The Capture of Archer Cordell

Chapter One-2

“Whatever,” she replied, not quite understanding. But her roommates had gotten what they wanted, a weekend of f*****g and sucking. And Sabrina had what she wanted —a vivid image of a naked, helpless slave.

Then her world turned upside down.

One night about two in the morning the telephone rang and her parents were dead in an automobile accident, and then the lawyers came and the prosecutors descended on the business, and there was a meeting at which she learned that her father had made some unwise investments and there was nothing there any more. There were stories in the newspapers and whispers among her friends, and her boyfriend became withdrawn and finally, harshly, dumped her and began seeing another girl in their same circle, a girl who’d had her eyes on him for years.

The banks took the house and the bank account and the provost called her in to tell her the scholarship was rescinded, but she had no money and no friends and nowhere to turn. Her life was collapsing around her. She was depressed, she was overwhelmed. She was nearly suicidal for a while. Afterward, all she could remember was a kind of fog over everything. Her memories of that period mostly disappeared.

Until she saw the advertisement: “Top Dollar Paid for Short-Term Indentures.” It was an ad to recruit slaves, voluntary slaves who needed the money. She knew about real slaves —there were the salacious stories and cable movies and jokes, of course. Most slaves, though, were business chattel. She’d seen them, dressed in their red jumpers, collared, downcast, working in offices. She’d seen them as servants and janitors.

And she’d seen one or two at parties, men and women who were courtesans —pleasure slaves. They were not uncommon in her social circles. In the upper middle class fashion of the times, where political correctness was still strong, it was more customary for women to own male slaves than the other way around. The men would be displayed mostly nude, with loincloths or briefs displaying rather than concealing their organs. The women would normally wear what other women wore, but more sexy and more daring. Their signs were the slave collar and wrist bands showing they were owned, that they were property. These pleasure slaves were the exotic ones, the ones the slave trade downplayed in the press but played up in more private settings. Fantasies about owning —or being —a pleasure slave were very common —but to actually be one was out of the question.

A little more than half the slaves were voluntary, in it for the money, the rest criminals of one sort or another. It was considered sexier to have a criminal slave for a pleasure slave, since the person had not chosen his or her fate, but it was more common to have a voluntary pleasure slave.

The money —for the right slaves willing to do the right things —was very good. The bounty for even a six-month indenture would easily allow her to finish college and perhaps restart her life.

She tossed and turned, unable to sleep, a common condition in those days. Her life was already in shambles, and she thought, and the next morning, feeling almost as if she were sleepwalking, she went to the address in the ad.

It was a nondescript office and she sat in a waiting room with others, mostly of lower class origins, and then she was interviewed and put through psychological tests and a physical examination, and finally she was interviewed again.

“You’re very much what we want for our higher-income clientele,” the counselor said. “You have the right look and the right social background and the right skills.” She paused and looked at Sabrina. “I’ve read the circumstances that brought you here, and I’m truly sorry. However, my professional concern is that you are able to deliver what our customers want. Can you really imagine being a slave? This isn’t a job you can quit. Once you sign up, you’re simply a possession. As you know, there are certain limits, such as physical injury, to how you can be treated, but your masters or mistresses have full power over you otherwise. Failure can be a criminal offense, and that can prolong your indenture.”

Sabrina nodded her understanding. “Right now, I want to be someone else, and a slave is about as ‘someone else’ as I can get,” she replied.

“All right. Now let’s look at your options. You can restrict the type of slavery if you like, although that normally means less money. You can leave it more open or indicate your preferences. Pleasure slaves —especially ones of your quality —command top dollar, but they are expected to perform accordingly. We have ways of helping you with that, and you can receive therapy afterward for any lingering conditions. People with special skills can also do very well. Then there are drones —that’s the majority of slave positions. Not too much money, but you do get to put more limits on your situation.”

Sabrina looked at the counselor. “I want to be whatever will get me the most money.” But in her heart she knew that was only part of her motive.

The counselor looked at her appraisingly, nodded, then smiled. “Very well,” she replied. “Let’s draw up the papers and get you started.”

She had nothing left except some sentimental items she put into storage —she left the rest in her dorm room for the others to steal or throw away, and signed all the papers.

The slave training was mostly practical in nature, but also involved technology to make the slaves into real slaves. Her collar was a high tech device that controlled a special chip set that was implanted in her brain, one that could stimulate erotic and submissive sensations and compel obedience. When it was activated, she began to feel what being a slave really meant.

On the counselor’s advice, she decided to maximize her value. She was good looking by herself, but in an age of advanced medical technology, anyone could acquire the looks of a supermodel if you had the money. She invested about a third of her slave bounty in plastic surgery and image consulting, coming out of it a breathtaking centerfold that could enchant any man. Finally, she registered a fake identity. She wouldn’t be Sabrina Swann any longer, she’d be...Alcina. Her name book said that meant “a mistress of alluring enchantments and sensual pleasures.”

