Chapter 7.  These Legs Are Made For Running

My attorney and I were passing the time in the courthouse lounge.  I wanted a cup of coffee but I was too wired and nervous already!  It had been over two hours since the jury had retired to choose a foreman and begin deliberations.   I asked my lawyer what it would mean for my chances if the jury returned a quick verdict or took a much longer time.

He explained to me that if things dragged on too long, that meant the jury was probably deadlocked.  That, in turn, could lead to a compromise verdict where they would convict me of the lesser charge, so that I would be indentured for ten years to SlendaBond instead of becoming their outright slave for life.  He said my best chance for keeping my freedom intact would be if they returned a quick verdict.

When it was three hours, the judge called us all back in and announced that court would be in recess until tomorrow when jury deliberations would continue.

That night in my condo I was so scared I couldn’t sleep!  My heart was pounding!  My breathing was labored!  The muscles of my torso and shoulders were very tense.  What if they did enslave me?  If it was going to happen it would probably happen tomorrow.  It would be an unthinkable and intolerable calamity!  I simply could not stand being enslaved!  It would go against everything in my nature to be stripped of my freedom and dignity in that way!  

Worst of all would be the forced sex that would be sure to follow!  I simply could not stand that!  So many women were being forced into prostitution these days that prices paid by the johns were very low.  The very idea that I might be made into a public whore– that every Tom, Dick and Harry with $20.00 to spare on payday could stick his dick into me!  How could I live with that?  Or maybe I would be made into a private prostitute to service exclusively the needs of some rich bastard!  Some obese pot bellied son-of-a-bitch who could diddle my clitoris whenever or wherever he chose!  How could I live with that?

I was wearing short shorts.  I looked down at my legs.  They were beautiful legs!  Too pretty to be pawed by strange men I hated!  Swift legs!  Runner’s legs!  They had carried me to a second place finish in the Boston Marathon last year!  I thought of that old Nancy Sinatra hit  “These Boots Are Made for Walking”.  Well just maybe ‘These legs Are Made For Running’!  Maybe these legs could save my life – so to speak!  

What to do?  Was escape my best answer?  I knew this would be hard.  I was wearing an electronic ankle bracelet.  Escaping slaves were nearly always caught, and usually faced severe punishment and public humiliation for the attempt.

The ankle bracelet was made of hardened steel.  The judge had said it could not be cut off.  Yet the ankle bracelet’s lock could be picked open surely?  I just needed to find someone with the rights skills and tools.  Then what?  Where would I go?  How would I live?  If I made one mistake they would have me back in their clutches in no time.  For all these difficulties it seemed to me that a life on the run would be infinitely superior to being stripped of my freedom and dignity and becoming someone’s sex toy!

I would need identity documents under a fictitious name to survive.  Who could help with that?  I would have to concoct a fictitious resume to get hired somewhere.  No one would hire me if they knew I was a fugitive.

One step at a time!  There was Tom Murphy.  He was a locksmith and he and I had often played tennis.  Usually I beat him.  He had come on to me a couple of times and I had turned him down.  Clearly he had the hots for me!  Maybe I would have to sleep with Tom to make it worth his while to help me?  But what if Tom turned me in instead of helping me?  I would have to take that chance, but there was something I could do to improve the odds.  I got the small stun gun out of my night table drawer and slipped it in my purse.  

Then I called Tom.  I pleaded with him for his help.  I told him I was in a real jam, without saying that I intended to run from the court.  I did not want to say too much on the phone.  I hoped he hadn’t heard anything about my case and had no reason to suspect my true purpose.  I just told him I had a job of lock picking and asked if he could meet me at an address in lower Manhattan.  He said he would.

I scooped up what cash I had in the condo, some candy bars, a change of clothing and my prescription meds.   An hour later I was meeting him at the address I had given, one that I knew to be an abandoned building.  I had taken the subway there.

“Hi Tom!”

“What’s up Steph?   Why this meeting in the middle of the night at an abandoned building?”

“Tom, you must promise to keep my secret!  I am in trouble with the law.  I am probably going to be enslaved tomorrow unless I can skip town, but first I have to get this damned ankle bracelet off me so I can’t be traced!”

“Oh I don’t know Stephanie.  I could be in a world of trouble if you were caught and they found out I had helped you escape!”

