Valentine at the 395 - Foreword

Dear reader,

before you delve into my story, I’d like to offer a few words of warning. This fantasy – and it certainly should forever stay one – is set in a misogynistic version of our world which has legalized contractual slavery. In the U.S. of A., following a devastating economic crisis, the 34^th amendment has been added that allows time limited, non-hereditary slavery. People can indenture themselves for money or as an alternative to a prison sentence. They can be sold as property and be used and abused with few limits, relegated to property in the eyes of the law. The boundaries of consent are blurred at best in such a setting, of course. While all indentures are regarded as “voluntary”, few participants would say they had a real choice. Even fewer would tell you they signed up for this without any legal or financial pressure at all. So do not expect the events in this little tale to proceed according to the sensible rules of safe, sane and consensual. In fact, expect every single one of these to be completely ignored.

This is a story of stupid love and cruel betrayal. It is also a tale about the dark abyss of power and people reveling in its abuse. Last, and yet foremost, it is a depraved play with what-ifs meant to titillate and arouse, with no redeeming moral qualities.

If you’re still not scared away, please fasten your seat belt, suspend your disbelief and accompany our sweet, loving heroine along her one-way journey into a dark future she certainly doesn’t deserve. Watch her suffer and struggle with never-ending embarrassment and cruel, undeserved pain. And if you make it to the end, don’t tell me you haven’t been warned!

Valentine at the 395

“No, we’re still not going to Vegas, love,” I said for probably the tenth time. “Now stop trying to ruin the surprise.” To make sure Robert didn’t see the anxiety in my face, I looked out the passenger side window and took in the lush green that framed the road in the previously barren Owen’s Valley. My heartbeat kept pacing faster with every mile we got closer to the destination for our Valentine’s day excursion.

Was I really doing the right thing?

I chanced a glance at Robert. He was focused on the road ahead, with that same intensity he put into everything he did, the intensity that caught my attention when we first met and that gave me the courage to overcome my self-consciousness. I could see the gears going in his head. It was usually he who arranged things, but today, I had taken the reigns. Pangs of doubt once more shot through me, but I breathed them away, in and out, in and out. I squashed all thoughts about what was going to happen soon. If I didn’t, I would have fallen to pieces.

We got engaged two years ago to the day, but lately, I felt like we weren’t going anywhere. It was difficult finding rapport with his wealthy friends, and I had trouble dealing with their views on slavery. To me, the thirty-forth amendment was horrible, even if it kept our jails mostly empty and our crime rates low. I had always been a staunch believer in human rights and female autonomy.

And yet, where we were heading, I was going to be devoid of those rights, even if only for a little while. I was going to be stripped, humiliated and exposed. But it was what I had to do. Robert’s sister Carmela had finally thawed and we had a few long talks about my relationship with her brother. I finally understood that the fact that I didn’t have a slave grading was such an issue, that it was expected of him to flaunt his fiancee’s rating, and that the lack of a slave registry number behind my lower lip was a terrible blemish in his circles.

I wouldn’t have known what to do, and I would probably have fucked up big, but Carmela helped me. She arranged for a slave yoga teacher and made sure Robert was out of the way when I had my lessons, and she helped me arrange my grading at the famous 395 Market.

When the thirty-forth amendment passed legislation, slave markets shot from the ground everywhere. Many of them were shady and were quickly closed down again. The big ones, founded by the rich, prevailed, usually in big cities. 395 Market was different, built in the middle of an arid stretch of land halfway between L.A. and Vegas. The owners built it from scratch, with investments by locals, and most of the earnings went into buying back water rights from Los Angeles. Back in the days when the first settlers arrived in Owen’s Valley at the foothills of the snow capped Sierra Nevada, it had been a paradise and quickly became the biggest apple orchard of the continent. But then L.A. boomed, and ruthless managers started buying up rights to the local water and built a huge canal to route the water into the big city.

Fast forward a decade, and desert took over the valley.

Now, hundred-and-fifty years later, the valley was greener than it had ever been, courtesy of the detestable practice of auctioning off humans as sex slaves, either for the money, as an alternative to long prison sentences or out of plain stupidity.

