Hostage Corp · Part 1 (1/3)
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“Are you going back to Tom?”
Marci Gotz didn’t answer her older sister at once. She closed her suitcase and applied her thumb to the thumb-locks, sealing it, before saying: “No, I’m not. I’m going to join the Hostage Corp, and neither you nor Tom will ever see me again.”
Jane sputtered. Marci brushed past her sister, suitcase in hand. “Are you nuts?” Jane finally managed when Marci reached the front door of the small rented house. “Tom is infinitely better than one of those blue beasts!”
Marci didn’t answer. She stepped out and walked quickly, following the sidewalk around the corner and down the two blocks to the bus stop. Dressed in plain slacks and a short-sleeved blouse, she stood a little below average height, her olive-complexioned face featuring a button nose and brown eyes. Her hair, as brown as her eyes, was cut to a sensible shoulder length, and she brushed a stray wisp from her face as she walked.
At the bus stop she waited, suppressing jitters. If Jane decided follow, she could only nag. She couldn’t physically drag her back; she could only embarrass them both. She’d repeat her pitch about how wonderful Tom was and what a fool Marci was being to leave him. If she liked Tom so much, she ought to marry him. It would serve her right. Now, if only the autobus would arrive before Jane did…
The robotic bus pulled up and let out a half dozen passengers. One was a middle-aged man carrying a bisnik female in his arms. As Marci waited her turn to board, she saw him set the blue-furred alien woman on her feet, giving her all his courtesy and attention. He then led her away on a leash, her wrists fastened before her with padded cuffs, and her ankles hobbled as well. Marci could practically see the little red hearts popping around them as she followed him with the mincing steps that her hobble enforced.
The man had to be an ex-POW – they were practically the only ones allowed custody of alien captives under the New Conventions. (‘New’ in a relative sense – they had been ratified well before Marci’s birth.) That meant the bisnik woman was Marci’s opposite number. Marci considered this as she slotted her fair card and punched in her destination. She took a seat, and as the autobus started forward, she decided that it was a good omen. #
Marci’s last conversation on Earth was with a nice lady whose Marine uniform said that she was SGT LORELEI ELLIS. “I see you’ve just filed a no-contest divorce. I hope you realize that you don’t have to become an exchangee for that. It will go through just as quickly – more quickly, actually – if you just sign in at a shelter, or if you invoke your privacy rights and move to another state.”
“I know,” Marci answered. “The paralegal laid it all out for me. It’s not the reason I’m joining the Hostage Core – or rather, there are a lot of reasons, and that was only a tiny part of it. I wanted to join the Marines, to serve, back when I graduated from High School, but I couldn’t meet the physical. This way I can contribute – by exactly the amount of whatever marine is released in my place. And I want to see what it’s like – really like. And finally, there’s this little voice inside that says it will be good for me. Like broccoli.”
“I like broccoli,” Lorelei said with a smile, then turned to business. “OK, we just need to be sure you don’t have any false ideas. Major false ideas, anyway – you’re certain to get surprised by some of the little things. Also, you need to understand that you can still back out – any time before you walk through the Door.” She nodded toward the door to the side, loudly marked with red, yellow, and blue safety tape, and sporting a big ‘DANGER!!!’ sign. “Women have turned back, you know, right at the last moment. But now let’s put you into the mind reading machine.”
This was a helmet that fit loosely over Marci’s head – the modern version of an old fashioned 20th century lie detector. It would monitor certain parts of Marci’s brain activity as she answered the next few questions: “Are you Marci K. Gotz, SSI 314-AXN-6970?”
“Yes. I am.”
“And have you read form 9524B and datapak 412S, and do you understand what they say?”
“Yes. I’m selling myself into slavery, to be bought by blue-furred alien men who want our women.”
Lorelei chuckled. “Crudely put, but more than accurate enough for government work. Now last question: Are you volunteering for the Prisoner Exchange Service as the result of any threat, bribe, or other illegal inducement or activity?”
“No, I’m doing this for good and legal reasons.”
“All right then,” Lorelei lifted the helmet from Marci’s head. “Last thing: You need to take off any jewelry you’re wearing. Small stud earrings are OK, but your wristwatch and anything else comes off now. Oh, and your shoes and socks too. Then you can step through the Door.”
Marci nodded. She still wore her watch, but had removed her earrings – large dangly things, rather than little studs – before setting out. They, along with the few other pieces of cheap jewelry she owned, were in her suitcase, and that suitcase was currently in a 25-year storage locker, sealed with a thumb-lock set to her print. So that was taken care of. All she needed to do now was take off her watch and strip herself barefoot. “Sergeant Lorelei?” she asked as she pulled off her socks. “One last question: Why just shoes and socks? Why not take everything off, or go in fully clothed? The datapak explained about the jewelry, but didn’t say anything about the shoes.”
