Benny’s is a chain of all-night diners. Denise told me to meet her at the Maple Drive Benny’s in Drysdale. I told her I would be there in twenty minutes. I made it in twelve because it was just past midnight. I parked next to the dumpsters at the back and Denise emerged from behind the dumpster.
She was naked.
I unlocked her door and she scrambled in, trying to hid her breasts behind a silver clutch purse. As soon as she got in, Denise hunched over and slammed her door.
“The nearest all-night slaver is six miles from here,” I said as I backed up, then engaged DRIVE and left Benny’s parking lot. “Shop-A-Saurian is next to a PonyEx and Jeff’s Jiffy Conversions. After that, I need some groceries and things for you.”
“Please hurry, Uncle Dan,” Denise begged. “I don’t want to be arrested for indecent exposure.”
“Not likely,” I replied. “Naked women are common now, and not all of the nude women you see in public are slaves.”
“How do you know that?” Denise asked.
“Terry did some research,” I said. “Last week there was a Girls Support Posse car wash and bake sale at the Xip-Kwik Car Wash on Elder. You used to be a GSP. The girls and their adult leaders ran the event naked. Nobody said squat.”
The White Slave Act of 2000 changed everything. I was still overseas with the Army cleaning up after the Cold War and the collapse of the USSR when the president enslaved the First Lady and snuffed her on live television New Year’s Day 2001. That was over eleven years ago.
“By the way, covering up calls attention to yourself,” I continued. “There’s so many naked slaves on the street now that a few more naked women are not noticed. A naked woman is assumed to be a slave and law enforcement won’t do anything for simple nudity. You’d have to do something else. Covering up tells everybody that you are fresh meat, new to being naked in public—that will get everybody’s attention.”
“I’m scared,” Denise sounded like a little girl. She didn’t look like one, much. Denise is average height for a woman and slender, with small breasts, brown eyes and brown hair. Night and her right hand hid her crotch from me at the moment, nor could I see her nipples, but she was no child!
“I will protect you,” I said. “This morning I’ll make an appointment for your medical exam. I need to know that you are healthy. Denise, do you need or want to attend a slave training academy? I’m not an experienced slave owner. Just a retired Army sergeant. Once you are protected from being enslaved by others, you and I will sit down and plan your future. For one, I need to know what trouble you are in so that I can set a manumission date. You need to remain a Person of Limited Rights until any statute of limitations has expired on legal violations you have committed. If someone is trying to PPC you, we need to keep you in bondage at least 13 months. I’ll let you discuss it with Terry. I’m no lawyer. She is.”
“Just get me enslaved,” Denise muttered.
Soon the orange brontosaurus, the Shop-A-Saurian corporate logo, appeared ahead of us and on the right of Maple Drive. A moment later we pulled into the parking lot between the PonyEx and Jeff’s Jiffy Conversions. Denise produced her driver’s license, birth certificate, Social Security card and Application for Voluntary Conversion to Person of Limited Rights Status form. Notarizing the form took only a few minutes, including taking electronic fingerprints, three photos of Denise’s face (left profile, full front and right profile) and copying Denise’s identity documents. I didn’t need to provide any documentation at the time, just pony up $35 for PonyEx services.
The first person we met at Jeff’s Jiffy Conversions was a naked slave. She looked rough—she was gray-haired, missing her front teeth and the first two joints of all four fingers on her right hand, was tattooed and had multiple piercings. Her large udders sagged almost to her waist, resting on the “spare tire” around her middle. Despite the handicap of having stubs instead of fingers on her right hand, the slave entered the data on-line and handed Denise an empty jar for a urine sample.
“I’m supposed to read you a card telling you that I have a valid warrant for your conversion and that I can use whatever force I need to compel your cooperation,” the woman rasped. “You aren’t going to be a problem, are you, dear?”
“I am a Person of Limited Rights,” the crone droned, “don’t call me ma’am.”
“What unit were you with?” I asked.
“I was with 11th MEU,” the slave said, blushing. “I was converted for defaulting on my student loans and my mortgage when the Credit Bubble collapsed. It has been a long three years, sir.”
“Are you for sale?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” the slave said. “Is this your daughter?”
“Niece. I picked her up from Benny’s like that twenty minutes ago. She was hiding behind the dumpsters.”
“Okay, the fees, state and federal taxes have been paid,” the slave behind the counter announced. “And the system has confirmed that Denise had no pending actions on her prior to her application. Denise, you are now a person of limited rights. Your uncle looks like a good man. You could have done worse.”
It cost me $697 for Denise’s conversion. I got a nice little ownership document, and all I needed was my driver’s license. My retired military ID card didn’t work for establishing residence in this state but did provide identification verification. I could have used my concealed firearms permit, I guess.
A few minutes later Denise and I were picking up additional groceries at Shop-A-Saurian, and a camp cot with mattress, and a sleeping bag. I didn’t think Denise would need the bag at the moment. The Electronics department had a $200 special on a slave collar that had punishment and reward features, was enabled to use the cell phone network and the collar could be located within three feet inside coverage areas. The collar locked around the neck and was robust enough to foil most removal attempts.
Denise had been a slave only 90 minutes when I returned to my cramped studio apartment. My bed was the futon couch—but until Denise had a physical, she was sleeping in the kitchen.
But there were other ways to have fun. First, there was the fun of taking our purchases upstairs. I plugged in the collar to get it fully charged. My niece’s eyes were fixed on the collar.
“Shower time,” I announced. “Are you hungry?”
“First I’m going to bathe you,” I said. “Get used to being naked all the time, to me handling you. Then I’m going to shower. As for the collar, it’s mostly to keep you safe in public. I know that nearly half of the adult women in the United States are Persons of Limited Rights, but you’re cute. I don’t want some young, horny thief to kidnap you.”
Bathing Denise was educational. She was slender, waif-like, and I mentioned that she had small breasts—less than a handful. Her pussy was covered with a sprinkling of fine black hair trimmed in a small arrowhead pointing at her clitoral hood. Denise might have been embarrassed that her butt was wider than her shoulders, but she was close to my ideal female. Very close.
After an early breakfast or a late, late dinner of a microwaved dinner, I set up the cot and took Denise to the bathroom one last time.
”Piss, Denise,” I said after I had her stand in the shower. “I’m going to handcuff you to your bed tonight. We have a lot to do in the morning and I want you to remain in bed until I tell you otherwise.”
Denise released a trickle of urine, I cleaned her up again, had
her floss her teeth and use her new toothbrush, and then made her bed down. I attached one handcuff to her slender ankle and the other to the bed frame, kissed her forehead and covered Denise with a sheet. It was warm in my third-floor apartment. Denise couldn’t have slept well.
I had nightmares about what I was going to tell Carla, Denise’s mother.