By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 23 - Stocktake

"Oh, Ingrid, these are my current stock. Why don't you girls get to know each other for a bit here? I've got a project to do, and I don't think you're up to helping me today. Girls, this is Ingrid. She's going to be the office manager. Anything she says that isn't counter to a command of mine is to be followed. She is a slave but, unlike y'all, she is not stock for resale. She's also world famous now."

The three "stock" slaves looked up at me from where they were slumped sitting in their bean bag chairs. None seemed particularly talkative, although I was acknowledged by each and I said "Hi" in return. Mr. West left me alone with the girls and closed the stock room door on his way out. I glanced momentarily at the door closing behind me and then turned back to the girls.

There was a couple of other empty bean bag chairs against the wall. I walked over to one and moved it with my foot so I could sit with the other girls.

"Are you really famous?" one of the blonde girls asked. She sounded more curious than anything else.

"No," I replied. I wriggled in the bean bag to mold it more comfortable to my shape. My hands were still cuffed behind my back and this made it difficult to get completely settled.

"Mr. West said you were famous," the other blonde girl said.

"We've been watching you on television," the redhead piped in.

"You have?" I asked. "Just now, you mean?"

The close-up image I had just seen of myself hungrily sucking Grant's cock was still etched vividly in my thoughts.

"No, for the past couple of days," the redhead answered. She seemed to be the most self-confident of the three girls.

"You've been watching me for the past couple of days? On television?" I asked. It didn't make a lot of sense, but I quickly figured the camera hidden in my cell back at the slave tank must have been broadcast more widely than I wanted to think about. I wanted to change the subject, but the redhead girl pressed on.

"Did you really do all those things?" she asked.

"What things?" I asked. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"You know? At your Country Club."

"No!" I tried to shake off the embarrassment with a laugh. "No, somebody made up all those stories in the National Confessor."

"So, why are you here then?"

"I don't know," I said. My shoulders sank a little as I gave the glum answer.

"You must have done something," the smaller of the two blonde girls said.

I looked across at her. If I looked closely at her face I could see she was probably early to mid-twenties in age, but she was so small and -- petite -- and this made her look much younger. I gave her a sad look. She seemed to totally lost here.

"I don't know why I'm here," I finally said. "It's all a big mistake."

"Yeah, sure," the redhead said. The tone of her voice was clearly disbelieving.

"Why are you here?" I asked her.

"My ass-hole boyfriend. That's why," she said. She folded her arms on her chest and turned her attention back to the television.

The other two blonde girls, when asked, had the same answer.

"Your boyfriends had you enslaved?" I asked. I wasn't sure why I couldn't accept the fact. After all, my own husband conspired to have me enslaved, and we'd been happily married for close to twenty years.

"Yes," the other blonde spoke for all three girls. "Bastards."

"We were PPC'd," the redhead said back at me over her shoulder.

"PPC'd?" I asked. I was unfamiliar with all the young girls' jargon.

"Person of Personal Contact," the more talkative of the two blonde girls explained.

"The Boyfriend Enslavement Clause. You know? If you don't give enough head your --"

"Or anal," the petite blonde interrupted in a quiet, mousy voice.

"Or anal," the blonde speaking accepted the correction. "Then, your boyfriend can have you enslaved."

"That's terrible!" I said after giving it a brief moment of thought. "They can do that?"

"Sure they can," the redhead said. "They can do whatever the hell they like around here."

There was a long silence.

"I'm Tracey," the petite blonde introduced herself.

I smiled kindly at her. She had a mane of long, curly blonde hair and such clear skin. She looked like a little porcelain doll.

"Rebecca," the other blonde said. "You can call me Bec."

"Pleased to meet you, Bec," I said. She also had lovely skin and a soft, roundish face. Not fat at all, healthy.

"Belinda," the redhead said. She kept her eyes trained on the television and didn't appear to want to talk any more.

"Hi Belinda," I said. I counted four beds but only three girls. "Are you the only slaves here?"

"There's Jen," Bec said. "But she's not here all the time. She doesn't say much."

There was a long, awkward silence.

"Are you girls all students the college?" I asked, trying to make some small talk to ease the tension I sensed.

"I am," Tracey said. "I'm studying fashion design."

"That's nice," I said, brightly smiling at her. "What sort of clothes do you design?"

"Well ... " she started to reply and was thinking when Belinda interrupted.

"That'll get you a lot of work in this town!" Belinda said sarcastically.

Tracey fell silent and squirmed in her bean bag.

"I work for the airlines," Bec said, easing the mood.

"Are you an air hostess?" I asked. "I always wanted to be and air hostess."

"They're not called that anymore," Belinda said, again with a sarcastic tone as if to suggest my was completely out of touch with the modern world. "They're called Flight Attendants."