Pretty soon after the slave auctions started, the auction houses invented a grading scheme to make the “wares” comparable and give a rough estimate on their value. Then a famous beauty influencer convinced one of the markets to grade her without selling her, and a hype was born. Young women competed over getting grades like “Choice”, “Prime” and, for the most beautiful and sexually attractive, “Prime Plus”. They practiced the lewd acrobatics that potential slaves were made to perform on the auction block and called it “slave yoga”.

“We need to turn right there,” I said, and my throat tried to clench up.

The car slowed down and finally slowed to a stop. Robert turned towards me. “Lucy?” he asked with an unfamiliar tinge in his voice. “Is that ... are you...”

I laughed softly, nervously, and glanced at the huge sign that pointed down the side road and left no doubt where it was leading. “It’s – it’s my Valentine gift to you,” I told him and took his hand. It was a good thing I had rehearsed that moment, or my courage may have faltered. “I’m going to get graded for you. I want to make you proud, love.”

He stared at my face for long seconds, and I started wondering if I did something wrong. But then he smiled brightly, leaned close and kissed me hungrily. “That’s a wonderful gift, honey,” he said quietly and caressed my cheek, soothing my nerves.

At that moment, seeing the joy in his eyes, I felt so desired and loved and proud. I knew it was the right thing to do.

“Are you getting the full package?” he asked.

The full package. Carmela had explained that to me. They had the “small package”, a private grading with only a few staff members and officials present. Then there was the “public package”, which entailed being stripped naked and getting collared at reception as well as having to perform my slave yoga routines in front of a large audience. And finally, there was the “full package”. I’d be treated just like a slave up for auction. I’d get inspected, caged and whipped, and if I made at least “Prime”, I would be branded too. The full package would take all weekend. Robert would be staying at the four star hotel attached to the Market, and even for the parts he couldn’t partake, he would be able to watch every second of my grading experience on the tv screen in his room.

I squeezed Robert’s hand and tried not to let on how terrified the thought made me. “I want to wear the brand for you,” I told him.

He grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into another kiss, which made me melt inside and left me gasping for breath.

The place was already busy at this time of day. While Robert guided the car into a parking slot, I took in the sight. The entrance hall was huge and it’s front completely made of glass. I spotted girls even younger than me crossing the parking lot, some of them giggling, some of them looking terrified. My eyes fell on a naked woman, a few years older than me and wearing a mean looking, silver collar. Two police officers were holding onto her upper arms and leading her towards the entrance. She looked desperate and struggled against their grip, but they were unfazed. All she managed was to make her full breasts bounce and wiggle.

“Sorry, love,” I said when I realized that Robert had said something.

“I said that Carmela stripped in the car when she had her grading and walked naked across the parking lot.”

I stared at him. For a moment, I thought to tell him I wasn’t Carmela, but his eyes left no doubt. The two of them were always competing, and I couldn’t let his sister get the better of me in that regard. Ever so slowly, I managed to move my hands and started to strip, and the reality of it all suddenly became palpable.

“I never thought you would do it,” Robert said, watching me undress. “Your views about the markets and the grading seemed pretty unshakable.”

They still were. But I couldn’t tell him that. “I want nothing more than to make you happy, love. Carmela explained what all this means to your friends and family.”

I felt the stares on my skin, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. But Robert’s hand on my lower back was insistent, and then we were walking towards the entrance and my heart was thudding madly in my chest. I ignored everything around me and tried to focus on what I was doing this for instead. I pictured our wedding, in a huge, baroque church with his large family and friends. I envisioned myself in a flowing white dress, giving my vow, us exchanging rings and finally kissing.

But then we were standing at a counter, and a tall, cute woman in her thirties smiled at us. Her nameplate said “Wendy”. “Welcome to 395 Market. Are you here to sell her?”

“I’m-”

“Quiet!” she snapped and looked back at Robert. “Well?”

My breath hissed when she blatantly ignored me. I tried to speak again, but Robert sensed it and slapped my butt, right there in the middle of a crowd! My cheeks grew even hotter than they already were, and I looked down.

