Chapter One

The morning sun spilled through the towering windows of Emma’s Upper East Side penthouse. The twenty-four-year-old stirred beneath her satin sheets, her bare skin warm against the luxurious fabric, a testament to the privilege that set her apart in a world where most women her age were not so fortunate. Emma Duke was classed as a ‘Free Woman,’ her exemption license shielding her from the chains of slavery that bound other adult females who weren’t so lucky. She stretched out in her bed languidly, her mind already turning to the day ahead of CuffTech Inc., where she reigned as Chief Trainer in the Slave Improvement department, definitely a rare title for a woman to hold.

In 2052, the United States was a different world when compared to its former self, reshaped by the authoritarian iron grip of the ironically named Peoples Party of America. The party had swept into power in 2033, riding a wave of public fury after a crippling economic depression that left millions jobless and desperate. Promising to dismantle a corrupt establishment, they secured a landslide victory, claiming the presidency, House, and Senate. The early economic recovery blinded many to the party’s ulterior motives. Tighter immigration laws, protest stifling, and a shrinking free press blighted the next decade. By the time the public noticed, the nation was effectively a one-party state, with dissenters vanishing into fortified rehabilitation centers under the guise of public safety.

The most chilling transformation came with the Criminal Recognition Act of 2037, which sentenced convicted female felons to serve as ‘slaves’ for paying citizens, usually those who had been wronged in the crime. In 2040, the regime pushed further, declaring all women potential property at 18, citing a ‘weakened mindset’ of the workforce for their draconian decision. The new act tasked fathers with securing a bidder for their 18-year-old daughter within six months, or risk having her handed over to the state for auction. The only alternative resolution was to purchase a costly exemption license, which was to be renewed annually at an ever-increasing cost. By the time a woman reached 35, only the extremely wealthy amongst society were able to protect their women from slavery. Tracker chips, surgically implanted just above the spine of every woman, ensured constant surveillance, their locations and status monitored by the government, owners, and employers. Emma’s late father, Paul Duke, a former energy tycoon, had shielded his daughter from this fate. He had kept a sizable trust fund to guarantee her short-term freedom even after he died in a helicopter crash two years prior. Yet, the world outside her penthouse was a reminder of what awaited those without such wealth.

Emma rose from the bed, her bare feet sinking into a plush carpet as she crossed to the mirrored wardrobe. She paused, her reflection catching her eyes. Her lithe frame, curved hips, and modest B-cup breasts were a canvas of confidence. In contrast to previous decades, the lack of plastic surgery was a sign of independence and individual wealth as collared women became more and more objectified by their controlling owners. The woman brushed her fingers against the black latex catsuit she wore as CuffTech’s chief trainer. You would have thought that training poor female slaves at the behest of their owners would have been the last job a free woman would have wanted to take on. However, Emma had a sadistic streak, and seeing people belittled and trained before her gave her an unmatched power trip. She loved every moment of her current job and wouldn’t change it for anything. Like almost all women, she disagreed with the stifling patriarchy ruling her way of life, but she was adaptable and found a way to make it work.

As the brunette woman slipped on the catsuit, the latex hugged her body like a second skin, accentuating every curve, the glossy surface clinging to her thighs and chest. She may have been a free woman, but every company expected some form of appearance standards from its female colleagues. Emma’s father was good friends with Robert Hayes, the recently retired former CEO of CuffTech, who had always treated Emma as his own daughter. Women in supervisory positions were a rare sight in the modern age, and the young brunette wasn’t blind to the fact that she wouldn’t have been promoted into her role if it were not for Robert’s influence.

A year ago, Emma’s world had shifted when her mother, Vivian, remarried. Less than a year after Emma’s father passed away suddenly, her mother had decided that she needed the protection of a man in today’s society. Being a free woman in her late forties was a rare sight, and Vivian immediately sought stability by rashly marrying Gregory Locke, a wealthy businessman with a penchant for control. Emma had only met him months after the funeral, his wide frame and dark, sharp eyes exuding a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His son, Tristan, carried the same entitled air, his crude comments unsettling Emma from the start. The new family dynamic was a minefield for the young woman. Gregory and Vivian lived two blocks away in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, and Gregory spent no time asserting his dominance over the older woman, demanding Vivian dress in ways that made Emma’s skin crawl. Tristan, meanwhile, had become a constant thorn in Emma’s side, moving into the same apartment building and constantly attempting to be a presence in the free woman’s life. She knew her trust fund would keep her safe for now, but she also knew it wouldn’t last forever.

She crossed to her vanity, applying bright red lipstick and a sharp line of eyeliner. The mirror reflected a woman in control, her eyes gleaming with a sadistic spark. She had a new slave to break in this morning and grinned at the thought of the woman trembling under the snap of her riding crop. Her role as Chief Trainer was more than a job; it was a stage for her to revel in her superiority, to mold broken women into obedient assets for their owners. Her job was a way to give Emma a sense of total independence.

Emma grabbed her bag and headed for the private elevator, her steps purposeful as she walked inside. The descent was smooth, with mirrored walls reflecting her powerful silhouette —a woman commanding respect in a world that offered none to her gender. Today, she’d remind her subordinates, Gareth and Luke, who held the reins. She was Emma Duke, a queen in a dystopian cage, and nothing would change that. The elevator doors parted, and she stepped outside, ready for whatever life threw at her.

❖

The sharp crack of a whip echoed through one of the training rooms at CuffTech Inc. Headquarters in Lower Manhattan, the sound slicing through the air as Emma’s leather crop met the naked Slave 45’s bare ass. The young woman, bound over a restraint station, flinched, her ass cheeks glowing a shade of red as she bit into the 7-inch cock gag wedged down her throat. Emma stood tall in her black catsuit, her dark ponytail swaying as she circled the slave, her red lips curling into a satisfied smile, fully aware that this slave’s owner watched through a two-way mirror on the far wall. The knowledge sent a thrill through her, a spark of pleasure at performing her dominance for an audience.

The training room was Emma’s fortress. The dark red walls were lined with various bondage and fetish apparatus designed to assist Emma in breaking her slaves in every way possible. Sensory deprivation, orgasm control, pleasure overload, or outright pain; there was a method that worked with everybody. Slave 45, a woman in her early twenties with mid-length blonde hair and wide, tear-filled brown eyes, was secured by leather straps that pinned her wrists and ankles to the restraint station. Emma had no idea how the woman ended up here, but she wasn’t hired to ask questions; she had a job to do.

Emma unbuckled the restraint straps again and snapped at the woman. “Now, we will try this one more time, unless you want further punishment,” she barked. “Assume the greeting position!” The blonde shuddered, and immediately slid off the bench and dropped down to her knees, her bare C-cup breasts exposed and presented as the woman placed her hands, palm upwards, on her knees, eyes drifting downwards in a submissive posture.

The trainer stepped forward and used her crop to gently lift the woman’s chin up slightly, ensuring she kept her eyes down. “Much better, slave,” she told the woman before walking around her. Once she was behind the slave, Emma dropped down to one knee and unbuckled the gag, teasingly pushing the rubber cock in and out of the woman’s mouth, prompting her to gag. “We still need some work on that reflex,” she chuckled.

The blonde slave coughed as Emma tossed the gag on a nearby table. The brunette rose and approached the wall, removing a 9-inch red rubber dildo from the shelf. She grinned and reapproached the blonde. “Now, don’t move from that position,” she ordered, standing before her target. Emma gently slid the fake cock into her charge’s mouth, gently pushing up and down, slowly moving deeper until it reached the edge of her throat.

“Now, slowly open that throat up, like you’re swallowing something,” she guided. “It’s best to think happy thoughts, keep your mind off the activity.” As the scared slave complied, Emma was able to gently move the cock further down. She noticed the woman start to gag and halted, keeping the dildo in her mouth but not moving any further until the gagging stopped. Eventually, Emma grinned as she was able to push the phallic object in and out of the slave’s mouth with minimal effort, speeding up as she did. “Good slut,” she praised Slave 45.

Emma’s crimson lips curled into a wider smile, her sadistic pleasure elevating as the slave’s throat adjusted to the dildo’s intrusion. The blonde’s muffled, obedient breaths were a testament to Emma’s skill. She knew the owner behind the mirror, and Gareth, one of her support trainers who was guiding the man through the process, was watching her keenly, judging her performance. The brunette trainer sometimes imagined herself in the subject’s position, considering the outcome that could have become a reality if her life had turned out differently. She grinned at the image, knowing that her skills as a slave trainer ensured she was secure in her position. No one could turn around rebellious slaves like she could.

Emma pulled the dildo from Slave 45’s mouth with a slow, deliberate motion, the wet pop echoing in the room. The blonde’s lips trembled with fear, her brown eyes flickering upward for a brief moment before snapping back down, a spark of rebellion that didn’t escape Emma’s notice. She set the dildo on the table and picked up the slave’s collar adorned with a silver O-ring. With practiced ease, the brunette knelt behind the slave, fastening the collar around her neck and gently clicking the padlock into place. She clipped a matching leash to the ring and gave it a gentle tug, forcing Slave 45 to drop onto her hands and knees, her bare breasts thrusting forward.

“Perfect,” Emma murmured, her voice laced with satisfaction as she stood, holding the leash taut. The training chief turned toward the door, her latex catsuit stretching as she called out, “Gareth, bring Mr. Stratton in.”

The door opened, and Gareth entered, his muscular frame filling the doorway. Eric Stratton, a middle-aged executive in a well-trimmed suit, followed, his eyes gleaming with approval. Gareth’s rugged features were set in a neutral expression, but his green eyes betrayed a hint of resentment as he glanced at Emma. To many, the idea of a woman being your boss was the height of demasculization. Mr. Stratton, however, focused solely on his slave, his gaze raking over her exposed body.

“Thank you, Mistress E, the middle-aged man said, his voice smooth with appreciation as he took the leash from Emma’s hand, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. “You’ve done wonders with my bitch already.”

Emma’s lips contorted into a confident smile. “She’s progressing well, Mr. Stratton,” she replied professionally as she looked down at the subject with pride. “Two more sessions should ensure she fully complies with your needs.”

Mr. Stratton nodded. “I trust your expertise,” he said, his eyes lingering on the poor woman’s trembling form. “Where do I send payment?”

Gareth stepped forward. “You can settle the bill at the front desk on your way out, Mr. Stratton,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “We already have you booked in for session two next week.” The man nodded before shaking Gareth’s hand. He gave Emma a curt nod, a handshake between a man and a woman no longer a common courtesy these days, before leading his slave out on her hands and knees, her head bowed. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving Emma and Gareth alone.

“That was impressive work, Emma,” Gareth said, his tone carrying a faint edge that grated on her nerves. “You really know how to break them in.”

Emma turned, her eyes narrowing as she caught the tone in his voice. “Save your praise, Gareth,” she snapped. “Why does it feel like you’re talking down to me every time you speak. I’m the boss around here.” She walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and picked up a folder. “I inspected your last report. Your paperwork is still a damn mess. You and Luke need to up your game, or I’ll be asking the new CEO for a pair of replacement lackeys.”

Gareth groaned, taking the folder from his bitchy boss. When he was assigned to her section, he thought it’d be fine to start. However, months of being teased by his pals at the bar had worn on him, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. “Yes, yes,” he said with a clipped tone. He had imagined Emma on her knees, stark naked, sucking his cock obediently, every day for the last two months, and it made it difficult to look the woman in the eye. “I’ll get it done.”

Emma stepped forward, her heels clicking on the hard tiled floor, and leaned in as if to prove a point. “See that you do,” she said aggressively. “I’m not messing around, Gareth.” With that, she stood straight and walked out of the training room, her message having been delivered loud and clear.

❖

Emma rang the doorbell at the private entrance to her mother and Gregory Locke’s Upper East Side apartment, her fingers hesitating on the buzzer as a wave of resentment washed over her. She rued Vivian’s guilt-trip into attending this family dinner, a forced ritual that always made her feel disgusting afterwards. Dressed in a tight black blouse that hugged her modest curves and blue jeans that clung to her toned legs, she shifted uncomfortably, the low-heeled boots pressing against the marble stoop. The door clicked open, revealing an elevator, and Emma stepped inside, her jaw tight as the doors closed and the car ascended smoothly.

The elevator opened into a polished hallway, where Vivian Locke greeted her daughter, her auburn hair cascading over her bare shoulders. A red string bikini, its thin straps barely containing the woman’s enhanced curves, left little to the imagination, exposing her tanned skin and 36E breasts. Emma’s stomach twisted at the sight, a far cry from the modest elegance her mother wore when Emma’s father was alive.

“Why don’t you cover up more, Mom?” the brunette asked. Her voice sharp with disapproval as she stepped into the hallway and leaned in for a hug, attempting to ignore the plastic breasts pressing against her as she embraced her mother. “You don’t have to parade around like that.”

Vivian’s eyes softened, but her smile was compliant. “It’s what Gregory wants, darling,” she said, adjusting the bikini’s straps as the pair stepped away from the hug. “I’m happy to oblige. It keeps things peaceful.”

Emma’s lips parted in disbelief. “I’m worried about you, Mom. You’re becoming his slave in everything but name,” she said, her tone biting. “You don’t have to let him control you like this. You’re a free woman.”

The older woman’s expression faltered, but she waved a hand dismissively. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, changing the subject. “Go relax in the lounge. I’ll call you when it’s time.” She turned, her breasts swaying beneath the bikini as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving Emma seething.

Stepping into the lounge, Emma froze at the sight of Poppy. She saw Gregory’s enslaved former wife every time she visited the lush apartment, but it never ceased to amaze her. The woman, once known as Priscilla Locke, was encased in a pink latex bitchsuit, her arms and legs folded up to render her appendages useless, a window showing off bare DD breasts. The suit had a zip run across her ass and pussy, with a large buttplug protruding a blonde tail from her backside, matching the color of her dark blonde pigtails on the human puppy’s head. A matching latex puppy mask covered the slave’s face, a ring gag keeping her mouth open wide, with her tongue hanging out as she lay on her back on the floor beside a plush armchair.

Gregory lounged in the armchair, his broad frame relaxed in a fitted shirt, his polished boot absently rubbing Poppy’s exposed chest, eliciting a faint whimper from the gagged woman. He lowered his newspaper and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and fixed his dark brown eyes on Emma with a grin.

“Good to see you, Emma,” he said, his voice carrying a patronizing warmth. “How’s the training going at CuffTech? Breaking those slaves into shape?”

Emma sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s going fine,” she said with a shortened, sharp response, avoiding his gaze as she lingered near the opposite couch, the sight of Poppy’s degradation knotting her stomach.

The man nodded, his boot still tracing circles over his puppy’s breasts. “You know, your life would be so much simpler if you married a nice, wealthy man,” he said, his tone shifting to a predictably lecturing drawl. “Tristan’s still single, you know. He’s a good man, and he’d take good care of you.”

Emma scoffed, her blue eyes flashing with disgust as she leaned against the couch. “I’m not interested, Gregory,” she bit back. “I don’t want to go anywhere near that piece of…”

“Dinner’s ready.” Before Emma could finish her sentence and risk upsetting the man of the house, Vivian called from the hallway, prompting Emma to drop her retort.

The group moved to the dining room, where a mahogany table stood grandly in the center of an opulent room. Gregory took his seat at the head of the table, exuding an air of unchallenged authority. Tristan Locke, Emma’s fat slob of stepbrother who had just arrived, sat at the opposite end, his crisp light blue shirt struggling to hold itself around his rotund frame. Emma sat between them, her fingers gripping the edge of her chair as she slid in, bracing herself for the inevitable tension.

Vivian, still in her bikini, moved with grace as she seasoned Gregory’s plate with salt before fetching cold beers from the fridge for him and his son. She placed the bottles on the table with a submissive smile, her curves swaying provocatively as she took her seat opposite her daughter.

Emma’s eyes narrowed, her silent disapproval burning as she watched her mother’s subservient display. The clink of the bottles against the table grated on her nerves. This wasn’t the mother she grew up with.

Gregory sipped his beer, his gaze settling on Emma with renewed intensity. “Think about what I said, Emma,” he said. “A husband would secure your future.”

The brunette woman shook her head, her fingers tightening around the fork as she stabbed at her meal. “My trust fund ensures my freedom,” she said firmly. “I’m happy being independent right now, and I don’t intend on that changing.”

The patriarch of the house laughed mockingly. “Seriously? That fund will run dry in two years,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes glinting with condescension. “You know the cost keeps rising, Emma. You’re not as secure as you think.”

Tristan grinned from the other end of the table. “I think you’d make a popular slave, sis,” he said, his voice dripping with taunting amusement. “Plenty of men would bid for a woman like you.”

Emma’s jaw clenched, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “Shut up, Tristan!” she snapped, her voice slapping through the room like a whip. “I didn’t ask for your damn opinion.”

Gregory’s expression turned stoic and angry, his hand pausing mid-sip. “Don’t speak with that tone in my home,” he said with authority as he stared at his stepdaughter. “You’re a guest in my home, and you will talk to my son with respect!”

Emma parted her lips to retort, her anger boiling inside her as she prepared to lash out. Before she could speak, Vivian’s quiet voice slipped over the top. “Emma, leave it,” she said pleadingly as she reached across the table. “Let’s just enjoy the meal.”

