I had a bit of money saved for my retirement. The first thing I purchased at Fort Lewis was a 25-foot recreational vehicle. I initially leased a car, a two-door sedan, because modern American military posts are spread out across the landscape and I needed to be mobile. Relying on the base shuttle bus system didn’t really work for me. The RV wasn’t really useful for motoring about the place either. As for the motor scooter that I bought—well, Seattle weather just wasn’t biker friendly. I had to have a car.
Besides, parking on Fort Lewis isn’t always easy. Parking a 25-foot RV is not always possible.
The RV was my motorized cottage. I had a plan—tour the Pacific Coast Highway from Canadian to Mexican borders. I would live in my motorized cottage with my slaves—including Erin.
The US Army prohibits its active duty service members from owning a Person of Limited Rights. A service member’s SPOUSE can own one, but the Soldier has to be immediately deployable. No single parents, no Persons of Limited Rights. No pets of any kind, actually. It’s an Army thing. I did bid on an MPLR, for delivery after I had retired—but I didn’t own any slaves. Not yet.
My commanding officer had given me the rest of the day off after a medical procedure that morning. I was puttering around in my motorized cottage when someone pounded on the aluminum door. I answered and was surprised to see Major Smith from Monday morning accompanied by my first sergeant, Dorothy Davis.
“How was your donation, Sergeant Thistle?” Major Smith inquired.
“Stateside donations are more enjoyable than overseas,” I answered. “There it was just me and a sample jar and whatever visual enhancement materials the base commander had confiscated. As you know, porn is prohibited overseas for American soldiers. Here a Military Person of Limited Rights aids us donors.”
“That would be a sperm donation,” Major Smith observed. “You are part of the Recovery Project, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Major,” I replied. The Recovery Project was part of the United States’ efforts to boost the number of male children born—and prevent the catastrophic population crashes suffered by Africa, Asia and South America. The Recovery Project also was held to prevent the “Arab Spring” that collapsed most of the governments in the Middle East. Recovery Project participants were either volunteers, felons serving time in prisons, or active duty servicemen. Servicemen were “government property” and besides, it was just a little fluid once every 90 days. “This was my final donation as a soldier.”
“So how many does that make for you?” First Sergeant Davis asked.
“I lost count, First Sergeant,” I admitted, “but I have been donating since the program began in 2003.”
“How does that program work, ma’am?” First Sergeant Davis inquired of the major.
“Right now it is restricted to Military Person of Limited Rights mothers,” Major Smith explained. “In other nations the attempts to select for male children were crude and often sterilized the woman. That’s why Asia and Africa experienced catastrophic population collapses.”
“That and SARS,” I butted in. “Funny how SARS and the Spanish Influenza Epidemic of 1918 share these features: targets mostly young men in their twenties, the onset was rapid and victims dropped like flies. We don’t have the data on how SARS inflicted genetic mutations, but I’m sure it did.”
“Why is that?” Major Smith asked.
“Viruses have mutagenic properties that permit them to mimic the host body’s DNA,” I explained. “Malaria causes genetic mutations, too—sickle cell anemia is one of those mutations. Of course, the host has to survive to pass on those mutations.”
“Interesting,” Major Smith commented. “But I’m neither doctor nor scientist. I’m here for an MPLR owner pre-transfer interview. Your first sergeant is here because you are still an enlisted service member. I take it that this will be your home?”
“My vacation home,” I corrected. “I have a place in Arizona near Prescott. My uncle set up my next job for me, but I’m taking a vacation. I’m also picking up two Persons of Limited Rights near San Francisco. They’re Wendy girls.”
“What’s that?” First Sergeant Davis asked. “What’s a Wendy girl? Some sort of bar maid like the Jolly Girls?”
“It’s one of the 26 known mutations caused by the Spanish Influenza Epidemic of 1918 and comes in two flavors,” I explained. “The male edition is called a Peter Pan. The mutation was named for the J. M. Berry story ‘Peter Pan and Wendy.’ Peter Pan was the boy who never grew up. Humans afflicted with this mutation are sterile—and they never enter puberty. They reach adulthood without secondary sexual characteristics. They’re adult-sized and this mutation is rare—something like 1 in 500,000 people—and most of the victims are male.”
“I had some reservations about you taking possession of a Military Person of Limited Rights, Sergeant Thistle,” Major Smith changed the subject. “Your history is disturbing. You left home at age eleven. Your medical records suggest that you have attachment issues. When you went back home at age 19, your family was murdered and you were acquitted for those three murders. You haven’t had close friends. Your lack of ambition is evident in your enlisted evaluations. Convince me that you can handle slaves.”
“Let me show you something,” I opened up my laptop, booted it up, accessed a photo album. “This is Jessie, and this is Fawn. The woman in clothes is Mrs. Markoquartz.”
There were several photos of Jessie, Fawn, and Mrs. Hazel Markoquartz. Hazel was an attractive middle-aged woman. She was actually five years older than me and we met while I was in Korea. Jessie was Hazel’s sister. Fawn was Hazel’s daughter. Jessie and Fawn were the Wendy girls. Nude, they weren’t remarkable. Lots of slaves had flat chests, some natural, some because their owners had the slave’s breasts surgically reduced. Modern micro surgery with hormone and gene therapy produced perfect ‘natural’ breasts ranging from flat AAA cup to firm mountain peaks in the H cup range. The larger breasts required periodic medical treatments to maintain their shape. Many slaves had all body hair permanently removed. My own had been removed because Army Regulations required all soldiers to shave off their body hair—it was explained as a hygiene measure but could have been just an Army thing. The point of all this was that Wendy girls wouldn’t stand out in a crowd of naked slaves, especially not when collared.
All three women had brown hair and brown eyes and were about the same height. Hazel’s large breasts were concealed by her clothing, but noticeable compared to naked Jessie and nude Fawn. Fawn even added some crotch shots, photos of herself exhibiting her anus and vulva. Only a geneticist would be able to tell that Jessie and Fawn were Wendy girls.
“Their current owner is coming with me for a month to teach me to handle slaves,” I gave Major Smith the contact information for Hazel Markoquartz, the owner of the two Wendy slaves. “Major, I don’t remember anything prior to waking up in the dispensary at the Corporal John F. Mackie Boys Military Academy near Pocahontas, Arkansas. My uncle, retired Marine Corps Sergeant Major Johnny Mackie, was the owner and commandant. Uncle Johnny and his spouse, Uncle Dick, didn’t let me know that I was family until I graduated, but Uncle Dick did make certain that I wrote Father every week while attending the Mackie Boys Academy, and that I wrote my sister and mother at least once a month. Major, the Army has been my family. Specialist McDougal is a person. While she is assigned to me, she will be part of my family.”
“It isn’t good for a Military Person of Limited Rights to be a SINO,” Major Smith stated.
“SINO?” I asked. “Specialist McDougal looks Irish, not Chinese. Is there an Army policy against soldiers of Asian ancestry?”
“SINO means ‘Slave in Name Only,’ ess-eye-enn-oh,” First Sergeant Davis explained. I would have spelled it using NATO phonetics: Sierra, India, November, Oscar. “It’s a Person of Limited Rights who is otherwise treated as a free person. My Linzi is a SINO.”
“Mrs. Markoquartz is going to help me with another handicap,” I said, “I know only Army ways. Well, Uncle Johnny ran the Mackie Academy the Marine way, but waking up to Reveille and going to sleep to Taps is my ‘normal.’ Mrs. Markoquartz will help me run a civilized household instead of a barracks. It will start here, in this motorized cottage.”
“What did you call this?” First Sergeant Davis asked.
“Motorized cottage,” I said. “I could keep calling it an RV, or I could have called it a land yacht, but this is my vacation cottage until I get to Prescott. It is also how I will get to Prescott. Would you like a tour?”
I began the tour in the middle. There was a convertible dinette and bed roadside, and curbside just ahead of the door was a large easy chair—one that was firmly fastened to the floor. It even had a seat belt! Forward was the driver’s compartment, with two bucket seats. Above the driver’s compartment was a large, queen-sized bed. Moving to the back of the RV the kitchen was curbside, just behind the door. The opposite wall had closets and storage, and then opened up into a full bath with sink, wet toilet, and a shower stall. The curbside rear corner held a second queen-sized bed, a permanent lash-up. Storage was limited. Outside access storage and access to the on-board electrical generator, the various sewage and water hook-ups, and a roof-mounted air conditioner made this a luxury when compared to my usual travel home—sometimes a folding cot in a GP Medium tent, sometimes shelter halves, on occasion just curling up on the ground in my Battle Dress Uniform or Army Combat Uniform wrapped in my rain poncho. The literature said that my 25 foot RV would sleep five.
“I could cram nine in the beds and that throne,” I said. “It reclines. Two here. Three in each of the queen-size beds. Perhaps a tenth could crash out on the floor. The real limitations are the 22 gallon sewage tank and 16 gallon grey water tank. There are only about forty toilet flushes before the sewage tank is full. Ten people will require at least two sewage tank dumps and water tank refills per day. If someone takes a Hollywood shower instead of a shipboard shower, that can fill up the grey water tank.”
“Hollywood shower?” Major Smith asked.
“Shipboard shower?” was First Sergeant Davis’s query.
“Hollywood showers are normal civilian showers,” I explained. “Turn on the water, adjust the temperature, wait until it’s right, then hop in and keep the water running the whole time. Wash your hair, clean your body, sing several songs. Uncle Johnny was a Marine and the Mackie Academy practiced shipboard showers to save water, especially hot water. Hop in, get wet and turn the water off. Lather up, then rinse off. The standard was 90 seconds of water or less, about six gallons of water. The RV shower uses less water, but I cannot bathe more than five times without filling up my grey water tank.”
I was explaining how I planned to use shower stations at camp grounds and public toilets when the Major interrupted.
“You are going to cram three women in here?” Major Smith scowled. “You are asking for trouble!”
“Four women,” I said. “Slaves have no privacy rights. They don’t need to be clothed at all, not even in public.”
“On Fort Lewis they do,” Major Smith said. “Naked women disrupt good order and discipline.”
Mere staff sergeants don’t argue with majors. Most of the Army was gay males—men who had no interest in women. I suspected that MPLR were going to have breast reductions and spend time in the gym body sculpting so that they looked more manly—at least androgynous. The MPLR who milked me for my mandatory semen donation had very small breasts and a slender body with narrow hips. She could have passed herself off as a Wendy girl—and due to the rarity of that genetic disorder, it was unlikely that she was a Wendy. She might have been naturally androgynous. She might have been a product of modern plastic surgery. One thing positive about the White Slave Act was millions of human guinea pigs advancing the state of medical knowledge. Think Nazi medical experiments restricted to women only. That’s a WSA legacy.
“Anyway, I don’t need them to have a lot of clothes. That saves space,” I continued explaining that treating women as if they were pets, as if they were livestock, had advantages. “Besides, Specialist McDougal has been through boot camp. She is undergoing MPLR orientation. Slaves are neither lesbian nor straight—they’re slaves. Sleeping in the same bed as two other naked slaves won’t matter—Specialist McDougal will just have to adapt.”
“Do you want her fertile or sterile?” Major Smith asked.
“Fertile, of course,” I replied. If she didn’t want to have children, I could put her on birth control medication. Reversing sterility wasn’t always possible. If I specified ‘fertile’ then she would have the option of having children in the future. Being sterilized took that choice away. “Specialist McDougal will be part of my family. I plan to ask her to marry me after manumission. Of course, that’s five years in the future. No telling what the laws will be.”
“The regulations on MPLR just changed,” Major Smith said. “Erin is not to be manumitted until July 2024. The regulations change is the earliest date that the MPLR can be manumitted.”
“Erin?” I asked.
“MPLR have slave names,” Major Smith explained. “They lose their past, their identities when they are converted. The former Specialist Elizabeth McDougal is now called Erin 1254. That’s her slave name and the last four of her Social Security Number.”
Governments are famous for failure to deliver on their promises. Anybody want to hear about the American government’s track record on treaties with the Native Americans? Specialist McDougal had signed up for five years—I thought. Now it was twelve.
“Things are hard on us girls now,” First Sergeant Davis commented. “I’m happy that I’m retiring in 90 days.”
“The women who failed the drug screen as of Friday get life as an MPLR,” Major Smith added. “Zero tolerance on drugs is zero tolerance.”
There were more questions about my past, about my attitudes, about my plans.
“We’ll let you know,” Major Smith promised.
The major left and my first sergeant remained. First Sergeant Davis sat in my ‘throne,’ the easy chair in the main cabin, spinning left in a quarter circle, then right.
“I have a favor to ask, Scott,” the first sergeant shifted in the chair. “I want you to breed my slave for me.”
“Why not use sperm banks?” I asked.
“Lots of reasons,” Dorothy Davis expounded, her fingers held in the air to tick off the reason. “First, you are part of the eugenics program because you have the normal amount of XY sperm—you can produce male off-spring. Second, you are a nice guy. Third, I want to breed my slave the natural way. Did you know that Linzi is my niece? I have a slave because Linzi’s father, my brother, is designated as alternate owner.”
“You know, incest and inbreeding don’t count with slaves,” I suggested, “so your brother might be a good sperm source.”
“He can’t produce children,” Davis said. “Don’t tell Linzi, but she isn’t Ben’s biological daughter. I had her DNA profiled. She’s not related to me, not really. Her mother died in a train wreck, so I can’t ask her. I don’t dare ask my brother. Men are sensitive about those things. Ben isn’t into incest, either.”
That was another reason that convicts and soldiers were milked for their sperm; something like a third of the men in their 20’s and over half of men in their 30’s were sterile. Many were victims of the Spanish Influenza mutations, but some just opted out of the reproduction game entirely and had themselves sterilized.
“Okay,” I said. “I’d like a few concessions, but I’ll ‘breed’ Linzi as soon as I recover from being milked. Men are milked using an electric prostate stimulation probe. Yes, it goes up the rectum. I’m rather empty right now. Anyway, I’ll make the requests and you can decide if you will fill them or not. No strings, just expressing preferences.
“ I’m curious, First Sergeant: lesbians prefer having sex with women,” I continued. “Won’t my male essence bother you?”
“I prefer making love to women,” Dorothy Davis confessed. “A little dick now and then is okay. I do want to watch you and Linzi.”
“Why not participate?” I asked.
“A three-some?” Davis asked. “Well, if that’s one of the conditions—“
“Concessions,” I said, “and there is a method to my madness, First Sergeant. If you participate with your slave, there will be less resentment.”
“She’ll get over it,” Dorothy stated.
“What about you?” I asked. “Think about it. I think I’ll be recovered tomorrow evening, but right now a crane couldn’t get me up!”