642
Mind Diary of a Judicial
Slave
by Wayne Mitchell
SAMPLE CHAPTER
***
Chapter One
Meeting My New Master
Cycle 4378, Day 137
This is my first day as a house slave and my gracious
Master has given me permission to once again access my mind
diary. I probably should not have scanned the entries about my arrest
and trial into my diary, but they are public record here on Farpost. If someone,
at some future date, mind scans this, know that despite what the legal records
say, I am innocent. I did not steal money from my employer, United Space Mines.
I knew I was innocent from the beginning,
but I had no way to prove that. The prosecutor had tons of supposed proof
against me. So, despite my protestations of innocence, it was a very short trial- an open and shut case according to the
prosecutor... and judge... and the Artificial Intelligence jury. It took only a
few seconds for the three virtual jurors to agree that I had, indeed, embezzled
173,000 Mn - monetary units, or monuns. That is the equivalent of almost ten
years salary for a low-level accounting employee like me.
Since I was found guilty without
reservation by the three separate judicial algorithms, there is no chance of
appeal. After consulting with the AI sentencing juries, the judge sentenced me
to penal servitude. Penal servitude is the standard punishment except in those very rare cases where death is decreed. Once I was found
guilty, the only real question was how long... and where.
The sentencing juries put their algorithms together
to evaluate the crime, my age, my gender, and my physical appearance and
recommended that I be sold as a house slave for a period of two years. The
nominal rate is 100,000 Mn per year, but I could have been sold for much more-
or much less- at the auction. The price paid at auction for a slave like me
depends on the slave's age and beauty and sexual attractiveness. I am young,
pleasant to look at, and my mind has not been closed to sexual enjoyment by the
teachings of the angry ones. So, they knew that the price would be high. That's why they specified only two years. Had I been ugly or
poorly proportioned, it could have been as much as five- or even ten years. The
length of the sentence is determined by what is required to bring in at least
the needed amount of money from the auction. The proceeds of the sale are
divided 25% to the government and 75% as restitution to the victim, in this
case, USM.
My Master paid 273,000 Mn for my two years
of slavery. That means that United Space Mines was more than compensated for my
supposed theft. The cost of my trial and incarceration was also covered. Now
all that is left is for me to satisfactorily complete my two years of penal
servitude.
It could have been worse. I could have been
sentenced to a much longer servitude as a common laborer, or even worse, to the
mines. Most of the miners here on Farpost are well-paid employees of USM, but
there are also many judicial slaves working in the mines, especially in the
lower mine levels.
It is ironic that the ore of Farpost
contains tremendous energy and powers most of the starliners in our Galaxy, but
it cannot be used for power here on the planet. In fact, the nature of the ore-
of the entire planet- prevents most machines from operating- especially
underground. Thus the ore must be dug by hand and moved out of the mines by
hand. Almost everything on Farpost must be done by hand. That guarantees some
sort of job for anyone, but it also has led to a strict code of slavery. If you
do not function as a part of Farpost society, you will be a machine for Farpost
industry.
I shudder as I think that I could have
ended up in the mines. Working in the mines is a hard job... harder if you are
naked and wearing a slave collar... and even harder if you are a naked slave
woman. The strict laws which protect women and men- and even slaves- from
sexual assault don't apply deep down in the mines, or
at least they aren't enforced if the victim is a judicial slave. A naked female
in a slave collar down in the depths of the mines is not much more than fresh
meat for the use of the other miners. And they are still expected to meet their
quotas for the shift.
I sigh as I look at my reflection. Despite
not being in the mines, I am still a naked female. And I am still wearing a
slave collar. But at the end of my first day of servitude, my body is not
sweat-soaked nor covered in dirt and dust. And I have not been violated... yet.
I look no different than when I stood in
front of the mirror first thing this morning and made sure that my hair and makeup
were to the proper standards for a house slave. Hair must always be pulled
straight back and braided into a single, long rope hanging down the slave's
back. I don't know why, but the braid must always be
referred to as a rope, never as a braid. And it must always hang straight down
the back, never over the shoulder on one side in the front or curled around the
neck.
The rules for makeup are just as strict.
