LEGAL DISCLAIMER

All characters, places and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real people either living or dead is purely coincidental. It is also important to be aware it is not the author’s intention to promote or condone any activities that would be considered illegal in many parts of the world. It should further be noted it is not the author’s intention to provide factual information related to any ‘alternative sexual lifestyle’ nor educational resources for safe sexual practices.

The story is intended to entertain open-minded adults and you are encouraged to read this story with your partner. No guarantees or warranties are offered if this story fails to meet your expectations. All comments and other feedback is welcome and should be addressed to slave802120@gmail.com with the subject header ‘Eastlake’.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

All words and images used to illustrate this story are ©2005 Ingrid Hawthorne. They may be downloaded for private viewing but may not be reproduced or redistributed in any form without the expressed written permission of the Copyright owner. 


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Case #802120 - Part 7 - Enslaved

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The bang of the gavel was like a starter's pistol that sent the small crowd of people who watched my trial from the gallery scurrying for the exit. My husband reached over the low barricade that separated the gallery from the court floor and put his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed as he repeated his reassurances that he would do whatever he could to have me released as soon as possible.

"It's going to be OK," he said, over and over. "Hang in there!"

A bailiff moved in to escort him from the gallery. My attorney, continuing the support from my husband, said he'd also help as he continued putting away his notes.

Two uniformed officers from the Public Slave Office then appeared with the now familiar shackles and secured manacles around my wrists and ankles. I was shuffled out of the side door of the courtroom and then along a corridor before being taken in an elevator to the basement car park. The black Ford Econoline van that had transported me to court sat parked a short distance from the elevator, ready to return me to the Slave Tank. When the back doors of the van were opened I looked inside and noticed it wasn't the same van. This one had no seats at all in the back. In fact, there was nothing at all in the cargo area except for a small cardboard box.

One of the officers unlocked and removed my shackles while the other watched and warned me not to try and escape. Once the shackles were off, I was told to strip. My clothes along with my shoes were then stuffed into the box and one of the officers took it somewhere while the other ordered me to climb into the back of the van. I crawled into the corner up near the wire mesh grill that separated the cargo area from the front seats. I sat on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chin and hugged my shins while I waited for the officer to close the doors. He was looking off somewhere, possibly for his partner, and didn't seem in any hurry to lock me in the van. A few minutes passed and, while I wasn't in any hurry to return to the Slave Tank, the waiting made me restless.

A few more minutes passed before I heard the echoed footsteps of the other officer returning to the van.

"What's the hold up?" the officer standing at the back of the van asked.

"The press want to get a few photos of this one," a voice outside the van replied.

"Did Travis OK it?"

"Yes. The Press said they want him in the photos too. We're just waiting for him to get changed."

"Are they doing it in the press room?"

"No. It's a nice day outside. I said we'll meet them behind the courthouse."

"Looks like we're going for a walk," the officer said to me. "Out you get."

I crawled out of my corner to the back of the van and climbed out. After sitting naked for so long in the relative warmth of the van, I felt chilled when I stood barefoot on the cold concrete floor. My hands briskly rubbed some warmth back into my arms before my wrists were locked behind my back again. The officer was going to shackle my ankles again, but the other told him not to bother. He seemed in a bit of a hurry now, and the two of them escorted me through the car park and up a ramp that led to an enclosed private car park at the back of the courthouse. 

The early afternoon sunlight made me squint, but my eyes quickly adjusted and I could see a small crowd of people standing around what appeared to be a pillory mounted on a wooden dais in the middle of the car park. The group, nearly all with cameras, suddenly became animated with one of them noticed the officers and me walking up the ramp and, as I approached them, I could hear a cacophony camera shutter noises. I kept my head down and stared at the ground in front of me. I could hear questions being called to me, but I was far too embarrassed to look up and answer any of them.

The officers' hands kept holding my upper arms until we were standing on the dais. One gently pushed me forward while the other lifted the crossbeam of the stocks. A hand on the back of my head then leaned me forward and guided my neck into a half-moon hole in the center of the lower part of the crossbeam. When the top beam was gently lowered into position again and locked, the handcuffs were removed and my wrists strapped with wide leather cuffs to each end of the crossbeam that held my head.

I tentatively turned my head from side to side and felt comfortable that my neck had plenty of room to move, but my head was well and truly stuck. My wrists too were securely attached and I was effectively trapped with a small sea of cameras and grinning faces staring up at me. Among the faces I noticed my boss, Nelson. A strange smile flashed across his face when he saw that I had seen him. I immediately averted my eyes and pretended I hadn't, but each time I looked anywhere near his direction, I could see him. Staring. Ogling me in the same hungry way as everybody else. In fact, I could almost read his thoughts and began to imagine that he had deliberately ruined my case just so he could enjoy the spectacle of my humiliated like this.

The officers behind me grabbed hold of my ankles and I was forced to spread my legs widely. There were two more leather cuffs attached to chains bolted to the deck of the dais that held my legs stretched obscenely apart. I immediately squirmed and wriggled onto my toes as far as the chains would allow when I felt fingers discreetly teasing my vulnerable pussy. I couldn't see either of the officers, but I could just make out the sounds of their quiet laughter as each took turns to finger me.