“She’s here to get graded. Knowing my sister, she already arranged for everything for my fiancee here.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lucy Thorne,” Robert said.

Wendy scrolled through her tablet. “Ah, yes, here we have it. Lucy Thorne, age 23, college student here for a grading. It says full package, is that right?”

“It is.”

“It’s already paid for. Good. Unfortunately, Mr...”

“Erickson.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Erickson, there’s a small glitch we will have to work around.”

“A glitch?”

“The order says to include the brand, but they put new legislation in place yesterday. Branding is only allowed for owned slaves now. It seems there were a lot of lawsuits about supposed mutilation lately, and since the girls were usually devoxed and bound when it happened, the courts thought they were incapable of making a decision they should have rightfully been able to make. So Lucy here can’t get the brand unless her owner makes that decision for her.”

“But I don’t have an owner!” I yelped. Then I yelped again because Robert slapped my butt once more, and this one smarted.

“Quiet!” Wendy hissed. “Do you want me to devox her?”

“I’m sorry for her outburst. She’ll be quiet now,” Robert said. Then he turned to me, gripped my hair at the back and pulled so I was forced to look up at him. He leaned close and whispered into my ear, “You want me to have the full package, the full experience, don’t you, honey?”

His breath tickled my cheek, and my indignation crumbled. “Yes, love,” I whispered back.

“Good girl,” he said, and at that moment, I felt fuzzy and warm.

“She’ll behave now,” he said evenly, turning towards Wendy once more. “You said something about working around that? I would really love it if she could get the brand.”

“Well,” Wendy said, tilting her head, “it’s not really a way around and more of following the letter of the new law. You would have to become her owner, meaning she would have to indenture herself to you voluntarily for the minimum duration.”

I felt all the muscles in my body stiffen at once. The grading was one thing. Indenture myself?

Robert turned towards me and gave me a searching look. “That would be a pretty big step and put her into a very vulnerable position,” he thought out loud. “You probably don’t know that, Wendy, but my fiancée was very opposed to everything that has to do with the 34^th amendment every since we met. That she’s willing to get graded for me is a huge thing. I’m not sure I can expected her to trust me so absolutely, even if the brand would be the ultimate gift and I’d release her from her indenture once it’s done.”

He was giving me a way out. Wasn’t he? I stared at him. He looked relaxed, but also a little expectant. Did he ... I took a shaking breath. His expectancy was slowly turning into disappointment, and somehow, the thought of letting him down stabbed me in the heart. If we got back, and I didn’t have the Prime tattoo in the cleft between my bottom cheeks, I would fall short of all these expectations. Carmela had it. Even Robert’s mother Elvira had it.

Trust. He was right. It all boiled down to trust. I could refuse, but then I’d be telling him I didn’t trust him. “I’ll do it,” I heard myself say, sounding like my voice was coming from far away.

“Brilliant,” Wendy piped. “Fortunately, we have both a recognized slave attorney and a judge on site. It’ll take less than ten minutes to get it done.”

Wendy had been right. It took longer to walk to the office at the back of the entrance hall and back than it took to get indentured.

The judge, to my surprise a regal looking woman in her forties instead of a sleazy old guy like I had expected, looked at the papers Wendy had printed, then at me. “I see. Lucy Thorne, 23, here to voluntarily indenture yourself to your fiancé Robert Erickson. You’re young enough so you had slave law in your last year of high school, so I don’t need to go through all the yadda yadda. So let’s not waste anybody’s time. You sign this, Mr. Erickson signs this, then Miss Jennings here adds her signature as a witness and as a state accredited attorney at slave law. The moment I add my stamp, you’re legally enslaved and can only be released by either a formal, court-signed declaration of your owner or the fulfillment of the duration of your indenture. Wendy, have the fees been paid?”

“They have, your honor.”

“Any caveats you see, Miss Jennings?”

“None so.”

“Then sign,” the judge said, nodding to me.

There was no time to read the ten or so pages, but I had a pretty good idea what they said anyway. I’d become a slave. Human livestock. I’d become owned, and my owner could do whatever he wanted to short of killing or mutilating me.

