She struggled furiously, scratching and biting at us like an angry cat. We slammed our rifle butts into her stomach a few times until she went limp, and then we were able to finish our job.
It's 2254, and there's a surplus of humans on the planet. Too many people, not enough food to go around. This girl's lucky to have made it at all through high school without her name coming up or being accosted. That's how we deal with this food problem: if your name comes up in a lottery, you're done. If you commit a crime or are accused of committing a crime, you're done. No second chances.
It's tough, but it's the harsh reality. A few decades ago, we started messing with our DNA, attempting to control the population secretly through government programs. All that did was change the chances of having a son over a daughter from 50/50 to 5/95. That's right, having children meant a 95% chance of having a girl.
Oh, people still did it, though. The population went down a lot in first-world countries—where women were treated equally with men, and relationships would happen naturally. In second- and third-world countries women where women were treated like second-class citizens...their status got worse. Now, the men in those countries had harems of females. The men in the first-world countries saw what was happening and did the same thing.
Something had to be done, so the governments—being made up mostly of men themselves—instituted a series of programs to curb this behavior. They found new uses for the supply of women.
One might ask, why didn't the women revolt? Why didn't they vote themselves into office and change the laws? That is, after all, how politics work. The majority always wins right? Well not this time. I'm not a politician. I don't watch TV. I don't know how it happened. It just did.
Anyway, we pinned our quarry's wrists and neck into an upright pillory. Wooden beams attached to the sides ran down to another pillory around her ankles. She was locked standing into a square frame that kept her exposed and immobile. One of my women workers—a proud lesbian—took the opportunity to feel up the girl's buttocks.
"Hey! Get your hands off me you dyke bitch!"
This one had a mouth on her. My worker looked angry at the insult, and moved to slap her across the face.
"Woah, lady. Let it go," I said stepping sideways to shield the girl. "She's already going to the factory, we don't need to torture her first."
The worker glared at me. "She called me a dyke. I should show her some respect for that."
"Exactly, show her some respect by not doing anything. Prisoners mouth off all the time. If you want to make her suffer: buy her at auction, take her home, and then torture her. Anticipation is part of the fun." It sounded simple in my head, but saying it out loud sounds...evil. For a moment I'm reminded I was the only man in most of my high school classes. Perhaps all the estrogen is getting to me.
The thing is, this lady is a dyke. I know for a fact she built a whole wing of her house devoted to torturing other women for fun. She gets by with it because she has a special license—courtesy of the government—that prevents her from being targeted.
Many women have that little plastic card. Many more do not. The woman's eyes light up, she grins wickedly and steps around me. "Just wait, little girl. In a few days, I'll have you allllll to myself." Her voice rasps, like an old man speaking of things to children best left unsaid.
The captured girl, who I should probably mention is fully clothed, spits out another insult in her direction. Along with the stored contents of her mouth.
The worker is too slow to jump out of the way and gets hit by it. I have to enlist the other two ladies I have working to drag her away before she can damage the merchandise.
I finish by moving behind the poor victim, grasping the sides of the frame and maneuver her over to a nearby storage rack loaded with a few other girls in frames. I grab hold of her head and tilt it back as far as it can go, then write a string of letters and numbers across her forehead.
"I'll die before becoming a slave," she whispers viciously. I whip out one of the long strips of cloth in my pocket, kept precisely for this purpose, and gag her before she can bite her tongue.
"I'm sorry about this, and that other lady. Listen," I whisper back. "My parents own the factory where you'll be processed. I can change the system when you get there so you have a chance to choose your fate. Sorry, it's the best I can do, right now."
I tie off the gag, lock her into the rack and leave her to her fate. She won't be raped, it's against the law to take advantage of women like that here. My uncle is the governor, and he prides himself on treating his women equally. Just not as equally as the men.