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SV's Bondage, Slavery, Sex, and Miscellaneous Kink Thread

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Servus Venandi

Magistrate
Better Dead Than A Damsel (But Thankfully Neither)

by Servus Venandi

SW_Short125.jpg



Dear Jerri,


Been a while. I hope you and Caspyr are doing (and being) good.

Part of me doesn’t want to write this, but another part can’t resist the smirk you’ll develop in the course of reading. So here it goes. Enjoy the ‘I told you so’ moment. I know I would in your place.

Some of the details are still classified (Phantom Company ops, after all), but everything I’m going to write here is public (much to my embarrassment). Even worse, the brass has gotten into their heads that this is all a good look, a nice propaganda effort at my expense. Damn it all, I’ve become a walking recruitment slogan. At least they’ve kept my name out of the media so far.

So, without giving too much away, here’s the tale....

I was working undercover in Galletown. You remember Galletown? That stinking, atmo-leaking Martian shithole just east of Argyre Planitia? Yeah, that Galletown. I didn’t actually join up with any of the local black market slavery guilds, but I signed on as a warehouse worker at a known trading hotspot.

For seven months I drove a forklift and kept my head down. I know for a fact that some of the crates I was moving around contained people—sedated mostly, but sometimes I got a hint of a muffled snore or whimper. Once in a while the muscle brought in new slaves, terrified people in shackles or rope, sometimes in a coffle in there were several of them. Locals, I guess, fresh catches right off the diseased streets of Galletown. These schmucks quickly disappeared into the basement, and odds are fair I wound up fork-lifting them onto a truck eventually.

I documented everything and filed reports weekly. Command just kept ordering me to maintain cover. I still feel bad about it, but it’s part of the gig. You know how it is.

Eventually, some Galletown slaver nabbed the wrong mark: a politically-connected young person, whose name I am not at liberty to mention here. I wouldn’t have known this person from a random on the streets of New York. Still, it finally moved my superiors to order an exfil, but first I had to download the local boss’s database and secure a 20 on the VIP.

Not much in the way of guidance came down from on high. That’s how it works in Phantom Company. We’re given a goal but, within certain parameters, are generally free to pursue it as we see fit.

I drew up a plan to call in sick, spend the day on recon, then hit the warehouse after nightfall. I had some cams and micro-drones, and I used the latter to install some of the former at inconspicuous points around the perimeter, stairwells and upper floor. With the drones on-site, I also took a slight risk and scouted the basement (hitched a ride on a goon’s coat sleeve while he marched a bound, sobbing girl to her new life), but I couldn’t get into the shielded, soundproofed cells, and so had no luck finding the VIP.

I geared up and moved in at the start of graveyard shift—short-range recon config with a Shimmer 9 cam jammer (love that fucking thing), a sidearm, and a bit o’ face paint to knock down the glare. In terms of getting in, it was the easiest time I’ve ever had. I entered through an unlocked window on the second floor. By T plus three I’d cleared the stairwell and slipped into the big boy office space upstairs.

Earlier, I’d managed to peg a 20 on the server room and a probable 20 on the resident boss’s office. I hit the servers first and dumped everything accessible onto a data stick. With that done, I installed a passive sniffer on the main box that should survive several major revisions of leading corporate-grade anti-malware products. Some bored bastard in a cramped Marine Corp special ops cubicle probably still has access to this slaver ring’s innermost communications.

Next, I slipped down the hallway to the boss’s office ... and to this day I have no idea what happened. Some kind of mechanical chem trap or something, the sort my tech didn’t automatically detect or counter. Whatever it was, I have a vague memory of falling, and then BOOM. Lights out.

I woke up later—not sure how long. Was cold and had trouble moving. In the fog of those first few minutes, I deduced that I’d been stripped down to my panties, undershirt and boots, and hogtied on the floor with coarse black rope. Couldn’t say exactly where I was, but the floor was gritty, and the place smelled like old imported wood and cardboard. A junk room, maybe. If nothing else, I knew I was somewhere on the upper or middle level since there were blinds on the dark windows.

A couple of goons played cards on a desk, but my return to consciousness got their attention, unfortunately. I expected to get manhandled or worse, but one of them simply said, “The boss will have some questions for you in the morning, little girl.”

It dawned on me that I was now ‘merchandise,’ or soon to be, and these guys wouldn’t diminish my value unless and until their leader gave the go-ahead, or I left them with no other choice.

This realization, combined with my lingering state of confusion, triggered my first instinctive attempt to struggle. Not vigorously—just an exploratory effort. It netted me little, except the knowledge that the ‘coarse black rope’ was actually some kind of jury-rigged smart wire that punished resistance with contracting fibers. When I tugged on the rope linking my hands and feet behind me, I thought the damn restraints would break my wrists and ankles. The material didn’t seem as finely-tuned (or safe) as the military-grade stuff we get from Earth Authority taxpayers, but it was effective enough that I knew better than to test it further.

