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