“Do you know how much trouble I could be in without your help tomorrow?  I could well be human livestock, someone’s property!  Do you think I could ever stand that?”

“Knowing you, I doubt that you could!”

“Then help me PLEASE!  If I am caught I will never betray you.  I will never let them know you were the one who got the bracelet off me!  Besides I will make it worth your while!”

“How will you do that Steph?”

“What do you want Tom?  A blow job?”

“I would want more than that Steph!  I always wanted to get into your pants!  That is my price now!”

“OK, OK, already!  If that is what you want, that is what you shall have!  Now please help.   I don’t have a lot of time left before morning to make my getaway!”

“Put your foot up on that block.  I want to examine the bracelet”

I did so and he examined my bracelet ankle and leg for some time.  His hands began to play with my left calf and feel the muscle there and the under knee tendons.  He kissed my knee.  He caressed my left thigh.  I was hardly in a position to object to anything he wanted to do!

“Can’t you just pick the lock?”

“Opening the lock, or even attempting to open the lock, would immediately transmit a signal to police that the lock had been tampered with!  It would also report our exact location to police!”

“Is there no hope then?”

“The bracelet is hardened steel.  But I could cut it off with my diamond bit power drill.  That would not cause any alarm signal to go to police.”

“Fine.  Do it then.”

“Not until I have been paid, sexually speaking!”

I nodded my agreement and we found a way into the abandoned building.  Tom brought a blanket from his truck to lay down on the floor.  We fucked until Tom had climaxed.  Then he agreed to get on with the job.  He went to get tools from his truck.  Twenty minutes later he had cut clear through the bracelet in two places so that the two halves could be separated.

Tom saw a small stray dog nearby.  He got some meat out of the truck and used it to tempt the animal to within capture distance.  He wrapped a piece of cloth around the dog’s belly and used that, in turn, to attach the two halves of the bracelet.  He told me as long as the GPS sensors keep picking up a moving signal from the bracelet there would be no alarm to alert police that the bracelet was no longer on me.

“Steph, there is an organization here in New York City called the ‘Underground’.  They are some very courageous volunteers who take huge risks to help people escape slavery.  I know a guy who would know how to contact them.  They can help you.  Would you like me to call?”

“Sure Tom.  That might solve a lot of problems I thought I would have to solve all by myself!”

Tom left me for a few minutes and called his friend from the truck.  When he came back he said a representative of the ‘Underground’ would meet me in the heart of Greenwich Village in one half hour.  He named an intersection that was 10 blocks from our warehouse location.  He said I would have to walk there by myself.  Everything was on a ‘need to know’ basis with this group.  They wanted me at the meeting place, not Tom and me together.

“Steph, these clothes that you are wearing – were they purchased with a credit card?

“Very likely, Tom.  I don’t like to carry large amounts of cash when I shop, so I use the card.”

He went out to his truck and returned a few minutes later with an old shirt.

“You will need to take off all your clothes and put on this old shirt instead.  All clothing these days contains RFID threads that can be picked up by government or business scanners.  The thread scanners can identify precisely what the article of clothing is, who manufactured it, what retailer sold it on what date.  If you used a credit card to buy these articles then the scanner will also have your identity linked to each of these items of clothing!”

I did as he said.  I found the shirt a couple sizes too big for me, but at least it came down to mid thigh on me so it protected my modesty.  Tom and I parted and I began the walk of 10 blocks.  I was scared as some of the blocks I had to walk down were poorly lit and sometimes frequented by a rough element.  Also it was a bit windy and I had to struggle to keep Tom’s shirt from blowing up and revealing too much of me!

Soon I was in Greenwich Village standing on the corner where I was supposed to wait.  It seemed like an hour but was probably only ten minutes before a young man asked me for directions to the theatre district.  As he came closer he was soon whispering to me to just stay put for a couple minutes, then follow him down a subway entrance.  I did so and soon I was following him into a subway car.  We rode it for several stops, then he signaled me to exit the car with him.  When we reached the street there was a car waiting.  We got in and I was immediately blindfolded and the car drove around for a while.  Finally we got out and he guided me into the front entrance of a building.  Only then did the blindfold come off.  He rang a bell and drove off, leaving me to wait for someone to answer the bell.

I had no idea where we were, but I soon learned we were at the ‘safe house’ maintained by the ‘Underground’ in lower Manhattan.

