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Twelve Days a Slave
by The Technician
Technician666@Gmail.Com | Forum Feedback
Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (aka The Technician): The Perfect Sex Toy | Senior Project | Handcuff Island | I, Masochist | UMPA Eleven
© Copyright 2016 - The Technician - Used by permission
Storycodes: Solo-F; MF+/f; sentenced; punished; public; dress; F+/f; strip; exposure; hum; shave; depilatory; naked; shackles; collar; parade; atonement; cage; susp; cell; reluct/cons; XX
jpn

WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century. Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2016 by The Technician (Technician666@Gmail.Com)
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

Twelve Days a Slave 2: A Day of Repentance The Technician Solo-F; MF+/f; sentenced; punished; public; dress; F+/f; strip; exposure; hum; shave; depilatory; naked; shackles; collar; parade; atonement; cage; susp; cell; reluct/cons; XX
story continues from part one

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Convicted of terrorism, Vicki is sentenced to penal slavery

Vicki, a young woman who works for a large department store, figures out a way to bypass the electronic return tags on expensive dresses sold by the store where she works . This allows her to buy dresses on a Friday, wear them to events over the weekend, and return them on Monday.

When a very expensive dress she is wearing is ruined at a party, everything unravels. She will be charged for the dress and can in no way afford to pay for it. A young man she recently met gives her a program that will allow her to remove the charges from her account. Unfortunately, that program contains a virus that infects not only computers in the store where she works, but many other businesses as well.

This is the story of her conviction as a terrorist and what happens to her when she is sentenced to penal slavery. Penal slavery is not impossible in the United States of America. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth Amendments of the constitution do not NOT prohibit slavery. They only LIMIT slavery to punishment for crimes. In other words, the constitution allows penal slavery.

This story deals with non-consensual punishment, pain, and involuntary slavery. If such topics offend you or upset you, I would advise skipping this particular book.

There are thirteen chapters to this story. The chapters can be read on their own, but the story is much better understood if the previous portions have been read. The complete story is full book length. I debated publishing it with some of my other books at Fiction4all, but decided that I would rather serialize it and post it here.

In this chapter is Vicki’s “Day of Repentance” and her humiliating descent into slavery, including being renamed as slave missy. The chapter centers primarily on public nudity and public humiliation.

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Chapter Two - A Day of Repentance

Two weeks following her conviction, at nine o’clock in the morning, Vicki stood on the steps of the courthouse where she had been convicted and sentenced. The day had been determined not by the courts, but by the advertising cycles. William had set the date so that the maximum furor could be generated in social media and the most on-demand views purchased. The courthouse looked out on a large open square. That square and the route of her humiliation had been cordoned off.

Tickets for watching from within the cordoned area had sold out immediately. Front row tickets were resold on-line for outrageous amounts. A large banner hung from the roof of the courthouse announcing today’s date and time beneath the words, “A Terrorist Repents and Accepts Her Punishment.” A large picture of Vicki in the orange prison dress, her hands and legs shackled, was also on the banner.

Vicki had asked several times what exactly was going to happen, but William had been insistent that she should not know in advance what was going to happen to her. “You can’t change it,” he said. “Why force yourself to live it out in your mind in advance. Just accept what happens as it occurs and you will get through it.”

The first surprise for her day of repentance was the dress she was given to wear. It was an exact reproduction of the $32,000 dress that had been her downfall. That fateful weekend, her plan had been to wear the expensive designer dress to a Community Benefit Gala and return it to stock, but that was not to be. Samantha, the head salesperson on the designer dress floor, was also at the gala. When she saw Vicki she came over and intentionally spilled red wine down the front of the dress. Then leaning in close she had said, “You cost me a year-end bonus because returns were too high in my section.” Then, almost snarling, she said, “Try returning that now, bitch.”

She couldn’t return the dress... and there was no way that she could ever afford to pay for it. But Jarred, a boy at the party whom Vicki had dated, said he had a program which he would give her that would allow her to get into the proper files to take the cost off her account. It worked just as he said it would, but it also put a virus on the company’s computers... a virus which spread to vendors, customers, and other businesses. A total of 46 companies were infected by the time Jarred triggered the virus crashing those computer systems on Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year.

Jarred then posted a video claiming credit for the cyber attack in the name of the People’s Economic Justice Front. That video was broadcast on all of the news networks almost as soon as it was received.

Normally, Vicki didn’t pay that much attention to news programs, but it was almost impossible to avoid seeing this particular video. And as soon as she saw the beginning, she recognized Jarred.

Vicki stared at her TV. Could this be the young man who had helped her? At the end of the video, Jarred looked directly into the camera and said, “I would especially like to thank Vicki LeClaire. Without her help, none of this would have ever been possible.”

Vicki was still staring at her television screen two hours later when a special SWAT team from Homeland Security burst through the door to her apartment. She was dragged out to a heavily armored van and transported to a special security jail. Against the advice of her lawyer, she decided to tell the truth– the whole truth.

She should have listened to her lawyer.

That truth was the basis for the eleven counts of theft of goods and services– the dresses she had worn and returned. That truth was the basis for the embezzlement charge– for changing the accounting files. That truth was read as testimony against her at her trial as proof that she was, indeed, the terrorist who had introduced the virus onto so many stores’ computer systems.

She was convicted on all charges.

And now she stood at the top of the courthouse steps wearing a reproduction of the exact dress which had led to her downfall. She was dressed as she had been that night. Well, not exactly. Today she was wearing Aubade lingerie and Prada shoes– items that she could never afford on her salary. And her hair had been styled by one of the best salons in town– again, something she would never have been able to afford. A professional had even applied her makeup. She had never looked better.

William had explained, “Everything is symbolic. We start you at the very top so that your fall to the bottom is that much more dramatic. ... People pay for drama.”

When she grimaced, he added, “That little trick added 10% to the cost of the tickets and 25% to the video rights. And for you, money is time.” After a forced smile, he continued, “Trust me. I know what I am doing.”

She could see the clock in a church tower located on the opposite edge of the square. Whatever was going to happen would start in five minutes or less. As the hands on the clock came closer and closer to the top of the hour, William leaned in close to her and said, “Things are going to start in just a few moments. Remember, don’t think about what is happening. Instead think about all those fantasies you had when you went out to all those BDSM sites.”

He had barely stepped away when six women encircled her. They looked very familiar, but it still took her a moment to recognize them. It was Samantha and her entire sales staff. “We paid a lot for the privilege of doing this,” Samantha said. “And we are REALLY going to enjoy it,” said one of the saleswomen.

All six of them each held up a pair of scissors. “I think this dress needs a little modification,” said one of them. “I agree,” said Samantha as she began cutting one of the sleeves.

Vicki fearfully expected them to immediately cut the lavish dress from her body, but instead they cut only thin strips of fabric from the hem and from the ends of the sleeves. When they finished, the dress was intact, but smaller. “Not quite enough,” said Martha. Vicki remembered that she had bought several of the dresses through her.

With an evil-sounding laugh, Martha cut another inch off the hem of the dress. “Still not quite slutty enough,” she said as she stepped back. Another woman stepped forward and cut away about half of the sleeves.

Vicki felt like screaming, “Just cut it off me!” but she knew that she had to remain totally quiet. For this day to count, she needed to remain silent until she made her statement of repentance at the other end of the route.

The women continued their slow cutting away of the dress until it was barely below her panties. She could feel the air move against the bottom of her ass cheeks. Samantha picked up one of the long strips of fabric from the ground and said, “Let’s try accessorizing.” She then tied the strip around Vicki’s waist like a belt.

“I don’t like the line that creates,” said one of the women.

“The upper portion needs to move freely,” said another as she reached in with her scissors and cut the dress in half just above the improvised belt.

“That’s better, but it should still move more freely,” Samantha said as she cut 2" off the upper portion of the dress revealing Vicki’s trembling abdomen.

“Now, the sleeves don’t look right,” said Martha. She cut what little remained of the sleeves off the dress.

“I think it calls for the wife-beater look,” Samantha said with a sneer as she began to cut the top into a shape which would match the sleeveless T-shirt commonly called a wife-beater.

“Now her bra shows,” said another of the women. “We can’t have that.”