Eyes are to be outlined in black and shaded very slightly in slave blue. Only
slaves wear this particular color of eye shadow. There
is also a small silver mark, about the size and shape of a grain of rice, right
at the outside corner of my eyes. That silver mark, called an eye pearl, is
also reserved to slaves. For a permanent slave the
makeup-and the pearl-is darker blue. The permanent pearl is larger like a
small, real pearl, and is embedded in the skin or even the skull. The makeup,
including dark blue eyebrows is usually permanently tattooed on the slave's
skin. Often the lips of a permanent slave are also deeply reddened by
tattooing.
For me, a judicial slave, my makeup is
regular makeup and my eye pearl is glued to my skin. The makeup is removed each
night. The pearl can be removed or left for as much as a week before the glue
needs to be reapplied. There are severe penalties should I leave my room
without the eye mark and makeup in place.
The hair, makeup, mark, and collar are the
outward signs of a slave, but there is more. My internal circuit pack has been
reprogrammed to signal that I am a slave to the various computer scanners here
on the planet. I am tracked everywhere I go. That, in and of itself, is no
different from all citizens of Farpost. Everyone on this planet has an internal
circuit pack- called a lifepack- which records the daily actions of their
life... and even, when in mind diary mode, their thoughts. Someone, somehow,
changed the records in my lifepack. My mind diary, which was read back in
court, had me gloating at how easy it was to hack the office computers and set
up false loans which were transferred to my personal accounts. The only real
question the judge had for me was what I did with the money and how I managed
to hide those specific actions from my lifepack.
The packs are small and powered by the body's
circulatory system. Similar lifepacks are used on most of the planets of the
Federation. In a way, they are a benevolent, mechanical parasite that connects
each person's body to the planetary control computer. They monitor all bodily
functions and report any illness or other problem to the med computers, but
they also constantly report your position and status to the planetary computer
channels. For infants and very small children, the
packs are external, but once you reach fourteen years of age, the circuit packs
are embedded within your body. Planetary visitors are required to wear a small
device on their wrist which serves the same purpose. Anyone, however, who is on
planet for more than a complete cycle is required to be implanted.
For the next two years, as I approach someone,
they will know immediately that I am a slave. And it is not just because I am
naked. The artificial atmosphere in the habitation pods of this planet is
controlled and clothing is needed only for modesty. Many of the citizens of
Farpost, male and female, wear light toga-like shifts with nothing beneath
them. During the warm sun part of the day, those togas are often abandoned and
many Farposters walk the street as naked as I am.
Well, they are not quite as naked as I am,
or at least not naked in the same way that I am. Because they wear no collar,
you might say that in some ways, they are more naked than I am. But many of the
women... and men... of Farpost carefully cultivate a thick, well-trimmed, bush
of hair between their legs. My naked crotch and my collar proclaim I am a slave
even to those who have their internal scan readers turned off. Some do that
because- especially in a crowd- the information provided by a scan reader is
sometimes overwhelming or confusing.
Scan readers display information on
everyone who is near you. The names and other important items appear to float
in the air above the person's head. The color of the names which appear above a
person as you look at them indicates who is a free person and who is a slave. A
free person's name is in black, green, or red depending on their social class.
Once, for me, it would have displayed Xandar Deurue in black. Until my Master
gives me a name, it just displays my judicial number in silver, like my collar
and eye marks. The names of purple-collar slaves- permanent slaves- are in blue
and flash as a warning to the populace.
The better quality scan readers like those
in the shops can even download the travel, command, and goods order histories
of a nearby slave. That helps the merchants know why a slave has entered their
establishment and who has commanded them to be there. Thus, the slave does not
have to speak to the shop owner or any other free person. The shop keeper fills
the goods order and then straps the purchase to the slave's back and they are
sent on their way. The slave's Master or Mistress is notified by the shop's
computer as soon as the slave leaves the shop so there can be no dawdling on
the way home.
My mind returns to my mirror and I look
carefully at my collar. In black letters against the silver metal of the
collar, a numeric readout says "642." I was sentenced to two years of
judicial servitude, but the sentence began the day I was arrested. It was 88
days from my arrest to my arrival here at my Master's house. There are 642 days-
and nights- left in my sentence. I have begun this mind diary to record my
experiences during that time. It will be kept in a special place on my lifepack
and perhaps will be read by my descendants, if I ever have any.