A matronly woman in her forties opened the door and ushered me inside where I also met an athletic man about her age and a nerdy looking young man about my own age.  

“You may call me Jan, the older man John and this young man Jeff”, the woman said, “although these are obviously not our real names.  We will be the team that will help you alter your appearance, give you a paper and electronic identity, a past to go with that and equip you with necessary knowledge of computer security systems. Our team goal is not to have you live here but to prepare you for a new life a long distance from New York City.  We plan to put you on the 6 am mag-lev train out of Grand Central tomorrow morning, westbound for Chicago.  My own role is the appearance stuff.  We can’t have you looking like the “Wanted” poster the police will post in the next few days, now can we?”

“No, I guess not” I replied.  Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.  I felt these people knew the ropes and were going to solve a lot of problems for me that I thought I was going to have to work out alone.  They would help me avoid all the pitfalls that could cost me my freedom.

“Why don’t I do my magic first? “ she said as she led me to a different part of the house.

“Let us see what we can do with those eyes first”.  As Jan said this she reached for a pair of contact lenses and had me try them on.  

The contacts fitted perfectly and changed my eye color from brown to blue.  She added a false nose, did a makeup job, had me color my red hair blonde, and provided me with two sets of clothing.  She then took a typical head and shoulders photo of me suitable for a driver’s license photo. 

The second member of my team, John, then worked with me first on choosing a name.  He showed me a short list of possibilities.

“I think I would like to be Rebecca Stevens”, I told him.

“We can arrange that”, he replied, “but it is also important that we create a past for you to go with that name.  You will need to be able to tell people where you grew up, how many brothers and sisters you had, what high school you attended, what jobs you have had, and so forth.”

“Couldn’t we just give me enough paperwork for me to flee to Canada or to one of the southern states that is still part of the old United States?  After all, they don’t have slavery there so I would be safe, right?”

“Not quite so fast young lady.  It is true they don’t have slavery there, but they do have extradition treaties with Capitallia.  If you were matched to Capitallia’s ‘Wanted Persons’ list, you would be sent back!  Since the precautions you would have to take to protect your new identity would be just as great in those countries, you might as well hide in your own country.”

“Ok, I get it!” I sighed, realizing the enormity of the task ahead of me.

Then he worked for many hours with me creating the details of my past.   He drilled me on these details until he was satisfied I knew them cold.  He proceeded to create the paper documents I would need including a driver’s license, a social security card, photos of my supposed family members, of a boyfriend I supposedly had back in my hometown and two alternative resumes.
.
The third member of my team, Jeff, then indicated I was to follow him into the computer lab in the basement of the house.

“Rebecca, and I may as well start calling you by your new name, my job is to tutor you in what you need to know about electronic identification of persons in our society.  You wouldn’t want to be picked up by police because you walked by the wrong scanner would you?”

“No way!”  I was beginning to feel like it was all going to be just too much knowledge for me to master.  I had never been a top student in high school math or science and had never taken a computer course.

“Good.  Then let us get started.  All clothing manufactured in the last 50 plus years in Capitallia contains special RFID tags or threads.  Other common objects people usually carry on their persons may also contain these tags.”

“What does RFID stand for?”  I asked.

“Radio Frequency Identification.”  Jeff continued, “When you pass by the right kind of scanner, radio frequency waves are sent out by the scanner which can read information from these threads.”

“That must be what Tom meant – why he made me put on his old shirt instead of the clothes I was wearing?”

“That’s right.  You were lucky to have a friend that knew about this stuff helping you before you came to us.”  I breathed a sign of relief hearing this.

“When clothing is manufactured a tag or thread is inserted somewhere in the fabric that uniquely identifies that particular article of clothing.  Something like a serial number.  Shows who the manufacturer was, date of manufacture, etc.  The identifier would not be the same for any two pieces of the same type of clothing even from the same manufacturer.”

“How does that identify a person?”

“When you or I walk into a retail store and buy an article of clothing with a credit card, or perhaps a whole shopping cart of articles on one purchase, the store’s computer creates an account for us with our name and address and other personal data pulled from the credit card account.  It then reads the RFID tag of each article we are buying as the cashier scans them for price and attaches those “serial numbers”, if you will, to our personal account in a process called “imprinting”.  The next time you or I visit that store, as we walk in the front door we pass by a scanner that reads the RFID tags of every article of clothing we are then wearing.  If it finds some articles that are already linked to our customer account, it uses that link to identify who we are.  Such identification may be used to target specific advertising messages to us that is likely to be of interest to us as individuals based on our previous buying patterns.”

