MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved
Chapter Six
10:07 A.M.
Turning left onto 9th Avenue, Don eased the MPI truck up to the curb just past
the crosswalk. The area was a hodgepodge of older businesses, located mostly in
2 and 3 story buildings. Bradshaw's loan company occupied the first floor of a
brownstone with large plate glass windows. Signs curled around the building
proclaiming Bradshaw's Fast Cash in one direction, and Easy Loans - Easy Terms
in the other. Under a shallow stone archway at the corner of the building lay
the entrance, its large glass doors facing the busy intersection.
Two women in silver caps and smock dresses were waiting for them on the
sidewalk; each of them stood smiling beside a rolling metal rack. Sturdy
matching silver heels added an extra twist to their tight uniforms. The shoes
had only a three-inch incline, but were boosted by nearly three extra inches of
platform and chunky heel, the better to tease the eyes of motorists and
passersby.
"Are those girls from the loan office?" Don asked Jeneen as he engaged the
brake.
"Cute, aren't they?" she said, "Those two are from Doug's Deli a couple of
blocks up the street. Since we always stop at this corner on mondays, they like
to meet us here to pick up their meats. It saves them an additional delivery
charge. It's also great for their lunch business. They take their sweet time
rolling back up to the restaurant, generally driving their neighbors and other
pedestrians crazy."
"Two racks this time?" Jeneen leered to the girls as she and Don got out of the
truck.
"Very funny, Jeneen," the taller girl answered, smiling and glancing down at the
cleavage her silver uniform produced at the bustline, "Yes, we have a banquet
this week and two club meetings, plus all of our regular business. So we'll need
six roasters and two live-spitted wenches, if that's OK."
"Sure," Jeneen answered, marking the items off on her clipboard. "We have
plenty. Any special preferences?"
"Just regular stock will be fine, it's all good," the girl answered before
turning to Don, "I'm Karyn. And this is Veronica. Howyadoin'?"
"Good to meet you," he smiled back to the girls as he opened the truck door, "My
name is Don. Looks like you two have a booming business up there." Don pressed
the switch activating the ramp to descend to the street.
"Thanks mostly to you guys!" Veronica laughed, tugging on her smock, "Though
these new outfits and our heavy lipstick do seem to help. Tell you what, you two
can come up to the restaurant any time this week. Lunch is on me."
"Thanks!" Don called back as he accompanied Jeneen into the cargo hold.
"We should get the roasters out first," said Jeneen, turning to the rows of
steel boxes located behind the spit racks. Jeneen flipped a recessed switch on
the side of one unit. It's twenty-inch square top plate popped open with a
slight hissing noise. An unconscious girl's head, covered in shining plastic,
sprang into view. The steel tray she crouched upon within her tiny space rose
abruptly on springs, in tandem with the door opening mechanism. It reminded Don
of a bizarre life-sized jack in the box toy. A puff of moist gas wafted from the
chamber within.
"Be careful not to get a big whiff of that stuff," Jeneen said, leaning back
slightly, "Like their shrink wrapping, it's laced with the drug that keeps our
roasters in stasis. It won't hurt you, but it can make you feel a little
groggy."
"I've heard about that potion," he said, "It keeps a girl knocked out for up to
12 days without harm, doesn't it?"
"It does more than that," Jeneen said, snapping open the next compartment and
holding her breath briefly, "Completely relaxes wenches' nervous systems,
allowing them to hibernate in a way. Minimal respiration and fluid loss, zero
transportation shock. Some of it is also contained in the enema solutions they
use to entirely clean their digestive tracts. Some customers swear it even
sweetens the meat. They revive completely rested and ready for the cooking
process at the customer's end."
"Lucky them, I guess," Don said dryly as he peered into the first girl's face.
Her entire body was sheathed in clear plastic, like fresh food in the grocery
store. Though her head was upright, the rest of her body was compressed in the
tightest ball imaginable. Under the taut plastic, Don could see she wore a huge
ball gag with a tiny breathing hole through it. A hole was punched into the
plastic wrapping directly over the ball gag to provide a minimal air exchange.
Don lifted the girl from her cramped confines by grasping carrying loops
connected to the straps around her shoulders.