I am fortunate that the judge specified
years instead of cycles. Years are based on the solar cycle of the home planet
and are 365 days long. Farpost takes 476 days to circle our sun. If the judge
had said cycles rather than years, I would have 864 days left in my period of
servitude. Someone once tried to explain to me the difference between a day on
Farpost and a day on Home World, but it made no sense to me. How could hours
and minutes be stretched so that twenty-four hours was not twenty-four hours?
The spacers who run the ore freighters can somehow keep track of such things in
their heads. I never could.
I run my fingers through my hair and sigh.
My Master has the right to have me slave-shorn. And there are creams which
would prevent my hair from growing back for months, if not years. Since my
sentence is less than five years, he cannot use the permanent creams like have
already been used on the rest of my body. There is no hair below my neck and
there will never be again. Even after the 642 days have been completed and the
collar and eye mark have been removed, everyone will always know that I was
once a slave. In that way I am permanently marked for life.
A voice interrupts my thoughts. "Master
summons you to dine with him."
It is lucida. She has been my constant
companion since I was bought at auction by Master. She is a hobble slave. We
have talked a lot as she trained me a little in my Master's expectations, but
she has not told me what it was that caused her to be taken into slavery. I
know that she was originally a judicial slave like me and was owned by Master,
but she kept trying to escape or would otherwise anger Master. Eventually, she
was declared by the courts to be an unrepentant runaway. That is the worst
accusation that can be made against a judicial slave. To be declared
unrepentant can extend your judicial sentence for years. To be declared a
runaway can result in being permanently slave-shorn and hobbled. She is both,
so she minces along, totally naked, with a short chain between her ankles so
she can't run. The purple eye pearls that now mark her
as a permanent slave are embedded in her skull. They can never be removed. And
the dark slave blue around her eyes is not makeup. It is tattooed into her
skin.
Despite all that, she still misbehaves. It
is as if she wants Master to punish her. The stripes and bruises from her last
punishment are still vivid on her ass and legs and yet she misbehaves. Perhaps
that is why Master has ordered her to be my companion. He must want me to see
what could happen to me if I misbehave. Or maybe he thinks that I can be a good
influence on his wayward slave.
"I am ready," I answer. I'm
not, really. How do you prepare yourself to meet someone who now owns you? What
should I do when we meet? Should I throw myself on the floor and beg him to be
merciful? Should I flaunt my sex at him in hopes that will soften his treatment
of me?
We walk slowly down the maze of hallways
that lead from the slave quarters to the main house. I can feel my heart
beating against my ribs. Slave lucida is now standing next to the door grinning
at me. The door is open, but I can't make my feet move
forward. I hear a giggle behind me and feel a strong push against my back. I
stumble into the room and fall flat, barely able to stop my fall with my hands
before I smash my face against the floor.
I look up for just an instant. The most
handsome man I have ever seen is standing over me. He is laughing softly. "Most
new slaves try their best to impress me with their grace and beauty," he says
between chuckles, "but you seem to be trying to show me how submissive you are."
I realize that I am lying face down with my
nose pressed almost flat against the floor. My arms are straight out from my
shoulders and then bent upward in a perfect square. My palms are flat against
the cold, stone floor. My legs are spread so that my feet are just wider apart
than my elbows. My feet are turned inward so tightly that my ankles are against
the floor. I am in a perfect Pentoon position.
I have only seen slaves in this position
once or twice in my life, but everyone knows what it is. The greatest insult
one woman can give to another is to call her a Pentoon Slave. Once when I was
shopping downtown in the square, I saw a slave clumsily knock over a display of
merchandise. The ornate boxes had barely hit the ground before her Master, who
was walking four steps in front of her, spun around and shouted, "Pentoon!" She
immediately fell into the position I was now in.
Her Master stood directly above her
shoulders with his feet on either side of her head. He said nothing more, but
instead held out his hand to the merchant, who carefully handed him a short
leather whip. The whip- also called a Pentoon- was just the right length so
that when the Master snapped it downward between the slave's legs, its tip
reached maximum velocity just before slamming into the slave's naked ass.