“But what if we had originally bought all our clothing for cash?”

“Good point.  If everything was bought for cash and the clerk could not otherwise identify us at time of purchase, then there would be no account for the scanned RFID threads to be imprinted upon.”

“The new clothing we provided you had been purchased for cash and would therefore not have RFID threads coded to match any particular person.  That way if you passed any government scanner or retail store scanner, the computer lookup on your clothing would return ‘Name Unknown’.  That will be safe enough for now.”

Eventually they would get me some articles of clothing with RFID threads coded to my new identity, but that would take some time.  He explained that the “Underground” also had computer programmer operatives working in federal and state law enforcement.  These operatives would eventually fix the federal law enforcement database so that any biometric scan of my fingerprints or retinas would link to my new identity rather than my old identify.  

In the meanwhile he stressed that I must not carry anything at all that had been purchased with a credit card under my original name and address.  All kinds of objects, in addition to clothing, contained RFID threads.  Most important of all, he said, was that if a scanner ever picked up on my original identify because of one or two articles on my person that had been bought with a credit card, then the computer would register all the RFID threads in my clothing to that identity as well!  They would then no longer scan as “Name Unknown” but scan my original name and address!  This process was known as “Re-Imprinting” and would result in all my clothing becoming “hot”, as he put it!  He gave me precise instructions what I should do if that situation ever arose.

As he was explaining all this to me, I thought about the small stun gun I had earlier slipped into my purse.  I knew I had purchased this for cash so any RFID thread or chip it might contain could only scan as “Name Unknown” and not possibly be linked to me.  That should be ok and I didn’t have to tell them I was carrying it.

He told me of a place in the foothills of the Catskill mountain range.  It was on the mag-lev railroad to Albany about two hours north of New York City.  He spoke of a cabin used by hunters during deer hunting season that was walking distance from the town railroad stop.  He directed that I was to proceed to Grand Central Station, board a train for upstate New York, disembark at Saugerties and walk to the place.  He said I could lay low there for a couple of days while he made up my new ID documents.

There was one minor difficulty with this plan though.  The mag-levs all used biometric identification of passengers to thwart criminals and fugitives on the run from the law.  My biometrics would give me away at this point since they would not have time to fix that in the federal database for at least a week.  To get around this difficulty I would be escorted on the train handcuffed as a “prisoner” by two uniformed “policemen” who would flash badges at the train conductor.  These “policemen” would ride with me to my stop at Saugerties and get off the train with me there.  The conductor, seeing me handcuffed and in custody already, would not require a fingerprint scan!

Finally he gave me a capsule I was to carry in my mouth at all times.  In case of my arrest I was to bite down hard on the capsule.  No, it was not poison he hastened to explain.  Rather biting down would cause it to send a signal to the “Underground” that one of their safe house locations was about to be compromised so the place could be cleared out before police could arrive.

The last step was for me to don a blindfold and follow the woman who had first admitted me.  She put me in a car and drove me to Grand Central Station.  I was instructed not to remove the blindfold until several minutes after I would hear her drive off.  The two “policemen” then met me as I entered the station, placed me under “arrest”, bought tickets for the three of us and rode with me to Saugerties.  There we parted company and I walked to the cabin following the directions I had been given.

A day later there was a package at the Saugerties mag-lev station for me to pickup.  It contained the computer verifiable ID documents I would need and a prepaid debit card in my new name with $500 on it.   I boarded the train heading north again first to Albany, then west to Chicago.  The trip to Chicago on the mag-lev took 5 hours.

Once in Chicago, I realized I needed some necessaries.  I walked into a chain drug store and froze when I heard a synthesized electronic voice say “Welcome to our store, Stephanie Glenn!”   I thought “What the Fuck!  How did they know who I was!  Then I realized there must be something in my purse that their scanner was able to recognize.  I rummaged through my purse and found it.  It was a package of Tampax I had purchased in New York City from another drug store of this same chain!  It must have contained an RFID chip.  

I must get rid of it!  But would that be enough?  I remembered the explanation I had gotten from the Underground about Re-Imprinting.  What it meant was that the previously anonymous threads in the clothing I was wearing would now be linked to my true identity – at least in the drugstore’s computer system.  Their system would then check my identity against the government’s wanted persons register.  If their system found a match, they would be legally required to forward all data to the government’s computer system.  My clothing – all of it – was now “hot”!  I ran out of the store in a panic!