"Roasters are a bit lucky in the early stages," Jeneen acknowledged as she
pulled her girl from the second compartment, "They don't have the stamina to
arrive pre-spitted like our best grade of meats do. That's why they cost a
little less. And while they are unconscious, they are certainly not suffering.
The flipside is, when they are revived, they may find themselves in the hands of
an inexperienced do-it-yourselfer. Or worse yet, a chef who really knows how to
hurt a girl. Then there are those whackos who prefer to cook up a piece of her
every now and then. They may insist on making her last for weeks, while using
her as a constant receptacle for sex."
"Yeesh," Don shuddered at the thought.
"Wenches who are live-spitted at MPI have a terrible time of it all right,"
Jeneen added thoughtfully, "But at least they know their ordeals will end within
the next twelve hours. Roasters get no such guarantee."
Don nodded, and looked at the three inch square sticky-patch mounted under the
plastic between the first girl's shoulder blades. At the top left corner of the
tag a soft green light flashed every few seconds. Below the light, lines of
information were neatly printed:
US2C Lot: SJ-921027
Aileen Grant, 31,
Bookkeepers Assistant,
1220 Arkansas Lane, Chicago, Illinois
In stasis 5/30/88 - MPI center #191
"Endothermic regulator patch," said Jeneen, "The latest technology. That green
light shows she is alive and stable, with a heart rate one-eighth speed of
normal. When her plastic is removed and the patch is peeled away, it issues an
electrical pulse that starts the revival process, which takes about 10 minutes.
Her personal information is interesting as well, isn't it? Look at this one..."
US2C Lot: SJ-927448
Tammy Breen, 28,
News Anchorwoman, KNOB
570 Windy Way, Chicago, Illinois
In stasis 6/3/88 - MPI center #191
"Never know what you'll get, do you?" Don smiled, "Like a box of chocolates."
"Sure is..." Jeneen said, carrying her roaster to the truck ramp, "They started
including those bios about 4 months ago. I've seen a number of celebrities come
through here. But even if they are just ordinary folk, the bit allows you to get
a feeling about them, and call them by their names when they wake up. Our
customers seem to like that. Info tags make quite a conversation piece."
Don and Jeneen placed the bound girls on their backs near the top of the ramp.
Karyn and Veronica stood expectantly below. A number of spectators had gathered
around the truck by now, staring with fascination at the cargo, and gawking at
the mouth-watering girls in their silver costumes.
"It's easiest to slide them down," explained Jeneen, "The plastic is quite
slippery against the steel." She pushed Tammy gently with her foot, and Don did
the same with Aileen. The women slipped down the ramp into the waiting arms of
Karyn and Veronica, who laid them crossways on the bottom shelves of their
rolling racks.
In just a few more minutes the deli order had been filled. The girls thanked Don
and Jeneen, signed the billing invoice, and began pushing their heavy racks up
9th avenue to their restaurant. Several talkative bystanders tagged along behind
them.
"Now we can check on Mark's girls," Jeneen sighed, straightening her smock and
tucking the clipboard under her arm.
Jeneen led Don past the doors of the loan office where the owner, Mark Bradshaw,
stood ready to greet them warmly.
"Jeneen has probably told you I rarely buy any wenches," Mark explained,
"However, I am a frequent supplier of raw girl product. Like all of the
moneylenders do, I require my female clients to sign a clause on the forfeiture
of their meats in case they default on repaying their loans. The maximum amount
I loan my clients is 500 credits, so with the meat waiver our investment is
always secure."
Mark's business, in fact, thrived whenever a loan defaulted. MPI's meat purchase
premium varied with the international market, but was currently set at 950
credits per live wench. That value could go up or down as much as 15 percent,
based on heartiness and attractiveness. Since girls usually repaid most of their
notes before running into problems, their redemption amounted to bonus income.
Terms were clearly spelled out in the agreement. Loans were to be paid back in
ten months at four percent monthly interest. Payments were always due by the 5th
of each month. But by the 8th they were considered late, and on the 12th they
were considered missed.