The Master's aim, of course, was perfect so
the whip barely touched her asscheeks. Instead, it snapped into the cleft
between then and wrapped slightly around into that even more sensitive cleft
closer to the ground.
At first the slave said nothing, but on the
third stroke she yelped in pain. When the fifth stroke struck in exactly the same place as the first four, she began
screaming, "Pentoon! Pentoon!" Pentoon is an ancient word that means "Mercy!"
but no one ever says it except a Pentoon Slave begging her Master for mercy.
The Master was unmoved. He paused slightly
and turned toward the merchant. "How many boxes of candy were in the display?"
he asked calmly. The merchant looked down at the ground and said, "Forty-three,
but she knocked over only twenty-one of them."
"She deserves forty-three strikes," her
Master said coldly, "but perhaps I shall be merciful and only give her
twenty-one." Looking back down at the slave he said, "It will depend on her
response to the whip."
He then again began swinging the whip. Each
stroke landed where he intended. The sixth was exactly in the middle of her
left asscheek. The next was in the middle of the right cheek. The next was
where the first five had fallen, squarely between her legs. He then returned to
the left asscheek and repeated the pattern... again and again and again. Her
only response to each stroke was a cry of "Pentoon! Pentoon!"
The cry was perhaps louder and more shrill
when the whip fell between her legs, but the words did not change until the
twenty-first strike. Then she very loudly screamed, "Mercy! Mercy!" and began
sobbing loudly.
The Master chuckled softly and returned the
whip to the merchant. He was smiling. He had broken her. There was no greater
shame for a Pentoon Slave than to actually beg her
Master for mercy. To be forced to beg so in the marketplace was even more
shameful. Most slaves would be proud that they had endured to the twenty-first
blow, but the Pentoon had heard that she deserved forty-three strikes of the
whip. To beg for release before that point was a sign of weakness. It meant
that she did not truly love- or perhaps fear and
respect- her Master.
"I will pay you for any damaged
merchandise," the Master said to the merchant.
"There is no need," the merchant replied,
but he still took the money from the Master's hand.
The Master looked once again down upon his
slave and said harshly, "Restore that which you damaged and show your
contrition to this merchant.'
The slave rose shakily to her feet and
slowly picked up the fallen boxes. The merchant directed her with hand motions
as she carefully restacked the boxes on the wooden table. When all the boxes
were in place, she knelt at the merchant's feet and bent low so that she could
kiss his sandals. As she bent her body, the welts and bruising on- and between-
her asscheeks were visible to everyone in the market square.
Her Master then curtly said, "Follow!" and
turned to walk away. His slave dutifully followed four steps behind, now very careful to stay in the middle of the path away from the
piles of goods on the merchants' tables.
***
My Master steps forward and stands astride
my head. "Should I whip you on this, our first meeting?" he asks. He is no
longer laughing, but there is mirth in his voice.
"Mercy, Master," I plead. "I was
overwhelmed at your presence and made clumsy by my fear."
"You have nothing to fear from me," he
replies, "as long as you are loyal... honest... and obedient."
"My heart races as he pauses for what seems
to be such a long time. Then he says softly, "Rise, join me in a meal. I would
get to know my new slave before I get to know my new slave."
I rise and try to walk gracefully over to
the short table where a small meal has been set out, but I am afraid that I am
as shaky as that Pentoon Slave in the marketplace. My master gestures for me to
kneel at the small table. I do. He, of course, reclines on the thick mat on the
other side of the table. One end of the mat has a pillow built into it to raise
him up almost as if he were partially sitting. He looks across the table at me
and smiles.
I try to smile back at him. I have finally
met the man who bought me.
Master claps his hands smartly and two
naked male slaves run into the room. One is carrying two small trays on which
are sitting small crystal cups of a spicy sea sauce in which are partially
submerged a row of prawns. The prawns, also known as shrimp, like almost all
life on Farpost, are not native to this planet, but were brought here many
generations ago when the first settlers arrived. The other slave is carrying a
large tray on which are several glasses and goblets.
