By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 10 - The Eleventh Hour

I spent the rest of Thursday morning just sitting on my bed watching the infomercial on television and waiting -- hoping -- for some positive news from my husband. When he did finally phone me, it was simply to say that his application was still pending but that he had been in touch with Nelson. There was faint hope here, because Nelson readily agreed to apply for a Federal Warrant and become a licensed White Slaver, but even with his clean record, the auction day was becoming perilously close and it might not be approved in time. There was also, apparently, an issue in raising the $5,000 for Nelson. My husband told me to expect a phone call from Nelson because he needed to speak to me directly about the problem.

After the phone call, I turned my attention back to the television just in time to see the flashing red caption -- a reminder that current bids for me remained a depressing zero dollars. The phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Hello," Nelson's voice crackled down the line. "Have you spoken with your husband yet?"

"Yes. I just finished speaking with him."

"Then you know my dilemma?"

"He said something about trying to raise the $5,000 you need for your license --"

"Yes, there's a problem."

"Oh." My hope faded.

"I can't get my hands on that much cash before next week, and it will be too late for you by then," he said.

My head nodded. "Yes," I sighed deeply.

"But I have a plan!" Nelson's voice suddenly sparkled.

"Yes? What?"

"You remember Marty? The guy who --"

"From The National Confessor. Yes, I remember him! Did he find a way to get me out of here?"

"Not exactly."

It was an emotional roller coaster of hope and despair.

"Not exactly?" I pressed for an explanation.

"You know I said he was going to run a story about the bribery allegations made against you?"

"Yes ..."

"I'll cut to the chase here, Ingrid --"

"Please do, Nelson!"

"Marty managed to get a copy of the video the arresting officers made of you."

"He did? Then he knows what I said is true!"

"Stop interrupting!" Nelson said. There was an annoyed tone to his voice. "Anyway, Marty ran his story idea past his editors and showed them the video."

"And?" I asked after Nelson paused longer than I could stand.

"The bottom line is The National Confessor is going to run the story, but not as a feature to expose corruption in the Public Slave Office department."

"They're not?"

"No. They're going to run a feature article about you, but they're going to slant it and suggest you deliberately got arrested just so you could be enslaved --"

"But that's ridiculous!" I gasped.

"They are. They're going to say that it was all your idea and that you have dreamed of being enslaved for years."

"That's preposterous! How on earth could they make up a story like that?"

"Your husband told them."

"He did -- what --?"

"They interviewed him and he told them all about how you've loved bondage and stuff for years."

I was dumbstruck. Not that it wasn't true, but that I could have been betrayed in such a way by my own husband.

"Are you listening, Ingrid?" Nelson broke the silence between us.

"Yes," I mumbled.

"That's what he said. But anyway. The point of all this is they paid your husband for the story and they will pay me too, but only if I get them some exclusive photos of you in your cell. It's the only way, Ingrid. If I don't get the money, I won't be able to afford a slaver license and I won't be able to buy your freedom..."

"What am I supposed to say?" I asked, feeling crushed between a rock and a hard place."

"One day you'll thank me for this, Ingrid. Really, you will."

"How do you think you will get your photos? The only visitors I'm allowed to see are licensed slavers and my husband."

"And your attorney," Nelson added confidently. "You may not have any rights left, but an attorney still has rights with his clients. He's on his way to see you and should be there after lunch. I have to go. Bye."

There was a click but the line still sounded open. I kept the phone held to my ear for a moment and realized somebody had been listening in on the call. "Jack?" I whispered tentatively into the mouthpiece. After a moment or two of more silence, the line went dead.