Lynn

"Even if we don't come up with the money until after we're repo'd?"

"No," Mr. Brooks shook his head, "once you're repossessed, you're a slave and you can't change that. Trying to pay off the loan after repossession won't work."

"What happens if we pay off the loan after the 24 hour grace period but before repossession?"

Mr. Brooks looked serious and said, "Theoretically, you're enslavement doesn't begin until you're repossessed, so it's possible but it would mean that you'd have to be a fugitive in the meantime and you don't want to do that."

"I'm not saying we'd run, but what happens if we do?" Nicky asked.

"You'd automatically have another six months of servitude added to your commitment and, more importantly, as a fugitive, upon your capture, you'd be categorized as a category II slave instead of the category I slave that you are now."

"What's the difference?"

"Considerable, as a category II slave, you'd be required to perform fetish work, you'd be forced to wear the heavier stainless steel tracking collar, and you'll be subject to physical correction."

I cringed a little as the words "physical correction" was mentioned.

"Physical correction?" I asked. "What do you mean by physical correction?"

"By far, the most common physical correction involves lashing."

"You're saying we could be lashed?" I asked as I imagined the pain and humiliation of being physically beaten and helpless to do anything about it.

"Well, yes but only if you try to evade your enslavement." Mr. Brooks explained. "If you turn yourself in, as a category I, you're not subject to physical correction."

"You said most common, are there less common methods of physical corrections?"

Less common methods could include being forced to wear shackles day and night for months, electrical shock, have your head shaved, or any number of other punishments."

"That's awful," I said.

"Most importantly, you'd be eligible for export," Mr. Brooks emphasized.

"Export?"

"You could be sold to buyers in other countries."

Thinking about the possibility of being sold overseas caused my heart to skip a beat and I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat.

"If you're exported, you'll be governed by the laws of the country you're sent to and not the laws of the United States," Mr. Brooks explained. "So, although a category II can't be used for sex here, if you get exported, you can. Almost all of the better looking women who get exported end up in the sex trade. So, if you try and run, you could easily end up in a brothel or a harem on the other side of the world."

Both Nicky and I took a moment to ponder our possible fates.

"Let me show you something," Mr. Brooks said as he stood up and motioned for Kristen and Nicky to follow. "We don't normally show customers this but you need to see this."

"See what?" I asked as we headed for an elevator in the back of the lobby to an elevator with a sign "Authorized Personnel Only".

"You need to see what could happen to you if you run," Mr. Brooks said as the pushed the up button on the elevator. "Sometimes Ultra decides to inventory the collateral instead of marketing it."

"Inventory? What do you mean by inventory?" I asked.

"Ultra has the right to keep the collateral in satisfaction of the loan and use the slave in the place of an employee instead of auctioning it off. If the collateral cooperates and turns herself in, she's eligible to work regular jobs and often she wears ordinary attire. But if she runs..."

At that moment the elevator door opened and a young woman mopping the floor came into view. Barefoot and naked, save for a heavy-duty stainless steel slave collar and chains manacling both her hands and feet, the woman's hair was unkempt, as if she didn't have access to a comb, and she wore neither makeup nor jewelry. Her bare feet were dirty from the dust and grime on the floor and there were a few grubby smudges on her body as if she hadn't bathed in a few days, maybe weeks. Neither her legs, her hooch, nor her armpits were shaven, and her eyebrows were bushy. In short, it didn't appear as if the poor woman had access to any type of hygiene or toiletries whatsoever.

"Let me introduce you to Lynnette Rosenberger," Mr. Brooks said as he gestured to the slave. "Ms. Rosenberger didn't realize that Ultra put a hold on her passport so she got picked up at the airport trying to catch a flight to Paris after she defaulted on her car loan. Now she's spending thirteen hours a day, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, washing floors, scrubbing restrooms on her hands and knees, and gathering trash. She won't lose the chains or get dressed again for almost another two years."

Stunned, I looked upon the wretched young woman in dismay.

"How do you like working as a category II slave Lynnette?" Mr. Brooks asked.

"Fuck you," Lynette said.

Although the manacled slave looked up from her mopping only long enough to glare angrily at Mr. Brooks, as did so, Lynnette made eye contact with both me and Nicky to the astonishment of all three of us.

"Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed as I recognized the hapless woman.

In shock, I covered my mouth with my hand. Lynn was a client of ours. She'd been in our office more times than I could count. We were on a first name basis. I'd even taken her to lunch a couple of times to show her our new collections, and regarded her as a friend. She seemed like such a nice person and had such an excellent taste in fashions.

"Oh my God, Lynn, are you alright?" Nicky asked.

Despite the sincerity and concern in Nicky's voice, Lynn became emotional and turned away in shame.