I could feel my face redden, but I tried to remain composed. Nelson and a couple of other onlookers with cameras began to make their way around to the back of the dais. The officers then stopped fingering me, but they had already teased me enough that I knew my pussy would be clearly moistened and exposed to anybody who cared to look. They stepped down from the dais and after a short while, Judge Travis T. Walters made his way across the car park and joined me on the dais. The people who had wandered to the back of the dais returned to the front to listen to the judge make a speech.

"As you all know, there has been a lot of controversy in recent years about our enslavement program here in Eastlake County," he began in a loud, serious voice. "Many of you in the press have been critical of the number of our community's young women who have been enslaved -- many of them, I might add, who have voluntarily entered the program of their own free will. I personally have been demonized by a lot of you for my application of the law and yes, I'm well aware of jokes some of you, especially in the print media, make in calling my courtroom a -- travesty. But ladies and gentlemen, is it a travesty to enslave the drug addicts and whores? The harlots who would lead our fine young men astray? No. We here in Eastlake don't want that. No-sir-ee. Do we want to just sit back and watch as our young women in this town get drunk and bring the names of their families into disrepute? No sir. Not in this town."

The judge sounded like he was preaching fire and brimstone, but I got the sense, even though I could see his face when he was talking, that the enthusiasm in his voice was more than simple convictions. He continued.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press. A few weeks ago a story started to circulate that my judgments discriminate on the basis of age and social status. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's not my fault that the vast majority of the people who face my court are young and often uneducated. And yes, they do get enslaved when I convict them. But it's not just the young and uneducated! You see here before you proof of that. This woman comes from a good home. She was raised by affluent parents and educated in the finest schools and universities you can imagine. Hell, she even went to one o' them fancy finishing schools in Switzerland where they teach young gals to speak with a plumb in their mouth!"

A ripple of laughter broke though the crowd gawking up at me. A snickering kind of a laugh clearly intended to mock me.

"That's right, ladies and gentlemen. This woman grew up thinking she was better than humble folk like us. She grew up thinking that laws don't apply to her. Well friends, as you can see, laws -- do -- apply to her. She, and I want you to quote me on this, got drunk and now she's paying the price. It don't matter, that it was some fancy-ass wine in some fancy-ass bar. The law is the law and if you break it, you're going to pay the price. Yeah. Quote me on that."

There were murmurs of approval from the crowd.

"OK. Are there any questions?"

A chorus of excited voices all shouted at once.

"You," the judge pointed to a man somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

"Judge, can you pull back her hair a bit so we can get some photos of her face?"

"Sure."

His hand slipped up over my eyes and then pushed back my loosely hanging hair. Cameras whirred to life again and people jostled each other to get take their pictures from directly in front of the raised dais.

"Judge! I have a question for the slave!"

"Shoot," the judge said. His hand remained pressed against the front of my hairline.

"How do you feel right now?"

I had no idea how to answer the question except to say "very sorry".

"How many drinks did you have?" another reporter called out to me.

"I only had two glasses of wine!" The words came choked from the back of my throat.

"We heard in court that you had three --"

"And champagne!" another voice added.

"No," I started to feel confused. The judge intervened.

"I think we established she was drunk. Next question?"

My name started to be called from every direction and he pointed to somebody.

"There's a rumor that you tried to bribe the officers who arrested you --"

"No --" I mumbled and hoped to correct the rumor, but the judge cut in.

"It wasn't raised in the trial. Next?"

"Are you a real blonde?" somebody called out.

"Yes," I replied, taking some consolation from the simple question.

"Have you got fake tits?" somebody else called out.

"They look real to me!" the judge laughed after he'd bent over to look. "The feel real too!"

I struggled to escape the touch of his hands that were now suddenly groping me.

"Say cheese, Judge!" a cameraman directly below -- his lens trained directly on my dangling breasts and the judge's fingers squeezing one of my nipples.

He continued squeezing even after the photos had been taken and then twisted it hard until I grimaced and yelped at the pain.

"Judge! Can we get some pictures of you disciplining her?"

"You mean a spankin'? Sure!"

The judge then proceeded to slap my ass with his bare hand. He smacked it with a force that knocked me forward -- my shoulders banged sorely against the crossbeam of the stocks each time he hit me. I tried to avoid the stinging by wiggling my ass, but he hit me firmly and squarely every time.

"I think she's enjoying that, Judge!"

The voice was familiar. I briefly opened my eyes and looked down to see Nelson grinning up at me and encouraging the judge to spank me harder. It was so humiliating and I closed my eyes again to try and close out the image of Nelson's face -- beaming with undisguised delight.

"OK, I'm getting a sore hand here!" the judge laughed and stopped. "Thank you ladies and gentlemen. That will be all. I'll leave the slave here for another 15 minutes for you to get more photos, but then she's off the Slave Tank."
