them. They understood psychology all too well.
The door opened and closed. Brenda turned her head. It was a pretty woman dressed in slave clothes, loose peasant blouse easily pulled down, short full cotton skirt, easily pulled up. The woman carried a tray, and on it a whip and a vibrator. Brenda tried not to know what it all meant, so all she did was whimper.
"I'm going to tease you until you cum," the woman said. "Then I'm going to use the whip on you."
"No. Please. Please don't. Why are you doing that?"
"We are all bad girls here. Good girls don't get turned into slaves. What was your crime. Larceny? Vagrancy? Drugs? It must be something."
"Curiosity," Brenda whined. "Ambition." There was a soft hum. The vibrator had been turned on. The pretty woman smiled. Oh! The vibrator had touched the swollen tender place where need was. It was doing wicked things to her.
"Are you a good girl, Brenda?"
"No. I'm a naughty girl."
"You know you're going to be whipped when you cum."
"Uh huh."
"But you want to do it anyway, don't you."
"Uh huh."
"Naughty, naughty girl."
She exploded and shook and joy burned away and its ashes were shame. Her legs were untied from the bed and her ankles were fastened together and drawn up over her head. The backs of her thighs were stretched and ready for the whip. Oww! Oww! Oww!
She was being untied. The pretty woman gave her a slave outfit to wear. A travesty of modesty, but at least it was better than being bare. It felt strange not to wear underwear. Her rear ached. She should be angry but she wasn't. She had been slutty, and deserved to be punished.
"Time for your interview," the woman said. "Third door on the right."
No point trying to run. The chip wouldn't let any door open unless she was intended to go through. Brenda was exhausted and ashamed and sated all at once. And she somehow knew, that this sort of punishment would soon come to her again.
There was a youngish man behind the door. "Sit down," he said. She sat. The whip marks twinged. "If you are uncooperative, we will know," he said.
The chip. They could not read her mind, but her feelings were open to them. "I know," she said. The whipping had made her eager to please. Ready to cooperate.
"Sex," the man said. He steepled his fingers. "How much experience have you had?"
No point in lying. "Adolescent fumblings," she said. "Full of guilt and fear of discovery. I told myself I was in love, but if I really had been, there wouldn't have been so much guilt. When it ended I made sure to blame men in general rather than myself, and went around being sad and angry for a long time. Now it's just too hard. I'd have to find a guy who turned me on and was good for my career. The combination just doesn't occur in nature."
"You're a slut who's overcompensated by becoming a cold bitch," the man said. "Well slavery will take the cold bitch away, leaving only the warm slut beneath."
"I am not a slut," she said. But it sounded lame, even to her. A few minutes ago she had writhed beneath a bit of metal and plastic in a strange woman's hand, not even caring if she was going to get her ass whipped if only she could cum first. "Maybe I am a slut. Maybe I always was one, and hid behind propriety so no one would know. Not even me."
"Before we are done, the slut will love her slavery, and you will love the slut," the man said. "Then your training will be complete."
Made no sense. "But I'm only here to experience training. Then I'll be set free to write my article. You mean to tell me I'll earn my freedom by not wanting it any more?"
"Seems like," the man said.
Brenda whimpered. The woman who had whipped her came back and took her to her room. "I'll tie your hands if you want hon. Or let you loose. Up to you. But if you touch yourself you'll be sorrier than I could ever make you."
"You better tie me up," Brenda said. "I don't trust myself."
"You're a smart girl," the pretty woman said. "You're going to make a good slave."
But she didn't want to be a good slave. Or did she? Why had she been attracted to this project in the first place? High-minded social outrage, or a desire to be titillated by other people's submission. As Brenda let herself be tied to the bed so she would not masturbate, the purity of her motives seemed pretty much in doubt.
She was an adolescent, wearing a baggy sweat shirt which came down below her short shorts, giving the false impression it was her only covering. She was a prick tease, proud of being wanted, and proud of saying 'no.' Her mother came toward her, a steely glint in her blue eyes, and carrying a hairbrush.
"I found a vibrator in your room," her mother said. "The kind that runs on batteries. The kind that has no purpose apart from carnality. You wicked girl."
Caught. Brenda was caught. "Would you rather I did it with a guy?" she blurted. Fear added itself to shame. She should never argue pragmatism when her mother saw sin. It would only make things worse.
"Bitch. Slut. I'm going to spank you 'til you can't sit down. Come here."
"Mom, no. Don't spank me. I'll be good, I promise. Please. Please don't spank me with the hairbrush."
"Come here."
Brenda woke in the dark. Not a real memory this time. Well, the memory of a day dream. She had never been punished for masturbation as a teen. But thoughts of being caught and spanked haunted her in her bed at night, as she tried and failed to stop herself from doing what the Church called sin. Need throbbed below her waist. She'd do it now if she weren't tied. Tied up so she couldn't be naughty.
She wished some man would jump on her and take her. If she couldn't have that she even wished the pretty woman would come back and make her cum and punish her. Naughty sluts needed to be punished. It was a Rule. A law of nature. A part of the way things were supposed to be. The light snapped on.
It was the pretty woman. Brenda was being let loose from her bonds. The woman had a hairbrush this time. Coincidence? Or were the chips so high resolution now, that they could reveal the shape of dreams, not only just the feel.
"What are you going to do to me?" Brenda whimpered.
"I'm going to spank you with the hairbrush," the pretty woman cooed. "And then when you're about half-spanked, I'm going to pleasure you. And then when you're all ashamed and helpless, the real spanking will start."
"Okay," Brenda said. She was already ashamed and helpless. She felt shy. She deserved this kind of punishment. No. Admit it. She lusted after it. The pretty woman pulled out a chair, and sat. Slowly, shyly, Brenda draped herself for the first time in her life across another person's lap. The slave skirt, never an impediment, was easily flipped up. Her ass was bare.
"Ask for it," the pretty woman said.
Gulp. "Please spank me," Brenda said. "Because I'm such a naughty slut."
At first it was mostly a sharp sound and a little discomfort, but heat quickly grew and she was truly being punished. She let herself think back to that teenager she used to be, who should have gotten it for masturbation but never did. Well that girl was still inside, and she was sure getting it now.
Smack smack smack! "I'm sorry," Brenda said. "I'm sorry I'm so naughty. Sorry I've got to get spanked so hard." Smack smack smack!
She writhed and kicked. Clever fingers crept in between her thighs and found the cache of moisture. Clever fingers stroked and petted. Oww! And the hair brush was still in play. She was getting pleasured and punished both together. Smack! Oww! She needed to cum.
"Good girls hate this," the pretty woman said. "Bad girls love it."
Ooh. She was a bad girl. Brenda loved it. "I'm naughty," she gasped. "Bad girl. Bad girl." Smack smack smack! Ooh yum. Oh! Oh! Oh! She stiffened and went limp.
"Now I bruise your whole behind," the pretty woman said.
"Uh huh," said Brenda. The hairbrush descended, and it was twice as hard now, and hurt three times as much, and was ten times more deserved.
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