"She's not allowed to talk to anyone but Ultra personnel. It could cost her strokes."

"We know her," I protested. "She's a customer of ours."

"Not anymore," Mr. Brooks laughed. "She won't be wearing your clothes or any clothes at all any time soon. Before the default, she was quite the stylish dresser; a real trend setter. Her wardrobe was the envy of every woman in the building. But now, all she gets to wear is chains and the other women just snicker at her when they walk by or look away."

"What happened to her clothes?" I asked. Lynn had an amazing collection of fashions, even greater than my own.

"Ultra gave all her clothes to charity when she got enslaved."

"Why?" I gasped. "Those suits and dresses were all tailored."

I was horrified. The idea of simply discarding such an exquisite wardrobe struck me as sacrilegious, like using the Shroud of Turin to wash your car.

"To make a point. Lynnette worked for Ultra and she even got the employee discount on her loan. When she ran, it angered the management that an employee would do such a thing so Ultra decided to make an example of her. She's a criminal; she tried to steal our collateral and she deserves to be punished. We want her to suffer. Now we use her for every shit job in the building, keep her naked, shackled, and filthy, feed her dog food, deny her any privacy or comfort, and show her off as a poster child as to why you shouldn't run."

As Lynnette continued her mopping and turned away from the group, I noticed bruising on Lynnette's derriere, "What the hell?"

Although everyone knew that category II and III slaves could be lashed and subject to other physical correction, it was still shocking to see it. An unwritten, but universally followed, rule of the slave industry was to keep severe or brutal punishment well-hidden least public opinion turn against slavery. Lashings or severe deprivations were almost never revealed to the public and, for the most ruthless of punishments, the slaves were sent to camps in foreign countries, well out of the public view. Although many helpless slaves had writhed in pain under the lash, they mostly did so in secret, where the public couldn't see their agony and humiliation.

"Before she ran, Lynnette's incentive plan was bonuses and stock options; now it's a leather strap," Mr. Brooks explained. "We only use it occasionally when Lynnette gets lazy and fails to make her task quota for the day. Unfortunately, she began missing her quota more often than not and last week management felt a correction was necessary. Lynnette hasn't missed quota since."

I stared at Mr. Brooks in revulsion but he only shrugged.

"Ultra has the right to physically correct Lynn. It's the law. Besides, it serves her right for what she did."

Mr. Brooks opened what looked like a janitor's closet but inside was a small room with an even smaller iron bar cell, barely big enough for a woman to lay down. More of a cage than a cell, the whole enclosure wasn't even quite the size of a twin bed. On the floor of the cell was a thin, plastic covered, foam mat. Besides the mat, a tiny prison style toilet, a roll of toilet paper, and a small sink; there was nothing else, no furniture, no mirror, no toiletries, no curtains, no comb, no pillow, no sheets, no clothes, or any other comforts. Nicky looked concerned while I was appalled. Although I'd heard stories of the extremely meager housing provided category II slaves, I'd never dreamt it was so bad.

"This is her cell. There's a shower in the basement and we let her use once every couple of weeks or so whenever she starts to really smell. They feed her dry dog food for breakfast lunch and dinner right out of a dog bowl. And they make sure that every employee in the building gets to see her. The other employees see her when she works and they see her eat her lunch out of her dog bowl in the cafeteria; she doesn't get to use her fingers, she's got to eat on her all fours out of the bowl. And she gets her physical correction in the cafeteria at lunchtime so the employees get to watch when she's punished."

"That's horrible," Nicky said.

"It's quite practical really and very efficient. We have security wake her at 5:50 every morning, give her a bowl of food, and fill her water bowl, she gets ten minutes to eat the food, drink the water, take a piss, and we've got her on the floor working by six. Since she doesn't shower, shave, dress, or fix her hair, she doesn't need any more than ten minutes before she's mopping the floor or cleaning the toilets."

"Monstrous," I exclaimed.

"It may sound cruel but it works."

Far from sympathetic, Mr. Brooks seemed pleased, even amused, by Lynn's plight as if the wretchedness of her enslavement served to vindicate some great evil that Lynn had attempted against Ultra.

"Since Lynnette was enslaved, we haven't had another employee default on a loan," Mr. Brooks said. "We've barely had anyone even be late on a payment."

"That's so wrong; how could you?" I asked.

Mr. Brooks scoffed, "It wasn't my decision. Just like what happens to you if you default won't be my decision. I'm sorry to show this to you but you needed to see it. Something like this is what'll happen to you if you run. I think I can get you the extension but, if I can't, don't be a fool. Turn yourself in before noon tomorrow and don't be late. If you're not in the doors before noon, you'll be considered to be absconding with our collateral. Even a few minutes late could cost you six months of your life and this."