I knew that I must lose this clothing, all of which was now trackable.  I had to assume the drug store chain got a match for my identity with the national Persons Wanted List.  By now the threads in all my clothing would be cross-registered with all law enforcement agencies. Every time that I would board a bus or a subway or stand at a street corner waiting for a light to change my RFIDs could be picked up and transmitted to police.

I ran into a sporting goods store and bought in line speed skates for cash, then into a dark alley where I stripped off all of my clothing, even panties.  All that stuff was trackable.  I remembered the specific instructions I had been given by the safe house in New York for just such a situation as this.  I fashioned a sign with a piece of cardboard and some string which I hung about my neck proclaiming myself a slave who is being punished through forced nakedness while on an errand for her master.  I took out the handcuffs, black leather collar and coin purse the safe house had provided.  I fixed the handcuffs so it looked as though I were cuffed.   I put the black leather collar around my neck and fastened that in a way that it looked impossible to remove.  It had ‘D’ rings where a leash might be attached.  I hung the coin purse around my neck and put my cash, ID and credit card into that.  I chucked my purse and all my clothing in a dumpster in that alley.

Then I ran out into the street absolutely naked.  I was confidant police would not arrest me for indecent exposure because there is an exception for slaves who are being punished by public humiliation.  Also I believed police would have trouble catching me while I was moving so fast on those roller blades.  Interested male spectators would not have long to study my body as I whizzed by.  I ran as fast as my slender muscular legs and the skates could carry me toward a destination about 10 blocks north where I remembered there was a launder-mat. 

During this run, with my heart pounding, I ran along one block where young women were being vended.  I saw twenty or more of them, each secured by her collar with a length of chain to a wall stanchion.  Each wore only a bikini top and a thong – the minimum needed to comply with public decency laws.  Above each one was a sign with her slave name, her price, and a paragraph describing who she had been when she was free.  This one had been a schoolteacher right here in Chicago, that one a secretary from Milwaukee, and so forth.  By now it was dusk.  Artificial lights illuminated these women and the signs over them.  Male passersby of various ages had stopped to examine these women with, apparently, a view to possible purchase.  I was appalled at what I saw – and it caused even more energy to flow into my legs that I might escape such a fate myself!

Up ahead I could see the street was blocked off to automobile traffic. Evidently there was some sort of street fair going on.  I kept going.  They had the street blocked off with a high wood plank fence that ran almost the whole width of the street.  There was an entrance archway straight ahead of me.  I noted a sign that said “Adults Only” over the entrance and someone there checking ages of young looking persons.  Evidently whatever was going on in this street fair was not for children.  As I entered the fair the lights were coming on in the various exhibit areas and booths to offset the gloom of the faltering daylight.

One brightly lit exhibit caught my eye.  It was a group of naked male slaves, each one slender and lightly muscled, tethered to a wall and handcuffed.  Evidently public nudity was perfectly legal in Chicago as long as it was in an area where children were not admitted.  That these men were slaves was evident, not only from the handcuffs, but from the iron collars about their necks, and the fact each had a brand on his inner thigh.  There was a booth nearby where tickets were being sold.  

As I passed by, a couple of women who had just stepped away from the ticket booth were approaching two of the naked males.  I noticed these two slaves had not an ounce of excess fat on their bodies, washboard abdominal muscles and were especially well hung.  Their penises, even in their present flaccid condition, looked to be 8 inches long.  Their testicles and scrotums were of impressive proportions and hung low.  The women approached the men and began to fondle them between their legs.  Under a different set of circumstances I would have liked to buy a ticket for myself and do the same!  I had come a long way since the time I refused to fondle the male waiter in the ‘Garden Café’!

A little further on I saw a truly shocking exhibit called “The Generator Station”.  Here were a dozen or more young women, all rather athletic looking, in a line on a raised platform.  All of these women were quite naked and ranged in age from early to late twenties.  Each was astride a kind of stationary bicycle, having no seat, with her neck in a yoke and arms restrained at her side. Each one had her legs vigorously pumping away at the pedals.  A sign overhead announced that these women were generating, with their young and well-muscled legs, and as part of a court ordered punishment, all the electricity consumed by the entire street fair!   Around the neck of each young female was a sign with her name, vocation and a brief description of the offense for which she had been indentured.