The borrower was allowed two late payments, or one missed payment during her
contract. A missed payment had to be caught up before the next due date along
with twice the monthly interest, or the girl faced immediate invokement. As such
they were required to report to Mark for wench framing by the following Monday
at 8 A.M., or be deemed meat fugitives. Most of his girls reported promptly, but
a few did not.
"What do you have for us today, Mr. Bradshaw?" Don asked.
"Three girls in tote frames, and two more for the stretch lockers," Mark
answered cheerfully, pointing to three young ladies shuddering helplessly in
their steel fetters behind an office partition. "As voluntary reportees, these
three are assured of being turned over to MPI within 24 hours with minimal
tampering. My other two girls tried to run, and as Jeneen knows, those clients
are offered no favors."
Mark waved his hand to a pair of girls standing a short distance away by the
receptionist's desk. Naked and trembling in pain, they balanced precariously on
tall high-heeled pumps. Their wrists and elbows were strictly tethered behind
them. Every inch of their shining bodies bore mute testimony to the ordeals they
had suffered.
"These two have been thoroughly whipped," Jeneen noted appreciatively as she
approached the girls. She ran her hands lightly over the angry weals
crosshatching the girls' backs and ass cheeks, "Have you been playing with the
meat again, Mark?"
Mark gave her a sly smile, and nodded his head. "These bitches are Becky and
Jocelyn. Me and my staff have been messing them up pretty good. They tried to
skip out, which cost me a stout wench-tracking fee, and transport cost back from
Toledo. I could have given them to you along with those other ladies you picked
up last week, but we kept these around for some extra payback. Hey, I warned
them about not running - I like to keep my promises."
When issuing loans, Bradshaw stressed to his clients that if they defaulted and
were difficult to bring in, he would treat them to several days of special
in-house tortures. Then they would take what he referred to as the scenic route,
traveling to MPI on the dreaded nooses and breast spears of mobile stretch
lockers. Bradshaw was willing to take a 10 percent depreciation on their meat
values for transporting them this way.
Jeneen looked into Jocelyn's desperate eyes. Her long blonde hair was matted
with tears and sweat. Her face was bruised and swollen, her mouth held at it's
widest aperture by a large rubber ball gag, cruelly locked in place with a
narrow leather strap. Jocelyn's eyes and mouth appeared frozen open in a silent
scream of terror.
Her smallish breasts were adorned with something Jeneen had seen only in the
latest equipment catalogs: Kilo Corporation's new commercial breast halos, very
expensive, and by all reports some of the wickedest nipple trainers in the
world.
These consisted of three concentric steel rings mashed against each breast. Dual
alligator clips pivoted on narrow bars at the centers of each of the smallest
rings. The bites of those four hellish clips delivered enough pain into a girl's
nipples to make her nearly pass out, but the rings themselves supplied still
more. Each ring was designed with six tiny sockets on its flattened inside face.
These receptors could be equipped bayonet-style with a variety of menacing
instruments.
Small devices ranging from quarter inch long sharpened studs, to one inch long
stainless steel thorns, could be snapped in place to further chastise an errant
girl's breasts. The inner rings, or nipple-rings, were two inches in diameter,
middle rings were four, and the outer rings six inches across. Each ring pivoted
on pairs of one inch steel balls connecting it to the next. Balls between the
outer ring and middle ring were at the top and bottom; while balls adjoining the
middle ring and nipple ring were located at the sides. Sets of black velcro
straps looped to the sides of the largest rings fastened the ensemble in place.
The thin velcro strips allowed infinite adjustment for the distance between the
breasts, as well as for the tension desired around the victim's back.
Jocelyn's halos had been equipped with half-inch thorns. They were strapped
tightly against her breasts, and closely together in front. Blood trickled
freely from several of the spots where the thorns gored into her, as well as
around the four nipple clamps, but what really caught Jeneen's attention were
the steel tripod assemblies mounted to the outer face of Jocelyn's and Becky's
middle rings.
Attached to trios of bayonet receptors on the outside faces of those four-inch
rings, triangular fixtures clamped antique quill pens in front of the girls
breasts. The feathered tails of the pens brushed benignly against the girls'
nipples while the writing ends jutted straight out in front. Jeneen was at first
confused by this arrangement, but glancing at the far wall she understood. Two
large posters were affixed to that wall which the girls had been writing on,
using the breast-mounted writing instruments for their authorship.