"You may choose any drink you desire,"
Master says softly, "but I would recommend water and, of course, the white
wine."
I follow his suggestion and set the water
glass and wine goblet near the tray which had been set before me. I then wait
for him to pick up one of the prawns. He reaches for one, but pauses with his
hand inches from his tray. He smiles as he watches me pull back my hand and
wait expectantly.
"Do you love me, my little shishi?" he asks
calmly as he looks directly into my eyes. "You look like a scared, little
shishi," he adds with a light chuckle. A shishi is the smallest of the field
mice here on Farpost.
I continue to stare at him and he repeats
his question. "Do you?" he says a little more firmly. "Do you love me?"
"I cannot know, Master," I reply shakily. "I
do not know you."
His smile broadens. "The correct answer is,
'Yes'" he says, almost laughing. "Every slave knows that."
"But you said I must be honest," I reply. "I
do not know you, so I cannot say whether or not I love you."
"Would you love me if I ordered it?" he
says firmly.
"Yes," I answer even more shakily. "At
least, I would try," I say. I can feel my body trembling in fear that perhaps I
have again answered incorrectly.
"Are you wet?" he asks quickly.
"What?" I reply automatically and then
quickly say, "I'm sorry, Master, I am not sure I understand you."
"You understand that I will have sex with
you tonight, do you not?" he says. His voice is almost angry.
"Yes, Master," I reply, trying to sound
sweet and sincere, "I assumed that."
"But you did not prepare yourself and bring
yourself into sexual readiness," he says curtly.
"I beg your forgiveness, Master," I say,
almost crying, "but no one has taught me how to be a slave. Three months ago I
was a naive bookkeeper at the United Mines headquarters. My mind has not been
warped against sex by the angry ones, but I do not know how to be a slave... or
a slut."
I take a deep breath to force back my tears
and say, "But whatever you command me, I will do."
"Are you a virgin?" he asks softly. He
looks confused.
I look down at the table trying to decide
which answer would be correct. Then I decide to tell the truth. "Yes, Master,"
I finally answer. "I am a virgin. You can have your physician examine me if you
wish."
"How did the auction house not know that?"
he says, more or less to himself. "The bidding would have been much higher had
they advertised that you were a virgin."
"My mind diary," I say softly, "was made
public record during my trial. In it are several entries which record me having
group sex at wild drug parties in the subworlds. No one would have believed me
if I claimed to still be a virgin."
"How is that possible?" he says softly.
There is a look of wonderment or confusion on his face.
"Whoever manipulated the company computers
and stole the money, also manipulated my mind diary," I say, now having more
difficulty holding back my tears. "But everyone knows that such manipulation is
impossible," I add, regaining control. "And so, I was easily convicted and
sentenced to penal slavery."
I take a deep breath and then continue as
firmly as I can, "So I am now a slave. How I became a slave makes no
difference. It is what I am."
I look over at him and smile, "And you are
my Master," I say firmly. "I will be loyal to you. I will obey you. And I will
always be honest with you."
He smiles at me. "And I will be honest with
you, my little shishi," he says calmly. "I was going to name you passion
flower. I bought you because people were beginning to talk about the fact that
I did not have a personal sex slave. And a person as rich and powerful as I am,
is expected to have at least one slave whose primary purpose is my sexual
satisfaction."
I just stare at him.
"That is your purpose within the House of
Burcroft," he continues. "You are Master Karl's personal sex slave. Do you
think that you can adequately fulfill that position?"
"Yes," I breathe softly. Then I gasp
slightly.
"What is wrong?" he asks. When he notices
my hesitation, he adds more firmly, "... the truth!"
"I am wet, my Master," I answer. I can feel
my face turning red with shame.
He laughs lightly. I know that he is
laughing at me and the redness deepens on my face. "My little shishi," he says,
still laughing, "that is as close as a slave can get to loving her Master. You
have become wet at the thought of having sex with me."
He gestures with his hand at the bowl of
prawns before me. "Finish your shrimp," he says brightly, "and during our meal
I will finish seducing you. Then for dessert, I will take your virginities." He
flashes a big smile at me and adds, "... all of them."
END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER