Chapter 2 Retrieval
Ringer Hale was a below-average troublemaker. Smart in school, but frequently on the dean's list for fighting and drugs. She had pale skin, long hair dyed black with piercings and tattoos in her face. She wore green combat pants and a faded black shirt. She had a bad attitude and didn't take crap from anyone—not even her teachers, who were prone to being patronizing and/or condescending.
She earned the nickname "Ringer" when she knocked out a bully in grade school. A boy, harassing her continuously because it was fun and because she was an outcast at school. Mom was a crackhead, Daddy sitting in prison getting milked every day for semen—via machine and without orgasms—by a government program the lawyers had been delighted to tell her. Punishments for men committing crimes were much stiffer if they put their or other men's lives at risk. Gender ratio and all. It didn't help that her Dad had a taste for a certain, special kind of evil; everyone involved with the legal process was ecstatic to see him go away and never see the light of day again. Never mind the fact that was her Dad and she wasn't allowed to visit him anymore.
Ringer had been finishing a test for a summer course when the teacher, a loathsome male with greasy hair and acne scars, had groped her before letting her leave. She had turned around and punched him in the throat. He'd live, but his balls wouldn't. Steel-toe combat boots are pretty damaging when applied correctly.
And now, it had landed her in prison. Well, as much as being chained in a frame and left to freeze on a sidewalk at night could be called "prison." She hated the system. Hated the men who ruled over her. Hated the sycophant women who literally butt-kissed their way to immunity-licenses. She hated the enforcers who sold their pussies for a chance at getting their own slaves. Hated the men who wouldn't give her a job without seeing the "goods," and requiring sexual favors whenever they wanted them.
That hate burned within her, fueled her. She chewed her way through the gag like an animal. She refused to sit around waiting to get tortured to death like the sheep whimpering in the rack with her. She would break free even if it killed her. And when she did, she'd take as many people down with her as she could.
The sun had long since set when a woman walked by. A wife, an actual wife, out for a walk with her dog. Her immunity license bounced around her neck on a cord, clearly visible to all as a warning: DO NOT TOUCH. She was one of the lucky ones. She walked up to Ringer and the other girls, lit a cigarette and stood there casually for a minute.
Ringer shifted uncomfortably in the frame. The top pillory was low enough most of her weight was on her feet and back rather than the wood, and her body was protesting the position. Her lower back started aching and she groaned in pain.
The woman looked directly at her and smiled wickedly. Ringer had a pretty face, and she knew it. One more person to bid on her at auction. The woman saw she was gagged and decided to make the most of the opportunity.
She walked behind Ringer, held her cigarette with her leash hand and slowly lifted the front of Ringer's shirt. Ringer struggled at once, then went limp when nothing was accomplished.
"You poor thing, all alone out here. What did a pretty girl like you do to end up like this?"
Ringer didn't answer. The woman had her hand up under her shirt and was stroking Ringer's belly, ever so slowly getting higher.
"You must be cold, wearing nothing but that t-shirt. Why don't I help you out?" Her hand slid all the way up and began made little traces around Ringer's nipples. When that didn't get a reaction, she pinched one nipple. This elicited a grunt and some muffled profanity. The woman got the message though.
"Oh...You naughty girl. That's why you're in here." She pulled up Ringer's shirt until her breasts fell out, and casually put out her cigarette directly on one nipple.
"Good girl," the woman cooed, happy to have gotten a reaction. "I knew you had it in you!"
She let the shirt fall but didn't bother fixing anything. Instead she slid her hand down the front of Ringer's pants, feeling for her sex. Ringer twisted her hips away but the woman pulled her back.
"Now, now," she chided. "Is that any way to thank your future mistress? I'm going to pleasure you now, and when I'm done you'll be mine."
Her hand slid lower and found a dry, cold place. She started playing with Ringer's pussy, exploring its folds and depths. Any other woman would have been turned on, but Ringer was no lesbian. This woman was raping her, and she hated it. She tapped into that fiery hatred and went limp in the frame, leaning away from the woman.
The woman smiled when she saw this, as it obviously meant the girl wanted it since she wasn't protesting anymore. She increased her tempo, forcing the girl's body to become wet and aroused. She tied her dog's leash around one piece of the frame and stepped inside to get better acquainted with her new conquest. Tomorrow, or in a few days, she would buy this piece of meat and present it to her husband. And then they'd enjoy it for a few days before adding it to their house. Oh! She was so excited she began rubbing herself off in addition to Ringer.
Meanwhile, a black moving truck slowly wound through the neighborhood, stopping every now and then to collect a new shipment of cargo. The drivers—a pair of teenage boys kicked out of police academy—thought of themselves as Retrievers. They prowled the streets every night picking up shipments of women in frames for the Company. This afternoon, the boss had told them to be on the lookout for a girl in a black shirt, green pants, and a bad attitude. She was to receive special treatment.
No, they could not touch her. No, they could not prematurely strip her. No, they could not rape her. All these things were subtracted from their paychecks when they did them to regular women, but they didn't mind. After all, how many other men had a job that allowed them to legally abduct live human females and cart them off for government-sanctioned slavery?
The driver, a thin, reedy boy named Marc, turned the headlights off as they approached the latest stop. There were four women inside the rack on the sidewalk. Two were nude and shivering badly from the cold. One was wearing a black shirt and green pants—whom he automatically knew was their target. The fourth was masturbating herself and the third vigorously, moaning. She hugged the third woman tighter as she approached her orgasm, bucking her hips as if mounting her.
The parked the truck a short distance away. There was a dog leashed to the frame. It perked up and growled a warning when they got out. Marc's partner and buddy, J-San—who stylized his name that way rather than "Jason" after being inspired by pornographic manga—grabbed a rifle from the car. They weren't trained to deal with animals, and if they were attacked, well, the law was on their side.
The dog barked.
"Not now, Otis! Not now!" The woman sounded irritated. She increased her tempo accordingly. The woman in the frame turned her head to look their way.
The dog-walker spun around, her orgasm completely forgotten. Her eyes bulged out in fear and she frantically fumbled for the leash.
J-San fired, the sound like a cannon in the peaceful neighborhood. The dog howled and the woman howled with him. The snatchers advanced and she ran. Marc threw a bola—which is an implement consisting of three heavy balls connected by cords rather like the chain shot which was used by cannons. It spun through the air over and over itself, wrapping around the woman's legs and tripping her.
"Please!" She screamed. "I'm not under arrest! I have a license! I'm free!"
J-San flipped her face-down and sat on her while Marc tied her up.
"There's a law that was implemented last week," they explained patiently. "'All women caught in the rack and/or fornicating with women who are also in the rack will be taken away for processing. License or not."
They ignored her screams and pleas, gagging her so the neighborhood could get back to sleep. Then they locked her into a spare frame, opened the door of the truck and unceremoniously dumped her inside. Rows of steel rails hung from the ceiling. Hanging from each one was a woman in a frame. Only a few of them were actually nude. Most, if not all of them had clothes on. They were the clothes the women had been arrested in.
Marc and J-San picked up their captive's frame, lifted it over the lip at the end of the rail and set her carefully down onto it. Satisfied she was secure, they slid her swinging down the rail until she bumped into another woman's frame, this one had the misfortune to be nude.
They continued this process for each of the women, then closed the door, turned off the lights and continued driving. The dog they left where it had fallen. Someone would call animal control to come scrape it off the sidewalk. Eventually.
Ringer found herself hanging directly behind the woman who had raped her earlier. She finished chewing through her gag and spit it out as well as she could. She had to lift herself up to do it—because most of her weight was on her wrists and jaw now. Prior to loading she had been basically standing, and her weight was on her feet. Now there was nothing. Still, she took great delight in spitting in woman's hair every few seconds, taunting her. It was petty, she knew. But one needed to take opportunities wherever they arose if one was in so bad a situation. She had no doubt she would be dead in a few short weeks.