Another long silence.

"Belinda works at the Country Club," Bec said.

"Ah!" I said. "I'm a member there." I couldn't quite place her, but I did vaguely remember seeing her around the place. "In the Golf Pro shop?"

"Yes," she said, flatly.

"I play tennis there," I said to try and explain why I hadn't recognized her straight away. "You're not the Rogers' girl, are you?"

Cathy Rogers, a friend of mine at the Club, once told me she had a daughter working there, but I'd never been introduced.

"That's me. Daughter of the great Harry Rogers. Land developer extraordinaire," Belinda said. The tone of her voice dripped with callous disregard for her father, Harry Rogers, one of Eastlake's wealthiest people.

"Can't your father get you out of here?" I asked. It felt ridiculous to me that a girl from such a well known and wealthy family should be enslaved like this.

"Obviously not," Belinda said. She folded her arms more defiantly on her chest.

"What do you do?" Tracey asked. Her eyes were bright and filled with a look of interest.

"I work at the Smithfield Books and Coffee Shop," I said.

"My father knows Smithfield," Belinda chimed in. "He's an ass-hole too."

"Mmm," I mumbled agreement. I was still trying to come to terms with why Nelson wanted to have me snuffed.

"He's such a creep. Always trying to stick his hands down my pants," Belinda said, speaking of Nelson. "I bet you slept with him though!"

"Me?" I was stunned by the suggestion. "Never! I'm happily married! Or at least, I was ..."

"You blew him though. I saw you. You looked like you loved every second of it too. I could see it in your face," Belinda said. She was on a roll now.

"But ... no ... that's not true!" I tried to protest. The angry young girl continued.

"Had his cock in your mouth and you loved it. You rich sluts give me the shits!" Belinda huffed and then slumped back down in her bean bag.

She seemed so sullen, compared to the other two. It was clear she didn't like me, which concerned me since Mr. West just finished telling the girls I was sort of like in charge of them. Even though Belinda was barely twenty years old and less than half my age, I found her angry belligerence intimidating.

There was another long, tense silence which was only broken by the sound of a car pulling up outside and then a woman screaming on the top of her voice, yelling and cursing violently.

"What's that?" Tracey sat suddenly straight up in her bean bag. She looked this way and that; her eyes darting in every direction, like a little field mouse that has heard a hawk above.

All three girls became visibly agitated by the sounds coming from outside.

I focused my attention also on the noises. There was a man out there as well, cursing and yelling. "You fucking bitch!" he roared. "Did you really think you could get out of this?"

It sounded like they were fighting physically, with the woman groaning like she'd been punched.

"Don't give me any more shit!" the man yelled.

The yelling subsided and the man continued to say something, but became almost inaudible -- a mumble from outside. The doorbell rang.

We all sat silently listening, trying to hear the conversation going on outside the door. I could hear Mr. West talking to the man, but it wasn't clear what was going on. We sat like that for a long while but eventually the door opened and Mr. West escorted the man into the stock slave dorm.

"Hey, wasn't she on TTC today?" he said, pointing at me.

I averted my eyes from him and focused on a fleck of stray cotton I could see on the carpet.

"Yes, and she's not for sale," My West said.

"OK, how about her? What're the damages if I want to take her with me?"

I noticed Rebecca visibly stiffen; her plumpish body shifting noisily in the bean bag as she wriggled.

"Tell you what, I'll do the swap for $300." Mr. West said.

The negotiation began.

"How about $200?" the man countered.

"How about $250 then?"

"It's a deal!"

And with that Mr. West shook hands with the man and told Rebecca to get up.

"No!" Rebecca said. She drew her knees up defensively and hugged them

Mr. West sighed and said, "Rebecca, I thought you were better trained that than."

I watched as pulled some sort of remote out of his pants pocket, jabbed his index finger at the big red button on it. Rebecca suddenly jerked like she had been shocked, and fell back down into the bean bag chair.

"Dog training collars work on humans as well as dogs. Her collar number is 2014 and here, have this remote. I've got them out the ying-yang. Let me turn off the invisible fence so we can get her out of the room. You might want to go by a pet supply store and set yourself up with one."

On saying that, Mr. West did something with the remote, then attached a dog lead to Bec's collar, and handed the lead and remote to strange man who just bought her. The man grinned and started to walk towards the door, dragging Bec behind him.

I glanced across as the man dragged poor Bec out the door and noticed another naked woman outside in the lounge room. I only caught a brief look at her, but she was collared and shackled. Her hair was a complete mess too, obviously from the fight she had put up outside to avoid being brought here. The door to our room closed again and the three of us -- me, Belinda and Tracey -- didn't say anything. Tracey looked terrified and on the verge of tears. I just wished the nightmare would end so I could wake up at home in my nice, soft bed.