There had been much talk about finding alternative energy sources in the early twenty first century.  Apparently this problem had been solved with slave labor!  I shuddered, breathed more deeply and felt a new burst of adrenalin and oxygen energizing my own legs.  If these legs did not serve me well now to escape, then these legs might well end up as pistons for some businessman trying to save on his energy costs!

There were two male overseers walking up and down the line.  They carried no whips.  They carried instead remote controls that enabled them to somehow control the women in their labors.

Soon after I had exited the street fair and found myself back in normal traffic.  I found myself fast approaching a gang of college boys who were drunk and were pointing at me and making fun of me.  It was clear they meant to molest me as I approached them.  I ducked into an alley to avoid them.  Some of them were in hot pursuit but I was easily able to out run them with my roller blades.

After I got beyond the alley and round the next corner I was confronted with some of the other college boys who had taken an alternate route to corner me.  I am surrounded.  But I had had some martial arts training and defend myself well, and make a getaway on my inline skates.  Finally I reach the launder-mat, go in and steal some clothing that is about my size, run out with it, find another alley where I change into these clothes.

The underground railway people in New York had given me a contact person for their Chicago shelter.  I tried the phone number but no one answers.  I will have to wait until the contact returns home.

I needed a place to sleep just for that night.  I tried a motel but noticed they were photographing each person as they check in – even if they are paying cash.  No doubt this is in case things turn up missing from the room.  But I can’t be sure there isn’t a link to law enforcement and there will be an APB out about me by now.  I tried a couple of other places but they also were photographing.

Then I think about maybe pitching a tent in one of those tent parks.  It is summertime and the weather is not bad.  Probably they don’t photograph people who check into these places.   I bought a cheap throwaway wireless laptop and used it to locate one of those camping parks within 2 miles of a commuter train stop.  I found a twenty-four hour store that sold sporting goods, and bought, with cash, a cheap tent, a backpack, a sleeping bag, some cooking gear, and a few other camping necessities.  

I boarded the train with my tent and things in the backpack.  After a ride of 30 minutes, I got off at Pine Tree Road and walk the 2 miles to camp.  They check me in with no problem and no questions asked.  No identity check, no photographing.  I pitched my tent and settled in for the night.  In the morning I built a fire from wood logs and made myself some coffee and oatmeal.  I have paid for a week so I left the tent up.  I took the commuter train back into Chicago.

In Chicago I again tried phoning my contact for the Underground.  This time I was in luck.  I was given an address where I would be picked up for a blindfolded ride to the safe house.  When I arrived at the house I was given a bed in a dormitory and a chance to bathe and eat good food.  

By then it was early Sunday afternoon.  I knew that I would need a job.  The staff at the safe house got me settled into their dormitory and suggested I should apply for a telemarketing job, until I could find something better.  They aren’t too fussy about references for that kind of work.  I used my throwaway laptop to find job openings and phone numbers.

Early Monday morning I got busy applying.  I secured a job.  Everything was OK the first day.  The pay wasn’t great, but it was a job.  With that I was able to go out and rent a small apartment of one room and stock it with groceries.  I was on my way!

I went back on my throwaway laptop.  I checked for news stories about myself.  Sure enough they had sent police looking for me when I did not show up for court that next day.  The judge had declared the trial in recess until such time as I would be apprehended and could again be brought before the court.  He informed the jury that, in all probability, this would not take more than a week or two, given all the high tech tracking devices now deployed everywhere!  

The judge also announced that since I was now a fugitive from the law, that when I was caught, there would be some serious additional penalties!  The court would make an example of me with a special humiliating public punishment!   Well they didn’t have custody of me yet.  And with any luck they never would!  I had made a new life for myself!

I managed to line up a professional job interview.  I was to meet a Richard Smithson at a restaurant and bar called “The Ball and Chain”.  From the name I wondered if some of the employees were slaves.  When I arrive the hostess checked my name.

“Rebecca Stevens?”  I nodded.  “Mr. Smithson is expecting you. Right this way.”  She led me through the restaurant to his table.   I saw that there was a long stage down the center with nude pole dancers gyrating.

“Miss Stevens.  I hope you don’t mind the atmosphere here.  Having the meeting here seemed like a good idea, as I needed to know if you would be comfortable with nudity, prostitution and, of course, slavery?”