Two strong, familiar hands touched my shoulders.

I picked up the expensive looking pen and quenched a shiver. It felt like I was a watching a strange movie where a different version of me was scratching her name at the bottom of a sheet, and another one, and another one, until there was none left.

Robert leaned over me, took the pen from my shaking fingers and signed the sheets with a flourish.

The attorney signed them too, barely looking at me.

The judge nodded, picked up a large stamp and whacked it down on the topmost sheet.

“So that’s it. Miss Thorne, you are now indentured for the duration of six months or until your owner releases you, whichever comes first. Your rights to wear clothes or make decisions have been revoked for the duration. By federal law, you have to be slave graded within the next 72 hours, and your grade must be entered into the official database by that time, or a warrant for you will be sent out and your title will default to the state. Mr. Erickson, have fun with your slave.”

Back at reception, I stood trembling in front of Wendy. Her thumb gently pushed down on my chin, and I opened my mouth, dreading what was coming. She guided the pump spray’s nozzle past my lips and squeezed once. A short burst of cool mist hit the back of my throat, and I swallowed on instinct. She pulled the nozzle back out and looked at the large watch on the wall. “Three – two – one. Say something.”

I tried to. All that came out was a soft stream of air, and I realized how helpless I was. Panic washed through me, and my breath started racing. Wendy nodded towards me, or so I thought. I watched her pick up the collar, and knowing well enough what it could do, I took a step back. Well, I tried to.

Right at that moment, two sets of strong hands clamped around my upper arms. I tried to cry out, but I only managed another soft hiss of air, too quiet for anybody but myself to hear. I watched the collar approach me, and Wendy wrapped it around my neck and clicked it shut. Tears started trickling down my cheeks, and I looked at her imploringly. I had seen and heard enough about the kind of collars they used at slave markets.

“I guess you know what’s coming,” Wendy said, holding up her tablet and pushing a button.

Pain lanced through my body, and all my muscles locked up. A second later, the pain ebbed away and my legs and arms went completely limp, though sharp twinges kept racing through my body. Only the strong grip on my arms prevented me from crashing face forward onto the tiled floor.

“That was level one of three.” Wendy didn’t need to say any more. I did not want to feel that again, and I certainly didn’t want to find out what the other levels felt like.

When she reached for my lower lip, I didn’t dare pull away. I was about to receive my slave number, and it needed to be tattooed on the inside of my lip. She picked up the high tech tattoo gun and pushed it against the exposed insides. A short burst of whizzing noise filled the air. The sharp pain registered a second later. Fresh tears trailed down my cheeks.

“Oh, this is fun!” Wendy said giddily. “Your slave registry number is 73948-696969. Triple-sixty-nine.” Then she did something which I should have expected somehow, but it caught me out of the blue. She reached between my legs.

I stiffened and tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go with the dead grip on my arms.

Then she said two words that hit me like a whiplash and drained all energy from me. “Slave-hot.”

I had always felt that word was horrible, demeaning, a sick male fantasy invented to justify their perversions, but when Wendy held up her hand, which was shiny and musky with my secretions, the terrifying truth stared me in the face. When she wiped her fingers on my unprotected breast and my nipples tingled madly, I was forced to accept that it wasn’t some made-up thing.

“See that,” Wendy said to Robert, “how wet this made her? She’s already going into slave heat. That’s good for her grading. It’s often what makes the difference between Choice and Prime.” She wasn’t even looking at me when her hand slid down my front and touched my vulva again. I looked at Robert, but his focus alternated between her hand and face. “She’s been in denial about it, no doubt, but she was meant to be a slave. We get girls like her regularly. All uptight and condescending about our business, but it’s just a defense mechanism because their need to be enslaved clashes with their upbringing. If she could talk right now, she’d be screaming and crying, denying it was true, but just look how she’s humping my middle finger.”

I froze. A wave of humiliation stronger than anything I had ever felt before washed through me.

“Are you sure you don’t want to put her up for auction?” Wendy suddenly asked.