Alcina completed her training and she felt like a different woman. When she looked in the mirror she saw a pleasure slave looking back. Perhaps she’d attract the right man and her time as a pleasure slave would enchant him and they’d marry —it had happened from time to time, but generally not with great results.

Then came the auction, at which she stood, collared and cuffed, dressed in a simple, short shift that exposed her body. She was in a line with other women and with men; she noticed the men were erect. She began to tingle herself; it was the collar. Her sensations grew; suddenly she felt afire with lust and desire. Men and women were shopping down the line, inspecting the merchandise. Whenever she found herself the subject of an appraising gaze or a caressing hand, she had to control herself from moaning aloud. She wanted —she needed —one of these people to buy her and use her right now.

But the man who purchased her was an agent, an assistant, instead. He was a cool-eyed gay male, precise in dress and manner, who looked over each prospective slave, boy or girl, with cool appraisal, asking about (of all things!) office skills. “My master,” he said (for he was a slave, too —later she learned because he’d embezzled money to pay for AIDS treatment for his lover, who died just before the discovery of the cure), “likes beautiful women, but needs other skills as well.”

Her new master was to be Archer Cordell, millionaire entrepreneur, computer genius, bad boy. She knew of him; everyone did. His picture was in every magazine. Brinksmanship was what he was famous for, huge deals strung together with spit and baling wire, applying innovative technology in ways that sometimes succeeded and sometimes failed spectacularly, always leaving other people holding the bag. He was also famous for the string of models and actresses he squired to the right openings and the right parties, a playboy who was never caught. Handsome, raven-haired and sharp-eyed, with a personal style that left women (and not a few men) swooning in his wake, he lived high and he lived fast. Being his pleasure slave suddenly seemed —interesting. She briefly fantasized that he would become enchanted by her and she’d be his mistress (that would show everybody), but that was completely unlikely.

Her purchase became a simple business transaction, for all that she was clothed in a simple short shift with no underwear and burning with induced desire. Daviel (it was a made-up slave name, like Alcina) bundled her into a limousine, then onto a private jet, and then to New York City.

Cordell kept a staff of slaves. The slaves, all except the executive slaves like Daviel, lived in a dormitory on the floor beneath the office suite where she was to work, so she saw little of the great metropolis. The slaves were all fit, attractive, and young; they worked hard and spent long hours at their jobs. There was limited time for fraternization.

Her slave fate, it seemed, was to be a secretary. Well, an administrative assistant, but still not quite the pleasure slave role she’d expected. Daviel, the gay assistant, took her shopping and bought her a professional wardrobe (sexy enough, with skirts a little short and tops a little tight, but well cut and classy), explained the right image and style to use with Cordell’s business clients (professional mixed with a little flirting to put the clients in the right frame of mind), and coached her on the business of the office. It was hard work, but it was also satisfying. It appealed to her; it would have been a great job to have all by itself. If this was slavery, she was lucky to be a slave. Still, she wouldn’t mind being seduced, or even taken, by Archer Cordell.

But Cordell didn’t have time for her. At least at first, he didn’t. Jet-setting around the world, putting together a deal in multiple time zones, a stream of phone calls, faxes and e-mails was the only contact he had. Daviel, the high factotum of the office, organized the stream of paperwork, sent assignments flowing throughout Cordell’s executive team. She was just part of the puzzle, a gear in the machine. She learned that all his staff were slaves, both criminals and volunteer slaves. The volunteer slaves tended to have higher status, except of course for Daviel. Why were there no free workers?

“Among other reasons, a slave can’t testify against his or her master in a court of law. And, if he needs to, he can have your mind wiped after the end of your service, so his secrets are safe,” Daviel pointed out, “not that he does that very often.”

Daviel treated her with great kindness, something she learned was not exceptional to his nature. “You’re going to be his personal secretary, assistant and receptionist. Fetch coffee, flirt appropriately, dress alluringly, be decorative. You’ll also do a lot of work, and Archer will quickly discover your talents and your limitations. He likes smart people. He’s temperamental, but you can manage him. Play your cards right and you’ll have skills and contacts that will be valuable to you at the end of your slave contract.”

And so she did. Her time was filled with training and with growing duties; she was smart and she fit in well. The work was challenging and fun and mind-stretching. It was a rich and heady experience for an ambitious professional recovering from a dark period.

It was nearly three weeks into her slavery when she met him for the first time, and for her it was desire at first sight. She knew his pictures from the media; she thought he was sexy; but she was afraid. How could she compare as a pleasure slave with the models and actresses that were part of his life? She was afraid she’d be found wanting, and that would be a humiliation too great to bear. She worked harder than ever, and Daviel was pleased with her. She picked up the skills right away; her mind an eager sponge.