Each poster displayed dozens of pictures of the girls being whipped and fucked
relentlessly from all directions. Jeneen and Don stared in awe at what Mark had
forced his prisoners to do.
"What do you think about that?" Mark asked proudly. "This was my very own idea.
Kilo markets their Titty Tripod as an all-purpose connection point. But it also
works great for holding small objects, like these old-fashioned quill pens. It's
pretty simple, really. We spent the first few days working the bitches over and
taking those photos. Then we assembled the best pictures into a computer collage
and outputted them on three foot wide by six foot tall posters. Our girls have
been kept busy on their writing assignments ever since."
"Powerful," Don commented, "You've given them some heavy-duty penmanship
practice haven't you?"
"Yes, we have," Mark said, "And to make things more interesting, we placed the
ink pots along the opposite wall. They had to get down on their knees in order
to dip their pens into the inks, which is very difficult to do wearing those
heels and elbow-ties, and walk across the office to write on their posters,
using stepladders when necessary. This process was repeated hundreds of times,
with us whipping them and shooting rubber bands at them whenever we felt like
it." Mark looked around at his five smiling employees, three of whom were
elegantly dressed young ladies. It was clear the staff had enjoyed themselves
greatly at the two girls' expense.
No doubt about it, Jeneen thought, Jocelyn and Becky had endured some very harsh
treatment, and perhaps the ultimate in punishment writing assignments. Looking
more closely at the posters, She saw the girls kept their lines uniform by
following tiny green tick markings similar to what grade school tablets had. The
two posters were quite different looking, as each one featured unique pictures
of the girl who labored upon it. Their words were in alternating colors of
bright ink that stood out almost cheerfully from the stark pictures beneath.
In as neat a cursive as the girls' pain-wracked breasts could manage, they
proclaimed scores of nasty comments in two quivering columns. Statements like 'I
am a cock craving meat slut ready for the spit', or 'I loved to be whipped,
fucked and filled with cum', or "I hope I taste good when they cook me over the
coals'. Each improbable confession repeated itself on several rows before the
text changed to another color, and yet another humiliating remark. It defied
one's imagination to think that these girls could accomplish such a painful and
demeaning task. But of course they had no choice.
"Well done, sir," Don said in amazement, "What an original idea..."
"Thank you," Mark smiled, "I've gotten offers on these posters that are in the
thousands of credits. They are so special, I even thought of keeping them on
permanent display here in the office. But then it hit me... I don't want to do
that. It might frighten other girls away from screwing up and arriving in the
same fix. Think of all the fun we would miss out on then? So, I plan to auction
the posters to the highest bidder, after selling a thousand or so copies of the
video we've been making, and a few hundred photos they've autographed with their
breasts."
"You wicked man!" Jeneen said with a wink, "You certainly do know how to make
money, don't you?"
"Not just money," Mark answered, crossing his arms dramatically, "Revenue. And
get this - I offered my employees an option to take part in torturing our
runaways in lieu of their next raise. Guess which one they chose?"
Don and Jeneen traded smiles with the shrewd loan officer before turning to the
second girl. Becky was a brunette with a short perky haircut and rather large
breasts which, like her back and ass, had been striped many times by Mark's
cane. Her breasts appeared to have larger implements in them than Jocelyn's, as
Becky's thorns looked a bit thicker under the rims of her Halos. This seemed
appropriate to Jeneen, given the fuller proportions of Becky's boobs.
Becky looked hopelessly back at Jeneen. The girl had been wearing black eyeliner
and heavy mascara, which her tears had washed into deep smudges around her eyes,
and dark trails along her cheeks. Becky's bright red lipstick had been smudged
too. Jeneen surmised that this was probably due to the oral abuse her office
mates had treated her to. Surprisingly, Becky was ungagged.
"Hello there, baby," Jeneen said, sweetly touching one cheek of the raccoon-eyed
girl. "Looks like you two have done a really good job there on your poster
projects. But now I suppose it's time we got you loaded into your
stretch-lockers."
"Please -help us!" Becky blurted, as if Mark and his employees couldn't hear
her, "You have no idea what this lunatic has put us through... I paid him every
credit I owed him, plus an extra 500 for the trouble we caused by running off.