If all this typing is even halfway worth the energy I’m spending on it, Jer, you should be laughing right now. I know you. But you wouldn’t be squirming out of this shit, either. Then again, knowing you, you might not even want to, you crazy bitch.

Without belaboring the details, the boss was less than pleased with my ‘ratlike infestation’ of his honorable business. He wanted to know whom I was working for and so on and so forth, or else. It was the most uninspired interrogation I’ve ever received or given, and it was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes.

Long story short, I spent a few days in captivity. I’d like to say my Escape & Evade and Counter-Interrogation training paid off, but I think I’d have been fine even without it. The schedule went something like this.

Early Morning
Blindfold me and take me down into the basement slave pit.

All Day
Lock me in a soundproof cell during operating hours. Minimal food and water. Pump loud music into my cell to cause sleep deprivation. This was maybe the worse part of the whole affair—they used millennial-era Martian pop. Dear god, make it stop.

Evening
Blindfold me again. Take me back upstairs. Hogtie me with smart wire or chain me to a chair for the upcoming festivities. Have some goons work me over for hours at a time.

Rinse and repeat.

The working-over at any given time usually involved some combination of whipping and amateur electro-torture.

This mildly concerned me for about five minutes, because amateur torturers frequently go overboard and wind up causing serious harm or death. We see this all throughout the slavery black market. These particular guys, fortunately, fell on the conservative side of the spectrum, and I can say with confidence that my nipples endured far worse treatment in Counter-Interrogation than I ever got from those slavers. So all my training was good for something, I guess.

The whipping stung. Biting into a hot calzone also stings. I’m not sure what they were trying to accomplish. I never even bled until the last day, when the meanest guy on the crew finally brought out a thin carbon cane. I’ll admit that thing had me chewing on my bottom lip for a while. Okay, maybe my eyes watered a little as well, but I didn’t once feel compelled to spill my guts. Nothing they did rose above the level of a minor annoyance.

How did I chew my lower lip, I hear you asking? Well, they wanted me to talk, so I was never gagged except for times when I was being moved between floors. I was blindfolded a lot, and my hands were tied behind me since before I woke up, but my big mouth remained mostly unimpeded.

This was ultimately my salvation. The mean guy—the one with the cane—had just finished with my ass (the session that finally drew blood). With me tied up on the floor, two goons went out for food, and Cane Man stretched out on a chair, thumbed around on his phone awhile, and soon tilted his head back and started snoring.

He and his comrades had been up for nights on end working me over, and I guess it caught up to him. Lucky for me, his legs were extended and crossed, and there was a sheathed knife stashed on his right boot.

You can probably guess what happened next. Yes, I used my inexplicably unrestrained mouth to extract the knife. Yes, I cut away that jury-rigged smart wire (harder than it sounds when the bound appendages and those you’re trying to free are one in the same). No, I didn’t kill him. He was asleep, and he wasn’t the mission.

With hardly a sound, I collected my data stick off the old wooden desk (where I’d occasionally caught glimpses of some techie trying to crack it).

Couldn’t find my gear, so I got the hell out of there in boots, panties and undershirt. This drew a lot of attention on the streets, and I might as well have had ESCAPED SLAVE tattooed on my forehead, but I reached the Galletown safehouse without incident.

Only once inside did I realize how filthy I was—head to toe, dust and grease mixed with sweat, with my black war paint from a few nights earlier still smeared across my nose and forehead. Unless you count the nipple torture and repeated violent contact with my buttocks as sexual crimes, there was no physical evidence I needed to preserve for investigators, and I’m not sure I’d have cared even if there was. I photographed myself from all angles to document my injuries, and then I took the longest shower of my life.

Was any of this worth it? Well, my data stick had what my superiors wanted in terms of the VIP, who was rescued in an EAMC raid shortly after my escape. Several dozen other illegal slaves were freed in the same op.

I suppose, from my perspective as an Earth Authority marine and Phantom operative, taking a few lashes to spare some innocent people a life of slavery is all part of the job. Like I said, the ‘torture’ I suffered barely counts, and that’s not just bravado. I feel fine. I had trouble sleeping that first night after debrief, which was weird since sleep deprivation was nearly constant during my captivity. But my brain slowed down within a day, and I’m good.

What I can say, though, is that I’m more aware than ever of the menace to society posed by black market slavery. I’m not coming over to your side, Jerri, so don’t read too much into this, but getting my ass whipped and tits zapped—albeit ineffectively—has made me wonder what might have happened if I’d fallen into the hands of more competent people.

And I know more competent people are out there. Thousands of illegal slaves move through Earth Authority space every month, and most of them are permanently fucked up by it, if not outright broken.

But you already know this.

I just thought you’d like to hear my little story. If you’ve had any comparable adventures on Obseq—you know, without incriminating yourself—I’d love to compare notes. We should talk more.

Miss you. Tell Caspyr I said hi, and that song Carry the Storm he wrote for your music project last month is amazing. It went into my All-Time playlist.


Love,

Meghan

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