The Choice

by XVX

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© Copyright 2021 - XVX - Used by permission

Storycodes: Other/f+; bond; slave; punish; collar; armbinder; leash; corset; reluct; XX

She stood a good five-five, but with the ballet shoes she topped out at six foot. Only able to move in small mincing steps due the constricting size of the hobbling skirt. The toes of the boots just peeking out from under the dress. The length of the skirt hiding the hobble chain enforcing such restrictive movements.

The body shaping corset made her walk upright ramrod straight. Breast held firmly and rounded to near perfection. Waist pulled in to give her that likable coke bottle like shape. Breathing reduced to steady small rhythms. 

Her head held proudly, not because she could but the neck corset / posture collar made her so. A chain lead around the boned leather device, like a dogs choke chain, hung with a tag. S-139, it read.

She kept those baby ocean blue eyes staring forward. Blazing red hair braided to the small of her back with a ring at its end. Up the back-side of the corset, straps formed a constrictive arm binder holding her arms inches apart from each other. She could touch the ring with her fingers. A simple pull could tighten the straps together, making its discomfort on her arms more agonizing.

She could speak, but what was the point? What could she say? They would only gag her if she did. Then she would not only be not allowed to speak. But not eat or drink. You learn quickly that the rules can change. Not always to your betterment.

They could gag her and had in the past but she had earned the right not to wear it. Proper behavior and training had gotten to where the armbinder was relatively comfortable, and not being gagged had taken a great deal of work.

She stood in her little cubbyhole until called, like a mannequin on display. A trainer walked by her, looked her over and noted her tag. He took her leash and with a gentile tug. She walked behind him, following without question, the rapid tapping of her shoes on the tiled floor echoed off the white walls. She had no name, and was called “one thirty nine.” Any reference to her past life was to be erased from her mind, purged without recourse.

Being what she was, and who she was now, was a choice to not see beyond the moment. In her mind, being property was better than whatever she was. Here she had purpose and meaning. It was not about sex, it was control. Power. Ultimate power. Being able to take a person and mold and shape them to your will, your desire, not some sex toy. Oh, you could be that, but her training was leading to something more.

She was in what they called a Reclamation Center. The name meant nothing to her. It might have, in the past, but like everything else it was something to be forgotten. Oh, she would get quick little fragments of things in her head, of who and what she was, but she quickly refocused on the here and now, putting it out of her mind.

Walking into a room she looked down quickly and found her mark. All rooms had a place where you were to stand. Not hitting your mark was a minor demerit. Demerits were easy to get, and hard to work off.

She saw a female slave being strapped down to a table and pulled into a pretzel bending hogtie. She wore an armbinder, the tightest she had ever seen; a gag pulled deeply into her mouth, and ballet shoes locked on. The slave was either new, or had disobeyed an order; she lay on her belly, her back arched. They impaled her on a phallic device, and she winced in pain. The gag did little to mute her protest, she struggled but was outnumbered, eventually reduced to the most minor of movements. The slave’s head turned, brown eyes locking with her blue ones.

‘One three nine’ was instructed to step forward and then back onto her mark when she heard the bell. She felt the trainer hook her hair ring to a lead overhead, then the door closed behind her. She and the other slave strapped to the table were left alone.

One three nine had a feeling a lesson was being taught, but for whom? The bell rang. She stepped forward and back. The woman strapped down screamed in agony, then a buzzer rang. One three nine started to move but stopped herself. She got it: she had to pay attention to what sound she was hearing.

Buzzer, sirens, and other noise came over unseen speakers. But every bell she stepped forward and the bound woman was shocked painfully, perhaps the voltage was stronger at the sound of the bell. One three nine did not count how many times the slave was shocked, but she could see in the slave’s eyes, begging not to step forward anytime the bell rang. But she feared that if she failed to obey she would be on the table.

One three nine hesitated once, but still stepped forward. The slave was weeping. Before she had struggled to get free, but now she lay still. Had she killed her?

The bell rang. She didn’t move. The bell rang again. She could not do it. She was taught to obey without question, but she was also told never to kill. Not from her trainers and masters. A flicker of something in the past told her this.

The bell rang once more. What would she do?



The preceding was inspired The Milgram Experiment... my question to you. Would you step forward or stand still?

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