“Easily corrected,” said Martha as she reached under the mangled top with her scissors and cut the sides of the bra. Two more snips and the straps were also cut. One of the women reached under the top and pulled the bra clear. Vicki gasped as it was pulled roughly off her breasts.

“We have the same problem with her undies,” one of the women giggled. They are showing under the dress.”

“Well,” replied Samantha, also giggling, “you know how to fix that.”

Two of the women worked together. Each pushing their scissors under the dress to reach the sides of the panties.

“Those should fall down on their own,” Samantha said derisively. “...unless she’s pissed herself or is getting all turned on by this.” The sneer was gone from her face, but not from her voice.

The six women stepped back slightly, each staring at Vicki’s legs waiting for the panties to drop.

“I don’t see any pee on the ground,” said Martha. “That can mean only one thing.”

“Oh,” said Samantha with a deep laugh, “you are a naughty little girl aren’t you.” She reached up under the short remnant of the dress and pushed the sopping crotch of the panties to one side. She slid her finger through Vicki’s slit and then downward, catching the panties as she pulled her hand out from beneath the dress.

“If I had known how kinky you were, honey,” she said, “we might have been able to work out something on the dresses.”

She held the panties to her nose for a second and said, “Definitely the smell of a turned on kinky cunt.” She then dropped the panties on the steps at Vicki’s feet.

For some reason, seeing her wet panties lying at her feet was more embarrassing for Vicki than anything else that had occurred. She felt her skin redden with shame, but at the same time she felt her juices beginning to seep down her thigh. The thought that people would soon be able to see her wetness brought more shame which brought an additional flood which brought additional shame. Soon she could turn no redder. Perhaps her wetness had also reached its maximum.
The women returned to their alterations of her dress. “If she is such a slut,” Martha said, “then she really should try the topless look.”

Three women attacked what little was left of the top of the dress and soon it joined her panties in a pile at her feet. She was now standing bare-breasted in front of several thousand people and who knows how many throughout the world who were watching live video feeds of the event. Her wetness had not reached its maximum.

“The dress is still too long for a slut like Vicki,” Samantha said.

One of the women responded by cutting an additional 2" from the micro-mini remnants of the lower portion of the dress. Now her ass cheeks were definitely on display from the back. From the front, her cunt was not quite visible, but wisps of her pubic hair hung down just far enough to make themselves known beneath the dress.

Samantha now stood directly in front of Vicki. They were face to face. Samantha tilted her head slightly as if she were going to kiss Vicki, but instead reached up under her dress with her left hand and cupped Vicki’s gushing mound. “Life is full of missed opportunities,” she said softly. “We really could have had some good times together.”

She then smiled and said cheerily. “I did have fun here today, though.” She formed her mouth into a pouty frown and said, “Too bad things are going to get a little more intense for you at this point. I think you were starting to enjoy this, too.”

She then reached over with her right hand and cut down the front of the remainder of the dress. Catching that small piece of fabric in her left hand, she held it aloft for all the crowd to see before dropping it on the ground with the rest of Vicki’s clothing.

The crowd roared out its response as Samantha, Martha, and the other four women walked up the steps and into the courthouse leaving Vicki standing naked behind them.

***

Vicki stood naked except for her high heels at the top of the courthouse steps. She had no idea what came next, so she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. The only thing that she knew for sure was that she was supposed to stay there and keep quiet. So that is what she did. She stood quietly awaiting the next portion of her repentance.

She could hear footsteps behind her. Someone in heels was walking toward her. She managed to keep from turning around to see who it was, but as the footsteps came down the steps, she couldn’t help herself from turning her head slightly. It was the stylist who had done her hair!

“You didn’t think I did all that work this morning out of the goodness of my heart, do you?” she said with a light silvery laugh. Vicki thought that this was probably how the woman spoke to her expensive clientele in her downtown shop.
The stylist held something in her hands. Vicki wasn’t sure what it was until it began humming like an angry wasp. It was a set of electric hair clippers.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” the stylist said as she reached up and placed the clippers in the center of Vicki’s forehead. “How would you like it styled today?” she asked cheerily as she pushed the buzzing tool back through Vicki’s hair. The sudden coolness on the top of her head told Vicki that there was a bald strip down the center of her head.

“I think we need to even that up just a bit, don’t you?” the stylist asked. She then returned the clippers to Vicki’s head and began making pass after pass across her scalp.

Vicki looked down at her feet. Her damp panties and the scraps of dress were now being covered with twisted piles of hair. She began to cry softly.

“Oh, don’t worry, honey,” the stylist said. “We will make sure that everything is properly finished out.” She smiled and asked, “Won’t that be nice?”

Vicki remained silent. A moment later, the stylist patted her on her now totally bald head.

“Collar and cuffs should always match,” the stylist said in her falsely cheery voice. She then reached down between Vicki’s legs with the clippers and began to remove her pubic hair.

“Some stylists would be satisfied with that,” she said firmly after all hair there was also gone. “But I am not just some stylist. I have a reputation to maintain.”

She clapped her hands and a man ran up to her carrying a heavy wooden tray. There was a machine of some sort on the tray that Vicki didn’t recognize. The stylist pushed a button on the top of the machine. It whirred loudly and foam of some sort filled the stylist’s hands.

“Only the best for my customers,” the stylist said as she began to apply the foam to Vicki’s head. It was warm– almost hot– and seemed to sting slightly.

“There are herbs in my special mixture that cause the hair to stand on end,” the stylist explained. “They sting just a little, but it is worth it for the closeness of the shave.” She then picked up a razor from the tray and began shaving Vicki’s head.

The razor was very much like a standard women’s razor that you could buy at most stores, but somehow it looked... more expensive.

It took only a moment for the stylist to finish Vicki’s head. She then said, “Spread your legs wider.” Vicki complied.

The foam felt hotter on her pussy than it had on her head, but then again she was more sensitive between the legs than she was on her head. The stinging was also worse– much worse.

“I added extra herbs just for today,” the stylist said. “I’m sure you want to be shaved extra close.”

Again, it took only a moment for the stylist to finish. The man handed her a wet towel and she wiped Vicki’s head and then her cunt. The after-effects of the herbs caused the skin to tingle and feel cold.

“Normally I guarantee that you will stay smooth for at least five days,” she said. She then cocked her head slightly and said, “It’s a pity you won’t know how long my shave would have lasted for you.”

With that she and her assistant walked down the steps and off into the crowds. Vicki wondered what the stylist had meant by her not knowing how long the shave would have lasted, but there was no one to ask. And even if there were someone to ask, she was supposed to remain quiet.

Vicki stood as she had been left by the stylist. Her feet were a little more than a shoulder width apart and her hands were at her side. She could feel the air moving over her bald head and over her now smooth crotch. She had often thought about completely shaving her sex, but had never had the nerve. After all, only those kinds of girls shaved totally bare.

“I guess I’m one of those kinds of girls now,” she thought to herself. She could hear men’s voices behind her, but they sounded muffled for some reason. A clearer voice, a woman’s, said loudly “You can start as soon as we get the area cleaned up and I put the protective caps in place.”

Vicki had no idea what the protective caps were or where they would be put in place. The suspense was almost too much and she was very tempted to turn around to see what was happening behind her. Luckily, just as she was about to turn, a mid-20s young woman in white, haz-mat coveralls stepped out in front of her.

The woman stood quietly while an older man in grey coveralls and a young man in blue jeans gathered up the scraps of her clothing. The older man then swept up the hair and small pieces of cloth which were still lying on the steps.

“We need the shoes, too,” said the young man and Vicki stepped out of the shoes. She was now totally naked, but somehow felt less naked barefoot than she had in the high heels.

“You’ll need to stand very still while I apply these protective caps,” the woman said loudly. “The seals have to be perfect or you could lose your eyelashes... or even your sight.”

She then took a clear plastic dome about the size of a shot glass out of a bag that was hanging from her shoulder. After checking something on the cap, she reached back into the bag and brought out a small tube of thick gel-like material which she applied to the edges of the cap.

“Close your left eye,” she instructed.

Vicki did so and the woman set the cap over Vicki’s eye, pressing firmly while she counted out loud to 25.

“Now close your right eye,” she commanded.

Again, Vicki did so and a few moments later she felt something being pressed tightly over that eye as the woman once again counted to 25.

“You can open your eyes now,” the woman said.

Vicki did so and realized that she was now wearing what looked like tanning goggles, except they were totally clear, and there was no band holding them in place because they were glued to her face.

“Ready,” the woman said in her loud and clear voice. Two men in full haz-mat protective suits, including taped gloves and fully-hooded headpieces, walked out in front of her. These must have been the muffled voices which she had heard behind her.

“Try not to move around too much,” one man said. “If you rub your skin while the solvent is still working, you can cause irritation. It will take a few minutes for the chemicals to kill the roots of the hair follicles.”

The other man, who had been standing behind him, stepped forward with two 3-gallon sprayers like you would use for pesticides in a garden. Handing one to the first man, he said, “Remember, top to bottom then back up until both units are empty.”

That is what they did. Starting with Vicki’s head, they sprayed a layer of some sort of gooey liquid on her skin. It was bluish-green and smelled like stagnant water. A few moments later, Vicki’s skin began to burn.

“Don’t touch yourself!” the second man commanded.

“Keep your legs well-spread and try not to clench your ass,” the other added.

It took all of Vicki’s willpower to keep herself from dancing in place or trying to rub the vile liquid from her skin. A short while later, she heard the hissing of the two sprayers as they emptied completely.

“Five minutes,” the first man said.

“Starting now,” the woman added as she once again stepped in front of Vicki. The two men were no longer visible– but then not much was. The caps protected Vicki’s eyes, but they were coated with the blue-green slime and she really couldn’t see anything very well.

“Two minutes to go,” the woman said. Vicki felt like she were being dissolved in acid. How could she stand two more minutes of this torture?

“One minute,” the woman said. Then “thirty seconds.” At ten seconds the woman began counting down. Vicki felt herself pulsing with the count of each second. Finally the woman said, “Five minutes,” and again stepped out of the way.

The two men were back. Now they had much smaller tanks, but much larger sprayers. A hose snaked off into the distance from each tank, so evidently the tank was just to mix something into water that would flow through the hose.

Vicki wasn’t sure what was being added to the water, but she knew for certain that the water was cold– extremely cold. It was colder than any water that she had ever poured from a tap.

Again the men started at the top and worked their way downward. The one man turned his sprayer so that it was spraying directly up between Vicki’s legs. She gasped as the frigid water pushed its way slightly up into her slit. At least the cold, or the chemicals added to the water, stopped the burning.

The rinsing seemed to go on forever, but it was actually only about ten or fifteen minutes. By the end, Vicki was shivering violently and her teeth were chattering.

Both men now trained their sprayers on the ground, washing away the residue of the original glop. As they worked their way back behind Vicki, the woman once again faced her. “Hold out your arms to the side and spread your feet as far out as you can.” Vicki did as she was instructed, fearing what might come next.

There was suddenly a loud roar behind her that sounded like a mix of a noisy truck engine and a jet taking off. A strong, hot wind began blowing against Vicki’s back.

“Turn around slowly,” the woman instructed.

As she turned, Vicki could see that the hot wind was coming from a large heater like would normally be used up north to warm up stalled trucks in the wintertime. She tried to turn as slowly as she could so that she could luxuriate in the warmth, but the woman said testily, “We don’t have all day. Keep it moving.”

When Vicki was once more facing out toward the crowds, the woman reached up with a large, strange looking set of pliers and grabbed one of the protective cups. “This may sting a little coming off,” she said as she slowly pulled the cap off Vicki’s left eye. A moment later, she removed the cap on the right eye.

“Now you never have to shave anything... ever again,” the woman said cheerily. Vicki stared numbly back at her as she realized “anything” included not only her pubic hair, but also her eyebrows and the hair on her head.

“Time for your walk,” a man’s voice said as the woman stepped aside.

Two bailiffs stepped forward and began attaching the shackles. These were slightly different than what had been used before. There was a heavy metal collar with a chain that connected to the center point of the chain for the wrist manacles. From there it also went down to the center point of the chain for the leg shackles.

After everything was in place, one of the bailiffs attached a long chain to the point where the neck chain joined the wrist manacles. As he pulled on it, her hands were forced upward and forward. The bailiffs pulled her slowly down the steps, letting her get used to walking in the chains. Once they reached the street, they attached the other end of the chain to the back of a military caisson wagon. Vicki felt like she was an ancient prisoner of war ready to be paraded naked before the people. In many ways, that was exactly what she was.

The horses began moving. Vicki had no choice but to follow the caisson through the downtown area until she came to the store where she used to work. Once there, she would read her prepared statement of repentance and acceptance.

Vicki had known this would happen. She had known that she would walk from the courthouse to the store where she worked and there read her statement of repentance. She didn’t know that she would be chained to the back of a ancient military wagon for that walk. She didn’t know that she would be more than naked. And she didn’t know that people in the crowd would be throwing rotten vegetables and eggs at her the entire fourteen blocks to the store.

“William probably sold them the eggs,” she thought to herself. “Or at least he charged extra for the privilege.” For a moment she felt bitterness– almost hatred– toward William Wilson, but then she remembered that her sentence was twelve million dollars. Anything that went toward that amount lowered her final time as a slave. Without her negotiator, she would have been a slave forever. So, standing straight with her shoulders back she forced herself to complete her walk of shame.

As she walked, she looked at the people in the crowd. There were men and women, old and young. Surprisingly, there were even young children in the crowd. Even more surprisingly, many of the children were holding unclothed dolls. Some of them held up their dolls as she walked past.

It wasn’t until the fifth block of her walk that Vicki suddenly realized that the dolls were her. One young man even had a full caisson set with her being pulled naked behind it. Looking through some of the shop windows, she could see displays of herself, exactly as she now was. There was even one almost life-sized doll watching over a large display of smaller dolls. The large, naked doll looked very accurate. She tried to see if it was also accurate between its legs, but was distracted by a price tag or something which was printed on the front of the doll.

It was surprising to her how many of the people were giving garbage to their children to throw. To her, that seemed somehow wrong. But her opinions no longer mattered. Besides, there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was walk behind the horse-drawn caisson which was pulling her through the streets.

When she finally reached the store, two more men in hazmat suits stood ready with hoses to wash the eggs and garbage off her body. There were no extra tanks connected to the hoses, so this was evidently just water. It was also considerably warmer than the water which was used to rinse the blue-green goo off her body.

Unfortunately, there was no powerful heater to warm her and dry her when they finished. Her nipples hardened into tight nubs in the cold as she walked up onto the platform and faced the crowd. Her prepared statement of repentance was waiting for her at the podium. It was printed out in large type. Since she had not seen it before, she tried to scan it rapidly.

A bailiff stood alongside her. “You have one minute to begin or the deal falls through,” he said gruffly.

Vicki picked up the paper and began to read. “I am heartily sorry that I have violated the law, but more than that I am deeply sorry for any harm I have caused to come upon any person or business. I readily admit my guilt and accept my punishment, including my... my... my...” She couldn’t form the words.

“Continue,” said the bailiff sternly.

Suddenly William was standing beside her. “You can do this,” he said. “This is the toughest part. You can do this.”

Vicki took a deep breath and resumed reading, “ I readily admit my guilt and accept my punishment, including my branding as a slave until full restitution has been paid to the courts.”

She set down the paper and began sobbing. Mr. Wilson took her by the shoulders and led her to another portion of the raised platform. “It’s not an old-fashioned brand,” he said. “There’s no branding iron. It’s more like a tattoo.”

Two bailiffs guided her over to a large, strangely-shaped, curved table. It looked almost like part of a large barrel. One of the men pushed her back against the curved surface while the other began strapping her arms and legs in place. Then a third bailiff, a woman, stepped forward with a large, strange-looking flashlight.

The flashlight was actually a laser branding device. The woman pressed it against Vicki’s pubic mound a few inches above her slit. Suddenly an excruciating pain flashed through Vicki’s body.

“That’s one,” said the woman as Vicki screamed.

She then moved the device so that it was pressed against Vicki’s skin just above her left breast. The woman pushed a button on the side of the device and once again excruciating pain flashed through Vicki’s body. It was there and then it was gone, but that quick flash of pain was enough to cause Vicki to scream and, this time, to lose control of her bladder. She sobbed in pain and shame as her piss puddled under her.

The two bailiffs released her from the restraints and helped her to her feet. They moved her back to the other section of the platform where the judge stood waiting. As she approached she could see that, for some reason, there was a large mirror next to the judge.

The purpose of the mirror became evident when the judge spoke. “Vicki LeClaire is no more,” he said solemnly pointing towards the mirror.

His words were true. The figure looking back at her from the mirror was not Vicki. “From now until your sentence is complete,” the judge continued, “you are slave missy, also known as prisoner PS382563.”

Slave missy looked at her reflection in the mirror. Reading the mirror image, she could see that just above her cunt it said “Penal Slave 382563.” Above her left breast it read, “Slave Missy.”

William was standing beside her. “The worst is over for today,” he said.

She looked at him with tears flowing from her eyes. She reached up with her right hand and lightly stroked the brand that proclaimed her to be slave missy.

“I used some of my commission to buy the naming rights,” he said softly. “It could have been something really terrible. Or if no one met the price, your default name would have been slutslave563. I thought you deserved more than that.”

Vicki... missy, gave him a crooked smile that said she understood. She then looked around trying to figure out what else was awaiting her on her day of repentance.

“Lower the cage,” one of the bailiffs cried out as he and two other bailiffs began moving people away from the center of the platform.

Missy looked up. A mechanism of some sort had been attached to the roof of the store. It looked like the winches that the window washers used to raise and lower their platform, but there was only one cable. And hanging at the bottom of that cable was a cage.

“You are to hang for one half hour at each floor level,” the bailiff announced. “Then you will hang just above the street until the sun has set.” He then took her by the arm and moved her into the cage.

The cage itself was circular, about three feet in diameter, and a little over six feet tall. Missy could stand in the cage, but couldn’t sit or kneel or otherwise rest. She grabbed hold of the bars as the cage rapidly began to rise up into the air.

She screamed all the way up as the cage swung wildly like a pendulum. When it reached the fourteenth floor, it stop rising, but still continued to swing wildly for several more minutes. When the cage finally stopped, missy could see that she was just outside the executive board room. There appeared to be a party going on. One of the men suddenly pointed out the window and everyone gathered to look at her.

One of the women raised her glass of champagne as if offering a toast. The rest of the room matched her action. Then someone taped a large piece of paper to the window. Written in large  black letters were the words, “You’re Fired!” The person who had taped the paper to the window raised his glass toward the cage one final time, then laughed and closed the curtains.

Missy started to cry. The closing of the curtain did something to her that nothing else had done. It made her feel insignificant. People staring at her as her clothing was cut from her body was embarrassing. Being paraded through the town totally naked was humiliating. Being branded was torture. But through all that she was still a person. People were paying attention to her. She was still a part of their world.

The people in the streets below wondered what had caused the long, anguished scream they heard from the cage. As the curtain closed, missy was forced to accept that she was now nothing. She meant nothing to anyone.  She was a slave... not even a person. She was a nothing hanging outside a closed window. As she screamed, her hands gripped the bars of the cage. Her head slowly sank down to rest against her arms. She was crying heavily... uncontrollably. Her body slid down so that it was partially crumpled with her ass against one side of the cage and her knees against the opposite side.

At the end of the half hour the cage began to move downward. The movement startled slave missy, but at least it didn’t start to swing.

The thirteenth floor was a mechanical floor, so the only personnel on that floor were maintenance workers and cleaning crews. Four maintenance men were watching through a window. The next window over was a break room. It looked like the entire cleaning staff was gathered watching. There was no evidence of a party in either room. And no one was laughing as they watched her. The top floor could laugh at her and close the curtains on her and forget her, but these people were the bottom rung of the employees. Not as much separated them from the naked woman who hung outside their window. They stared silently at missy for the entire thirty minutes she hung outside the thirteenth floor.

The reaction on the remaining floors was somewhere between the extremes of the upper floors. Two differences were at the ninth floor and the fifth floor. The ninth floor was the accounting floor where Vicki, now slave missy, had once worked. Everyone on the floor glanced up, but none of the men and women from accounting could bring themselves to come over to the window. They knew that Vicki wasn’t really a terrorist. All of them were thinking how easily it could be them hanging in that cage if they had accidentally introduced a virus into the computer system.

The fifth floor was the designer dress floor. Samantha and her sales people were waiting at the window when missy was lowered to their floor. They also raised a toast to her, but their drinks appeared to be soft drinks in plastic cups.

Missy remembered Samantha’s comment about what might have been. Pulling herself up and standing straight, she smiled at the faces in the window. Then she reached down and cupped her own sex, sliding her fingers deep within. She smiled at the shocked faces, except for Samantha who continued to smile at her. Missy lifted her glistening hand up to her mouth and blew across it, as if blowing a kiss. Samantha grabbed the blown pussy out of the air and held her hand under her own nose. She inhaled deeply and smiled back at slave missy. Neither of them was aware of what else happened for the rest of the half hour as they gazed into each other’s eyes. As the cage began to descend once again, Samantha mouthed clearly, “Life is full of lost opportunities.”

It was late afternoon by the time the cage finally stopped just below the first floor. Crowds gathered beneath her. Many were taking pictures with their phones. A few professionals in the crowd were using quality cameras with long lenses. Missy tried to turn herself so they couldn’t zoom in on her nakedness, but turning away from one photographer merely turned her toward another. Finally she gave up and stood passively as the cage itself slowly rotated back and forth on its cable, displaying her to the entire crowd.

As the sun began to set, the two bailiffs who had been with her on the platform began moving the crowd back. The caisson wagon was brought in so that the top of the ammunition box was directly beneath her. A few moments later, the cage again descended until it came to rest on the top of the caisson box itself. The bailiffs slipped some cargo ratchet straps through the bars and under the caisson box and locked it in place. Then one of the bailiffs climbed onto the caisson and reached above the cage to release the cable.

The driver climbed into the wagon seat and gathered up the reins which controlled the four horses pulling the caisson. With a loud “Hee-a-yup” he urged the horses to their task and they clip-clopped back up the path which missy had walked that morning. Their pace was significantly faster than it had been with missy walking behind them.

When they arrived at the jail, they didn’t go into the indoor prisoner transfer area. Instead the horse-drawn caisson was pulled up to the loading dock at the back of the jail. A winch arrangement on the docks was used to lift the cage and set it back down on a warehouse pallet. Then one of the bailiffs used a pallet jack to roll missy back to her cell.

When they arrived at her cell, the bailiff said, “Stick your foot through the bars.”

Vicki did and the bailiff unlocked one of the shackles.

“Other foot,” he said and the other shackle was removed. The procedure was repeated with each arm. Then the bailiff pulled on the neck chain as he said, “Back against the bars.”

Missy could hear a loud click and the metal collar was removed. The cage was then set inside missy’s cell. The bailiff unlocked the door to the cage and took the padlock with him. “Don’t attempt to open the cage until I have your cell door secure,” he ordered.

Once the cell door was securely shut, he said, “You can get out now.”

Missy opened the cage and stepped into her cell. The orange dress was nowhere to be seen, so she remained naked. A few minutes later a guard came with a food tray. It was standard prison food and didn’t look all that tasty, but missy hadn’t eaten all day and finished everything before sliding the tray back under the bars to the waiting guard.

“Where is my dress?” she asked.

“You’re a slave now,” the guard answered. “If the temperature is above 58 degrees, you’re not allowed clothing.” He laughed and then added, “It’s always above 70 in here. You do the math.”

Missy sat on her bed and cried. She wondered if she could actually run out of tears. She was a slave... a piece of property. They had even brought her back to her cell like she were a part of the heavy iron cage in which she was displayed.

“At least they let me have a pillow and a sheet,” she thought to herself as she sat down on the bed. A little while later, she cried herself to sleep. She had not yet run out of tears.

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END CHAPTER TWO OF THIRTEEN

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Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (The Technician}
The Perfect Sex Toy http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=9639
Senior Project http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=7753
Handcuff Island http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=8160
I, Masochist http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=8263
UMPA Eleven http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=10952

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16.07.16

story continues in part three

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