“She’s my fiancée,” Robert reminded her. “She’s only here for her grading. That whole indenture thing is only for the tattoo.”

“I know that,” Wendy said. “But doesn’t the bible teach us that we need to let go what we love? I’m sure a handsome, educated man like you would have no trouble at all to find a replacement.”

Robert looked a little uncomfortable. I tried to shout at him to stop this madness, but they didn’t even notice. The devox was too efficient.

“Oh, I’m not coming onto you,” Wendy said with giggle. “I’m happily married. But she’s a cutie, she’s probably going to get at least Prime, and she has that vulnerable look many of our customers pay extra dollar for. And if you sign her up for sale today, you’ll get the Valentine special and we’ll only take half of our regular cut.”

I stared at Robert through tear-filled eyes, imploring him to end this.

“She will thrive as a slave,” Wendy said, turning back to me.

“Don’t!” I tried to shout when her finger resumed it’s motion in and out of my vagina.

“You may have fooled your fiance and yourself, Triple-sixty-nine, but not me. You’re made to stand on the auction block, naked and exposed. I bet you’ll love being groped by strangers, their fingers invading your sweet mouth, your wet cunt and your tight little ass. I can already see you cream yourself under the terrible swats from the crop, and you’ll be a wonderful spectacle when you perform your slave yoga for dozens of strangers while you beg them to buy you and use you. I know girls like you.”

Every time she shoved her finger inside, she squashed my clit with the ball of her thumb. The heat in my pussy got stronger and stronger.

Wendy turned back to Robert, not slowing down. “She’s squishing down there. She can’t wait to hear the gavel fall and realize she’s been sold for real, terrified and so horny to learn which cruel Master or Mistress has bought her. Look how she’s getting ready to cum, right here in the entrance hall, with a hundred people watching. She’s a slave-hot piece of need, about to find her fulfillment. You wouldn’t want to keep that from her, Mr. Erickson, would you?”

Robert reached out, and for a wonderful, elated moment I thought he was going to stop her from taking me over the edge. He gripped my left breast instead, and his thumb flickered over my nipple.

I tried in vain to scream his name to make him stop. He knew how sensitive my nipples were. He could sometimes make me cum just from playing with them.

“I’ve certainly never seen her this wild,” Robert said, his voice full of wonder. “Maybe I should just keep her as my slave. I could keep her naked and horny all the time.” He squeezed my nipples, just the way he knew I loved it, and I couldn’t hold back.

I came, the lust exploding somewhere deep inside me and rushing through every fiber of my being. My pussy squeezed down hard on Wendy’s finger, but her hand kept rubbing my clit and brought me even higher. I threw back my head, closed my eyes and gave myself over to the climax.

The applause that broke the silence which followed my public orgasm washed over me like ice cold water. I had gone limp on the two guards’ grip, but I struggled back into a standing position. Shame, betrayal, fear and hate warred inside me.

“She’s ready for processing now,” Wendy said, holding her tablet again. “Do you want to go along and watch?”

Robert looked at me, then at Wendy.

“Please,” I wanted to beg. “Don’t leave me alone! This isn’t what I signed up for!”

He sighed. “It was a long drive here. I think I’ll get settled in my room and take a shower first.”

“We have an auction in two hours which you could visit, just to get a feel how it would be if you do decide to sell her.” She handed him a glossy slip of paper.

I shook my head as hard as I could.

“Sounds interesting. Yes, I think I’d like to watch that.”

“Perfect. Just come back to reception and ask for me, and I’ll show you to the auction hall,” Wendy said. “The wranglers will take care of Triple-sixty-nine.”

“I really appreciate everything,” Robert said and slipped a hundred dollar bill into her well-manicured hand.

“Our clients’ satisfaction is my topmost priority. Anything else I can help you with?”

“Maybe later,” Robert said with that boyish grin I had come to love, but which appeared almost sinister all of a sudden. Then he turned towards the entrance without looking at me.

It felt like something cracked inside of me. I tried to wiggle from the men’s grip, but that didn’t even faze them. When Wendy tapped a finger against the side of her neck, reminding me of my collar, the crack inside me got wider, and I didn’t even think of resisting when I was turned around and marched towards a large metal gate over which a sign said, “PROCESSING”.