“Tradition. Twenty or thirty years ago you’d have to go in barefoot because the machinery couldn’t handle shoes or socks very well, but now it’s just an unwritten tradition. And there’s another tradition as well. Just before you step through, you need to say: ‘I was warned; whatever happens to me now is my own fucking fault.’“
Marci nodded and walked barefoot to the Door. Opening it sounded a loud musical chime that repeated every couple of seconds, and lit up red and blue flashers that chased each other around the doorframe in an eye-catching pattern. Ignoring this display, Marci shouted into the darkness beyond the Door: “I was warned; whatever happens to me now is my own fucking fault!” Then she stepped through.
Datapak 412S includes a description of what happens when a recruit-exchangee steps through the Door. First, a puff of gas induces short-term paralyzation. The victim can still see, hear, and feel, but cannot move or speak. A pair of manipulator arms then catches the victim before she can fall over, and more manipulators move in from all sides to remove her clothing, shredding it to rags in the process. If the manipulators encounter any jewelry (other than small stud earrings) they attempt to remove them with care – but sometimes its care is not enough, which is why the victim is advised to remove any jewelry beforehand.
Still paralyzed, the victim is carried to the next stage. Here, rubberine straps bind her legs at the ankles and above the knees, and more straps fasten her arms to her sides. Loops are thrown around her wrists, connected to a belt set about her hips so that she cannot bring her hands together either in front of her body or behind it. A lightweight plastic slave collar is also fastened around the victim’s neck at this point – or rather is molded around it, allowing no weak points where the slave might later break and remove it. This collar is temporary, of course, and can be removed even with hand tools. But equally of course, the new slave will not be permitted access to such tools.
Now the new slave is placed into her transport module. This is a rectangular block on the outside, and an oval cavity on the inside, resembling a first-class sleeper-seat: Well padded, well lit, and provided with high-quality audio-video. In addition, it is equipped with sundry devices that provide water, food in the form of a liquid meal, sanitary amenities, and other services considered desirable for a captive. The slave is granted limited control of these via voice activation, and this also begins her slave-training: Every request she makes must be proceeded by the words “Master, I beg.”
The slave usually recovers from her paralyzation while being placed in the transport module. If she doesn’t, the compartment is flooded with pure oxygen, and she is instructed to attempt deep breaths. If this fails, help is summoned to administer the antidote and provide any other medical treatment necessary. However, 99.4 percent of all new slaves recover without assistance. Roughly half of them scream when the lid is closed on their transport module.
Marci didn’t scream, but she did squirm as her paralyzation lifted. The compartment of her transport module was comfortably warm, against her naked skin, the padding beneath her was comfortably soft, the large display in front of her scrolled advice and information both in human English and in bisnik Ustani. However, her helplessness was starting to arouse her. It was a reaction she’d had back as a teenager, until she had been chided out of it by her parents and teachers, and later by Tom. Then, when she decided to leave Tom and join the Hostage Corp, she started trying to cultivate it again. But she hadn’t had much success. Until now, when the exotic seriousness of her helplessness made her feel more, well, helpless.
She was also thirsty, she realized. “Could I have some water, please?”
“Incorrect form of request, Slave Marci,” a deliberately mechanical voice chided her. She swallowed dryness, and shivered. Those six words shocked her with the realization that, in exchange for the freedom of a human POW, she had really and truly sold herself into slavery. Heart pounding, she tried again.
“Master, I beg: Can I have some water, please?”
“Better, Slave Marci.” A drinking tube extended, and she sucked down a long draught of cool pure water. Thirst quenched, she lay back and squirmed a bit more, struggling against her bonds. They were impossible to escape, of course. She was now a slave. She was nude and bound and helpless. She was being shipped out into space, where she would be sold at auction to blue-furred alien men who desired her. Who would keep her as a slave, bound and helpless, even as they pampered her. She shivered again, scared, excited – and happy.#
It took a nearly a full day to transfer Marci’s transport module first to Memphis Spaceport and then to the Memphis Orbital Station. During this period, her restraints were adjusted dozens of times – now loosened, now tightened, but never removed completely. This allowed her (and sometimes required her) to shift into different positions, easing the strain on her body. Always, however, there was something binding her, if only a tether to a wrist or ankle, so that even if the module opened, she would still be unable to escape.
Marci listened to music, read, watched vids, and drank water and liquid meals. She squirmed. Eventually, she calmed down from her initial peak of excitement – and then the e-mail from Jane arrived. Too late now Marci thought with a smirk. She considered deleting it unread, but curiosity got the better of her and she opened it.
Marci continued to smirk as she read Jane’s purple, over-done plea for her to reconsider. To return to Tom, quitting the Hostage Corp. As if she could. She pulled on the bonds holding her ankles apart, luxuriating in her helplessness. Even if, in a fit of insanity, she did decide that she wanted to go back to Tom, the thing was impossible. Her next man would be a horned bisnik. Her smirk became a grin.
Then came the part about the posted ransom, turning Marci’s grin into a sudden frown. “Master, I beg: May I please see the last e-mail from my paralegal?”
Paging through this by verbal command (since her wrists were currently tied down on either side of her body), Marci found the section she was looking for, where the paralegal had boiled away the legalese to explain what a posted ransom would mean.
The slave auctions had a reserve bid, but normally, if the bids on a slave woman didn’t reach that amount, the auction house would hold her until the next round. But with a posted ransom, the bids on Marci would have to exceed the ransom amount or else she would be sent back to Earth. The Hostage Core would discharge her, and her plan would be in ruins.
Nothing to worry about, Marci lied to herself. All she’d have to do is entice a bisnik master to outbid the posted ransom. And the first step for that is to stop worrying. She begged for more music, and managed to distract herself with another romance novel.
Eventually she grew sleepy. “Master, I beg: Could you turn the lights down? Not all the way off, just dim.” In response, the light in her compartment slowly faded. “That’s good enough,” she said, then added on impulse, “Thank you, master.”
“Very good, Slave Marci,” the mechanical voice answered. “You are welcome.” Smiling slightly, Marci dozed off. #
When Marci awoke again, several hours later, she didn’t remember at first where she was. “Could someone turn up the lights?” she asked.
“Incorrect form of address, Slave Marci,” the mechanical voice told her. Memory flooded back: She was a slave, now. Naked. Captive. Tethered only loosely at the moment, but her computerized captor might choose to bind her tightly at any time. She had gotten here by walking through that Door, and just before then… “I was warned,” she muttered. Then she spoke up. “I’m sorry, master.” A deep breath for calm. “Master, I beg: Could you please turn the lights back up?” The inside of her compartment lit up again, and she made a small sound of relief. Then she begged for music, water, food, and clean-up, and managed to relax again as these were provided. And then, more vids and written material.
Some time later, Marci begged for the story to be put away; she was tired of reading. She lay back, considering. She wasn’t bored, she realized suddenly – she was horny. At the moment the security system had her ankles fastened down firmly and separated by about a third of a meter, but her wrists were on loose tethers. She could reach herself, and she did, rubbing the insides of her legs, touching her pussy. In response, the transport module pulled her hands away, fastening her wrists up near her head. “That is not allowed, Slave Marci,” the mechanical voice told her. “If you wish pleasure-stimulation, you must request it, and allow another to provide.”
Marci wiggled. She pulled at her bonds, twisting. They continued to hold her perfectly helpless, of course, and her struggles just made her hotter. Begging would be embarrassing, but not begging was frustrating. She struggled some more, and made a frustrated little moan-cry before finally giving in. “Master, I beg.” She paused to consider what to ask for, and how to ask for it. She clenched her hands and her toes; she couldn’t move her wrists or ankles at all. “Make me cum!” she said at last.
A fist-sized ball pressed against her pussy, vibrating. Another vibrator wandered over her torso. She twisted, trying to press herself against it. It moved down her legs, and pressed against the soles of her feet, one at a time. Tickling them. She giggled, and tried to pull in her arms and legs. A delicious sense of helplessness flooded her when the straps on her wrists and ankles prevented her from doing so. She fought her bonds, unable to make herself stop. It felt too good to stop struggling. She could not escape from the first vibrator between her legs, nor from the second one that now circled her breasts. They were pushing her closer and closer to the edge.
She went over the edge. The orgasm swept through her, making her cry out and cry out again. It subsided, reluctantly, and the vibrators withdrew. She lay there, panting.
The top of her module opened, and the broad face of a male bisnik looked down at her. Like the female Marci had seen on her last day on Earth, he had large dark eyes. Unlike that female (or any other bisnik woman), he also had short horns growing flat against his forehead; the sign of adult bisnik masculinity. The skin around his eyes crinkled, and then he smiled human-style. “I have timing,” he said in accented English. “Module: Clean this mess up, please.”
Marci told herself that she was silly to be embarrassed by a bisnik man staring at her nudity. Staring was the least they would do to her as one of their slave women. She made herself relax as the module caressed her with damp towels followed by dry ones. When they withdrew, she realized that the straps binding her had been removed as well. But of course she still wore the plastic slave-collar.
“Climb out under your own power, if you are able to, Slave Marci,” the bisnik told her. “If you are not able to, I will assist you.”
“Yes, um…”
“You may call me Onocol, Slave Marci. That means ‘slave trainer,’ or ‘overseer,’ roughly. Or you may call me ‘Master,’ although that is not technically true.”
Marci reached for a handhold. “Yes, Master Onocol.”
He gave her another crinkle-eyed bisnik smile. “That will serve as well, Slave Marci. Technically I am also a prisoner, for the moment. After you go through Medical, I will be your onocol – overseer and trainer – on board the transport.”
As it turned out, Marci could climb up out of her module unassisted, but needed help getting down. The bisnik – Master Onocol – wore gloves, Marci noticed as he assisted her, white cloth gloves that clashed slightly with his shorts, sandals, and leather chest harness. She also noted the well-developed muscles that let him handle her lightly as he set her on her feet. Bisnik, she knew, had a slightly greater sexual dimorphism than humans: The average bisnik male was as big as a large human male, while the average female was as small as a petite human woman.
Once she stood on the freighter’s deck, Master Onocol snapped cuffs on her, fastening her hands behind her back. “Follow the indicated path, Slave Marci,” he told her. “It will lead you to medical, and then to the transport. If you see any of the other slaves, you may speak with them. However,” he fixed her with a stern look. “You are to address them formally, by the title ‘Slave’ and their name. Not by name alone, nor as ‘Slave’ alone. Do you understand?”
“Yes Master.” Marci bowed her head. Then, as Master Onocol turned to the next module, she set off, following the string of blinking lights. #
A short walk later, she came to a padded ramp leading up to a circular opening of perhaps one meter in diameter. An illuminated sign to the side read “Place the cuffs in the receptacle provided and crawl up through the opening.” When Marci came to the foot of the ramp, she heard a faint click and felt her cuffs loosen and release. The sign begin to blink. She followed its instructions, placing the now-opened cuffs in the opening beneath it. Then, falling to her hands and knees, she crawled up the ramp and through the opening.
On the other side, she found herself on a padded bench, flanked by a male human and a female bisnik. Both wore the blue coats, gauze masks, and rubber gloves of medical personnel. In addition, the female wore the medical symbol of a bisnik nurse, while the human had the caduceus insignia of a M. D. “Slave Marci Gotz?” he asked.
“Yes Doctor,” Marci confirmed her identity.
“Welcome to the Hostage Corp. Lie flat, please, and spread your arms and legs. Do you have a cold, any aches or pains, any sores or bruises?”
Marci complied, and felt the bisnik nurse attach soft-lined cuffs to her wrists and ankles, fastening her down. “No Doctor,” she answered the doctor’s question.
“Good!” He unwrapped something. “The last one did have a cold, and we had to put her in isolation until she gets over it. Open wide now.”
Marci did so, and the Doctor filled her mouth with a disposable gag. “Mmph mmm mmm mmpph!” Marci said.
“Yes, it is effective. Chewy too.” Marci felt him place the cold end of an old-fashioned stethoscope against her back. “Breath deeply now.” Marci complied. “That’s enough now.”
The cold stethoscope went away. Again, Marci tried speaking through her gag. “Mmm mmph mmphmmph mmmp!” The clever shape of the gag made it hard to talk, or even to produce much sound. If she didn’t know what she was trying to say, Marci wouldn’t have understood it herself.
“I’m afraid I can’t make out a word,” the Doctor confirmed. The gauze mask hid most of his face, but Marci could see the amusement in his eyes when she looked up. “What about you, Nurse?”
“I cannot understand her either.” The Nurse’s alien eyes had a healthy dash of sympathy mixed with their amusement. “It is a new design,” she told Marci. “A joint bisnik-human venture, I understand. And very good at its job of silencing slave women.”
The bisnik nurse spoke those last words with the tone of one who had personal experience. Marci wanted to ask about that, but of course that gag in her mouth prevented her from doing so.
Silence, as the nurse typed some commands into a keyboard, and the doctor made notes into an electronic notepad. “The alpha readings are ready, Doctor,” the nurse said at last.
The doctor displaced her from the display. “All right, go ahead and start beta.”
“This will not hurt,” the bisnik nurse told Marci as she moved back beside her. “It will feel a little rude, however.” She began a massage: Feet, legs, back, arms, reaching underneath to stroke belly and breasts. Her touch was expert, and aimed at arousing Marci. It succeeded.
“Mmmph!” Marci protested. It did no good, of course. The nurse continued her erotic massage.
Hostage Corp · Part 1 (1/3)
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