I could not believe he expected me to be ok with all this.

“You see my firm uses enslaved call girls and enslaved dancers to entertain clients.  I might need you to come to trade conventions with me and assist in making clients comfortable in the hospitality suites.  This could include ascertaining a client’s desires and preferences and choosing an appropriate slave girl to meet his needs.  You would be ok with that wouldn’t you?”

“Surely Mr. Smithson.  I have been called upon to arrange such things in my last job and I assure you it would be no problem!”  

I lied through my teeth.  My true feelings were exactly opposite on all these points but I knew what I had to say to get the job.  Soon a naked waitress came and took our orders.  I noted that there was an iron collar around her neck and a number tattooed on her left buttock.  He caressed her bare thigh.  She seemed not to notice.  We started with a fairly expensive wine and I actually found him to be a fairly good conversationalist.

“I see from your resume that your last job was in Accounts Receivable for Murphy Automotive in San Francisco.  Why did you leave that firm?”

“The firm went under sir.  Their market position eroded because of all the new competition in the Bay area.”   

I hoped this would discourage him from any attempt to check out my references at this phony job with a company that never existed.  Soon the main course arrived and we dug in.  We made mostly small talk.

As the evening wore on I thought that things were going well with this interview.   We were on the dessert course.  Just then two policemen approached our table accompanied by a woman who looked vaguely familiar.  

“That’s her!” the woman shouted pointing at me.  She had spoken loudly enough that all the other patrons in the restaurant turned to look in my direction. 

“The reason we called you at home and asked you to accompany us here, Mrs. Reed, is that the restaurant does RFID scans on the clothing of all its patrons to identify regular or returning customers.  We had put the RFIDs of your reported missing clothing out on an alert since yesterday.  The scan of this young woman’s clothes that was made earlier this evening matched the alert so the restaurant’s computer automatically reported it to us” one of the officers said.

“I have the receipts to prove the clothes she is wearing are mine!  I want my clothing back right now!” the woman shrieked.  I had intended to mail the clothes back to her, but with everything that had been happening I had not managed to do that yet.

“Do you have some proof of who you are, Miss?” the first officer said.

I fumbled nervously to produce my new false identity papers, while breaking into a sweat.  My heart began to pound.

“Miss Rebecca Stevens, you are under arrest for the theft of this woman’s clothing from the launder-mat.  Stand over there please.   We will need you to remove the clothing belonging to Mrs. Reed at this time, so that we can return those items to the rightful owner!”

I could not believe it!  They expected me to strip right there in the restaurant!  In front of all the patrons!  I knew I had to do it or they would do it to me.  Mr. Smithson, who was on the verge of offering me the job, just looked on dumbfounded as more and more of my body came into his view.  When I was entirely naked they handcuffed me and escorted me out to the patrol car.  I draw quite a bit of interested gawking from restaurant patrons first and then from passersby on the street.

At the police station they photograph me and lock me up, still naked, in a holding cell overnight.  I later learn that a story has run on page 6 of the leading Chicago newspaper titled “Launder-Mat Clothing Thief” with a naked photo of me.  Of course they pixelled out my genitals to comply with the public decency laws.

In the morning I was still naked in the holding cell, when I was visited by two out of town skip tracers from New York.  It seems they had been able to track my movements to Chicago by means of that same damn Tampax pack.  My true identity had been linked to the RFID chip in the package when I bought the Tampax along with other items on my credit card in New York City.  Sensors in the mag-lev train I took from New York to Chicago had picked up the signal and found a match against my name on a federal wanted list.  This had alerted the New York skip trace agents to follow me to the state of Illinois.  When they arrived they saw the story in the Chicago paper about the naked clothing thief and compared the photo that accompanied that story with the photos they already had from the New York court.  They felt they had a match, and were able to positively confirm it when they visited me in the Chicago jail.  Since Illinois and New York had reciprocity with respect to extraditions, they had no trouble getting clearance to bring me back to New York City.

They transported me back to New York just as they found me, naked and handcuffed.  
I tried not to make eye contact with other train passengers who openly gawked at me.  About half way back I just started sobbing and sobbing.  My ingenuity and my runner’s legs had not been enough to save my precious freedom!

In New York I was placed in a holding cell to await what tomorrow would bring.