The wranglers – different ones now – pulled me up from my position where I was huddled in the corner, wet and shivering. These ones were clad in black leather outfits that made them look even more threatening. Both were over six feet tall and muscular. Their grip on my arms hurt.

We were in a wide, tiled room with mirrors making up the higher part of the wall. The first step of “processing” was getting washed, but I had not expected the freezing cold water that spurt with so much pressure from the hose that it hurt where it hit my body for more than a second.

The third one, a woman in a matching leather outfit, was cackling at me. “Bend her over. It’s time to do her backside.”

I started struggling again.

“Let her go,” the woman snapped, and the two of males pulled her hands away from me as if burned.

I took a shaky step away from the brutes and let out a relieved breath, and I finally managed to read the woman’s name tag. “Elena. Senior Wrangler,” it read.

“Triple-sixty-nine,” Elena said and took a step closer. She held up her left wrist, where some kind of plastic device with buttons was attached. “This little device here is connected with your collar. All I have to do is point it at you and push this little button.” Her index finger hovered over a red button. “You’ll get a level three shock. It hurts so much that slaves always piss themselves when that happens. Do you want to experience that?”

That level one shock had been bad enough, so I shook my head.

“Good. I don’t want to push it either.”

“Lying bitch,” the male wrangler to my left said with a terribly fake cough.

Instead of getting angry, the woman laughed. “Got me there, Frank. Okay, it would be fun to push it, but it would also mean we’d have to start over, which would take longer, which in turn would look bad in our shift statistics. We already went over time twice today. So there are two options: you continue resisting, and you’ll get shocked, Triple-sixty-nine. You’ll get another cold shower and we’ll repeat everything until you’re too tired to resist. Or, you get down on your knees now, your ass over the drain, lean your upper body on the floor, spread your ass cheeks and stay in position until I tell you otherwise, like the good little slave you want to be. Which is it?”

I looked for mercy in Elena’s eyes, but there was none. With a silent sob, I lowered myself onto the wet tiles and did as she asked. I had never in my life felt so small, so helpless, so humiliated, and I knew it was going to get worse. What was I thinking when I decided to come here? But I knew that. While I tried to ignore the cold, wet, uncomfortable tiles, I leaned forward until my chest was resting on the floor and reached back, unwilling to prolong the inevitable. I had been in love and stupid. I had been so focused on my dream of marriage that I had ignored all the dangers. And now I was here, stripped of my dignity, rights and voice, and I suddenly wasn’t sure anymore whether Robert loved me for real. “Happy fucking Valentine,” a small voice in the back of my mind taunted.

“Don’t move,” Elena said from behind me, and something cool and slick pushed against my pucker. I cried out softly when it wiggled past my ring of muscle with a sharp, stinging pain. Then I just sobbed silently while the soapy water rushed into my bowels.

“Good girl,” Elena praised. “This will only take a few minutes, then you’ll be all clean and shiny inside.”

“Triple-sixty-nine. Has a nice ring.”

I looked away from the doctor. I didn’t like him, even though he was somewhat handsome for a man in his early fifties. It probably had to do with the fact that I was lying on a gyno chair and completely immobilized. Or it may have been the speculum in my pussy which he spread another two clicks, drawing a hissing breath from me.

“Painful?” he asked after scribbling something on his clipboard, looking up at my face, and I nodded frantically. “Though so,” he said and picked up a long cotton swab. My breath hissed again when he took a smear sample. He put the sample into a clear plastic tube which he closed and picked up what looked like a metal dildo about an inch wide with engravings.

I bit my lip.

“I’m going to measure the length of your vagina now,” he explained as if this was a completely normal part of a medical examination. “The first measure will be the regular fit.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he just coated the dildo with lube and slipped it inside me. Due to the speculum holding me open, I only felt a weird sensation deep inside my tummy.

He squinted at the dildo and jotted down a number. “This is going to be a bit uncomfortable,” he said, and before I had time to process it, he pushed the dildo in deeper.