But he stuck the money right in his pocket and went ahead and tortured us
anyway."
"Can't help you there, hon," Jeneen replied, surprised that the girl could speak
so coherently, given the amount of pain she was in, "A deal is a deal, after
all."
"But ... but can't you at least report this to someone?" Becky insisted, "We
screwed up, and we are going to roast for it. I know that. Shit, after what we
have been through, I almost look forward to it. But he must have broken some
laws too. He stole my money after all... then he let his employees take turns
beating us and raping us. He even let his goddamned clients fuck us!"
"I hate to tell you this," Jeneen said slowly, "But Mr. Bradshaw has broken no
laws. The instant you violated your contract with him, your meat status was
recorded with the census office. From that moment forward all your rights were
voided. You have no ownerships to consider, no privacies, no dignities or
freedoms of any kind. Those entitlements are waived in favor of the ones who
possess your meat."
Jeneen paused to look at the wenches crouching miserably in their tote frames
before turning back to Becky, "Look around you, dear. You and the other wenches
here have given up all the privileges that belong to people, because you are
merely things now... things called meat. Mr. Bradshaw is always careful to
deliver his meat wenches to us in living condition. Provided he does that, he
faces no fines or penalties."
"I understand that now," Becky sobbed, "But you're a woman too. You must know
what this is like, how unfair it is to be tortured like this..."
"Yes, I am a woman too..." Jeneen said, irritably recalling how often she had to
field that question, "...who nevertheless won't give you any special leniency. I
am an employee of the firm after all that will be placing your deserving ass on
a roasting spit. And we aren't given bonuses for being gentle with the meats
-quite the opposite in fact."
"Well, can you at least get this over with?" Becky asked, "If I am to roast then
let's get it done quickly."
"Patience, Becky!" Jeneen countered, "We mustn't bloody rush things. Haven't you
seen our live-spitted girls before? They are the best anywhere. They last for
hours and hours, and stay awake well into the cooking process. That doesn't just
happen by accident you know, or by ramming a spit up them. They would be dead
straight away."
"Listen to what you are saying!" Becky said, "Keeping me alive as long as
possible while I cook? Jesus, it's crazy. I don't want to last that long. Who
would ever want to suffer that much?"
"Simply put, you are of no value to us if you don't" Don interjected, "MPI uses
extensive torture to enlarge girls' tolerances to pain. You should try and get
used to that fact, because it won't get any better from here on."
"He's quite right, Miss," Jeneen added, "Staying power on the spit occurs only
when your mind and body are reshaped by our torture. If you make the grade, your
conditioning process can take several days, or several weeks depending on your
constitution. It's different for each girl, but results are always the same.
That's what our customers enjoy the most."
Becky started to speak again, but decided to remain silent. She understood
clearly now that Don and Jeneen were merely her jailers, eager and willing to
impart more pain to their living cargo. They were not to be confided in, and
arguing was a waste of time.
"Would you like this one gagged also, Sir?" Jeneen asked Bradshaw.
"No, I don't think so," he mused, "We have enjoyed letting Becky yell and
complain the whole time. She spouted that stuff to most of our customers." He
leaned in to whisper to Jeneen, but at a volume that was clearly meant to be
heard by all, "We primed them to act sympathetic toward her too. They carried on
like they would try and help her out if she gave them the best oral sex of their
lives. She sucked every one of them like hell, but all she got out of it was
another mouthful of sperm or a faceful of cunt juice."
Becky turned to Bradshaw and stared in shocked disbelief at his smiling face.
This was her first realization of Mark's hidden strategy. It humiliated her
deeply to think that all her efforts had been useless.
"It just doesn't matter any more," she thought bitterly, "No matter what, I will
be taken away with the others, made over into one of their compliant little
pain-zombies. I have no choice..."
Tears of resentment ran across Becky's cheeks, washing fresh tracks into her
mascara.
"Don't look so sad." Mark said lightly, "You were very endearing. You've gotten
some excellent nourishment along the way, and I'm not even mad at you anymore.
Hell, you're making me rich, aren't you?"
END OF CHAPTER SIX
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved
