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The Credit Bubble Collapse almost doubled the number of Persons of Limited Rights. Today a quarter of the total American population—half of the adult females—were enslaved. A quarter of the population were children, a quarter were adult men. For the medical field, that was seventy-five million customers. Slaves need medical care, too. Since most slaves are either SINO (Slaves in Name Only) or some sort of worker (often Corporate Assets) and their owners have a desire to preserve their property, there was a market niche for medical centers catering to slaves.
One such center was Dusty’s Pet Hospital. They had a walk-in Immediate Care clinic. I got on-line and scheduled an afternoon appointment. Aside from getting up to pee and a breakfast, I let Denise sleep. She was exhausted.
Of course the only things Denise wore to the clinic were a pair of sandals and her slave collar. Denise fidgeted but otherwise didn’t bother covering up. I opted to accompany my “pet” through her medical ordeal.
What is it with medical people and urine? The first thing the clinic’s staff did was have Denise drink a quart of water. There was a lot of paperwork to fill out. Then Denise was taken to a large room and ordered to fill a jar.
“Get used to no privacy, slave,” the nurse said. She was a slave herself. “Your owner looks like a good man. He’s doing this for your good. From now on modesty is something you don’t do.”
Denise managed to pee a full eight ounces. Then they drew blood. Blood is a more-precise indication of chemical compounds. Take, for instance, the pregnancy tests. A urine test can be circumvented by flushing the bladder and taking a sample late in the day. First urination in the morning has higher concentrations of hCG. A home pregnancy test detects human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG), the pregnancy hormone. Blood concentrations of hCG change less throughout the day than does urine concentrations of hCG—and some of the approved pregnancy tests used by slavers are only 80% accurate one week after a missed period. Most slavers use the more-expensive 95% effective tests {detects 12.5 mIU (milli-International Units per milliliter of urine) } as the penalty for false enslavement was a long prison term—or death, if the slave was snuffed. The 25 mIU sensitive home pregnancy tests are only detect 80% of pregnancies–and held adequate for slavers—but why take chances in today’s world?
After the blood work, Denise was checked by a slave doctor. The Credit Bubble netted a lot of professional women who were unable to pay their student loans. A lot of skilled women wound up enslaved who otherwise would have avoided becoming a Person of Limited Rights.
Which made me wonder again what spooked Denise into slavery.
The gynecology examination was something new for me. Strapping a woman to a table with her legs spread and her crotch spot lighted tented my trousers. Denise’s small breasts flattened against her chest, leaving only her hard nipples protruding. The thin covering of pubic hair didn’t hide anything. Under the lights Denise’s blush faded—but the thin sheen of perspiration was more visible. There was obvious secretions on her labia as the clear plastic speculum was inserted into Denise’s vagina. The doctor let me see inside through a camera and monitor lash-up. Then the speculum was removed and a small camera was shoved in Denise’s rectum. Everyone has hemorrhoids! The doctor claimed that Denise’s rectum was pretty. I wouldn’t know. I guess it’s a doctor thing.
The breast exam seemed to be more of an erotic exhibition than medical procedure. Denise’s nipples were pinched and pulled, her modest mounds mashed and mauled. Denise moaned—pain or arousal? The distinction isn’t clear.
Birth control is a fact of life in the 21st Century. Parents routinely put all daughters on birth control implants. It isn’t that the parents are giving their daughters permission to engage in promiscuous sexual intercourse—but one of the factors in Congress imposing a uniform minimum enslaving age of 18 was the fate of many young women in the wake of the Credit Bubble Collapse. When the White Slave Act of 2000 first became law, the minimum enslavement age was the local age of consent—whatever that was. One state tried to raise that age to 21 years! One “loophole” that was debated was young women getting pregnant in order to avoid being enslaved. Rather than closing the “loophole,” more or less universal reversible chemical sterilization of daughters removed the issue.
Denise had been on birth control for years—since 2007. It is now 2012. Her sister Kitten was put on birth control the same year. Carla, my sister, their mother, was taking no chances. Besides, schools mandated that female students be on birth control. Pregnancy wasn’t conducive to learning.
Denise wasn’t pregnant—couldn’t get pregnant until either her implants expired or were removed. I’d have to look into that.
After the physical, after an STD screen, after some inoculations, Denise was implanted with a slave identification chip, a small transponder that would respond to an interrogation signal with a slave identification number. The distance that the slave ID number could be read depended upon the interrogation unit’s signal strength. Some of the more powerful transmitters would burn out the slave ID chip up close, but could read and locate the slave within a mile in open terrain. More normally the chip was good for a range of 30 inches. That’s right—inches. A few microwatts isn’t a health hazard. A few watts of radio frequency radiation is regarded as a health hazard when exposure is continuous.
The injector looked like a gun, made a loud BANG that I flinched at, and Denise let me know that it hurt.
A conference told me that Denise was free of disease. She was healthy.
“Do you want to remove her birth control implants?” the doctor asked.
“Let me get back to you on that,” I said. “I need to check Denise’s legal health, too.”
Back in my car, Denise squirmed. That band aid over her slave ID implant injection site was scant padding.
“I’m not justifying myself,” I started. “Do you know what I do for a living?”
“You’re some sort of bodyguard,” Denise said.
“Close enough,” I said. “That chip is an effective way of tracking missing people. I recommend that all children be chipped because there is the danger of kidnap. You may have heard that Tracy was a kidnap victim last month.”
“No,” Denise admitted. “I know Mom is tutoring Tracy now.”
“An escaped slave took Tracy hostage,” I explained. “What do you know about snuff collars?”
“Not much,” Denise admitted, fingering her collar.
“I don’t like snuff collars myself,” I said. “There are several kill methods: electrical, chemical, strangulation and explosive are the most common. The escaped slave’s collar had a quarter pound of TNT molded inside. The standard Army hand grenade has six point five ounces of Composition B. Basically, that quarter pound of TNT could kill anyone within a ten foot radius of the collar. Some kill collars are overkill. A quarter pound charge doesn’t just remove the head, it turns it into hamburger. Tracy would have died if the slave’s collar had detonated. Did Tracy tell you how I resolved the situation?”
“You blew off the slave’s head with a rifle,” Denise shuddered. “Tracy was excited about it.”
“She’s still a kid,” I said. “Apparently it was a break in Tracy’s otherwise dull routine. She’s not at the Gideon’s Friends Charter School any longer because there was no way to ensure Tracy’s safety. “
“Why a rifle?” Denise asked.
“Because I don’t shoot handguns well enough at a city block’s distance to hit a head,” I answered. “And the local cops just have handguns. There isn’t enough crime to warrant more police. The police aren’t equipped to handle hostages out here. As it was, I had to wait for a clear shot.”
Unbidden, the image of the hapless slave’s head exploding in the crosshairs of my rifle scope flashed through my mind. Fortunately, Tracy wasn’t devastated by that necessary evil.
“I knew that you’d save me,” Tracy told me then. “You promised.”
Back in the present, I told Denise that the collar around her neck was software-limited to stun level three—and to punishment level seven.
“Eventually you will experience both stun and punishment functions,” I explained. “There are several things that must be done before I can transfer you to the trust.”
“Trust?” Denise asked.
“A Perfect Trust is a legal entity,” I began, “an organization that exists to protect property. Call it a private company or corporation. A trust is immortal—it cannot die. With the rules in place, you will be protected from abuse should I die.”
“Don’t say that!” Denise shrieked.
“No shrieking, slave,” I said gently. “All those noises you used to make about being a moral little monkey—those days are over.”
“Monkey?” Denise asked.
“Did they quit teaching evolution in school?” I asked. Denise shook her head. “We are members of a monkey tribe. Tens of thousands of years have hard-wired us to make noises reaffirming our status in the tribe. That’s why everybody talks trash. We are all stupid little monkeys who run our mouths on auto pilot. You are going to have to learn to curb your reflex that forces you to tell everybody how superior you are in status. Slaves are held to be low class. It isn’t really true, but you are at a power disadvantage. Persons of Limited Rights are not permitted to defend themselves physically. Don’t try it verbally, either. That includes expressing outrage—like telling me ‘don’t say that.’ I know it scares you, but we have to talk about your future. That future might be without me.”
There’s Slavery Remorse and I suspected that Denise was suffering from it.
“Tonight we are going to my attorney,” I continued. “But that’s hours away. Let’s do something fun. I had to make sure that it was safe to have sex with you. No diseases. You are on birth control. The doctor says that you can do anything. Tell me about your sexual experience.”
I am more than twice Denise’s age—but she had more sexual experience with women than I did! I don’t do men, but she had almost as much sex with men as I did with women—and I had three decades head start! My niece Denise was a right proper little slut. I almost lost all hope of keeping her sexually satisfied until Denise mentioned that she liked sex, but something was missing.
“I need someone to control me,” Denise admitted. “I let my hormones rule and I did a lot of stupid things.”
Stupid things that might have gotten a girl preggo back in my youth—or caught a disease. The Sexual Revolution depended upon two technologies that eliminated the twin consequences of unwanted babies and venereal diseases: The Pill and Penicillin were the beginning. Now there was a range of vaccines that all but eliminated VD—now STD (Sexually Transmitted Diseases). My military background and current profession as a licensed private detective make it hard to shock me—but I’m not shock-PROOF. Denise told me about her orgies, about sex with animals, and how careful she was to get something of value in exchange for sex if she was having repeat sex.
“I just had to!” Denise squealed.
“Denise,” I chided, “I am not judging—and it doesn’t matter anyway. There is a freedom in slavery. You only have to worry about my opinion—nobody else’s. You don’t have to please the entire goddamned world, just me. Okay?”
Denise nodded, tears brimming.
“No wonder you dropped out of high school without a diploma,” I observed. “Did you have time to eat and sleep?”
“I passed out when I had too much,” Denise admitted, “and ate when I could.”
She might have been joking. Or not.
It had been a short drive home despite the traffic. My apartment complex was moderately busy because the day staff was performing landscaping and repair work. The workers were, of course, Persons of Limited Rights. These women were older, in their forties, and their sexual capital had been exhausted, but they could still work. They wore cheap work clothing—outdoor work can be hazardous. Not that it mattered. These women were down-trodden, depressed. They had no hope for something better. That was the future I wanted to save Denise from.
I told myself that I couldn’t save the whole damned world, just one or two small pieces important to me. I had learned that overseas courtesy of Uncle Sam sorting out the mess left over when the USSR collapsed and the Cold War thawed.
To clear my mind of such dire thoughts I rubbed Denise’s delectable butt cheeks. She giggled as she climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment. Inside I turned on the air conditioning—it was ninety degrees inside. Eighty was all right for bare skin—for naked slaves—but ninety was a bit much even for the nude. Hot, sticky conditions were not the best for lovemaking, no more than if goose pimples were raised by cold, clammy temperatures.
“Are my titties too small, Master?” Denise asked.
“Denise,” I was disgusted with the girl. “Tell me that you are feeling lonely or that you are insecure—but none of that ‘does this dress make me look fat’ crap! I like your breasts. I think they are fine. Don’t worry about them changing with age. That will be a while in the future.
“Girl, you have made yourself undesirable with your stupid question,” I continued. “Let’s do an inventory of food and write up a shopping list. I’ll fix a snack and maybe I’ll be in the mood again.”
“Sorry, Dan,” Denise’s apology was sincere. “I was lonely. I’m horny. And I am feeling insecure.”
Women! To think that I was going to purchase more slaves in the future. What was I thinking?