Frustration churned in Emma’s chest, her fingers gripping the fork so tightly her knuckles whitened. She bit back her words and dug into her meal in silence, the clink of cutlery against her plate the only sound she allowed herself. Her mother had trapped herself in this golden cage, and Emma wouldn’t allow that to happen to her. She shook her head and continued eating, trying to suppress the frustration and anger boiling through her, resolving to get through this meal in one piece before heading back home and forgetting about her disgusting extended family.

❖

Emma sat at the computer desk in her private study, the fabric of her blouse and jeans still clinging to her body. She had just returned home from the evening of disgust with her mom and step-family, and she was happy to be home. Loading up her PC, the brunette absently scrolled through a pro-government news network. Since the Internet Protection Act was passed three years ago, it had been difficult to access any material that wasn’t establishment-approved. A headline blared: two rebel dissenters had been sentenced to life as White House ponygirls, their images displayed in leather harnesses and feathered headdresses, trotting as they pushed dignitaries in a gold-laden cart. Emma chuckled, shaking her head, a flicker of amusement cutting through her lingering frustration from dinner. Despite the sickening control her mother endured under Gregory, these stories of rebels reduced to ornamental servitude stirred something inside of her, an enjoyment she couldn’t understand.

Emma’s fingers paused on the mouse as she returned to the news homepage. The experience as dinner gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. She leaned back in her chair, her blouse stretching across her pert breasts as she roamed the news site.

A notification pinged up on the screen, drawing the woman’s eyes to her work email account. An email from Kyle Francis, CuffTech Inc.’s new CEO, popped up, its subject line reading “New Uniform Policy.” Emma’s brow furrowed. Robert Hayed, the company’s founder and father’s close friend, had retired two months ago, a loss that still stung. He’d treated her like family, securing her role as Chief Trainer, a rare position for a woman in 2052. The board had appointed Kyle yesterday, a man the brunette hadn’t met but whose reputation for a hands-on approach and transforming workplace culture preceded him. Curious, Emma opened the email, her blue eyes scanning the text.

“Dear CuffTech Employees,

I am Kyle Francis, your new Chief Executive Officer, appointed by the board to lead CuffTech Inc. into a new era of innovation and alignment with expected standards. Our mission to advance control technology remains steadfast, and I am committed to fostering a culture of success and growth.”

Emma nodded absently, her fingers tapping the desk. Kyle’s tone was formal, typical of a new CEO asserting his authority. She’d heard he was ruthless, but none of what he wrote in the first paragraph had cause for alarm. The objective of every CEO is to drive profits. She scrolled down to read further.

“After a comprehensive review of current policies, we have decided to overhaul the uniform requirements for female employees to enhance team cohesion and align with governmental guidelines. Effective tomorrow morning, all female staff are required to wear latex attire designed exclusively by CuffTech. No outfits designed by any other brand are permitted. This uniform must display the breasts fully at all times, and include embedded vaginal and anal plugs to be worn throughout the work day.”

Emma’s lips twitched into a confused smirk, her amusement bubbling up as she read the description. A latex uniform exposing breasts and fitted with plugs? The policy was absurd. It wasn’t unheard of for a company to humiliate its female staff with a degrading uniform policy, but this description felt more like a teenage boy’s perverse fantasy. Her supervisory role as Chief Trainer should have her placed above such degrading rules, but the idea of seeing the secretary and admin clerks trapped in the described predicament made her chuckle. She read on.

“The uniform will also include locked ballet boots and CuffTech’s latest innovation, the SmartGag. The SmartGag is a voice-activated gagging device that can change size, color, or type at the verbal command of its designated owner. Ownership status will be designated to the female employee’s direct supervisor. This policy will ensure CuffTech leads from the front and practices what it preaches.”

Emma’s smirk widened into a full laugh, the sound bouncing off the study’s walls. A voice-activated gag controlled by her supervisor? The idea was laughable. Emma heard of various revolutionary control prototypes coming through the R&D department; she had trialled some of them, but this was something else altogether.

“This uniform policy is a strict requirement, effective from 9 am tomorrow morning. Any violations will result in disciplinary action, and repeated offenses will lead to termination. We trust in your cooperation to uphold CuffTech’s standards and contribute to our shared success.

Sincerely,

Kyle Francis, CEO”

Emma’s laughter echoed again, sharp and dismissive as she leaned back in her chair. Termination for not wearing a gag and plugs? This policy was clearly meant for secretaries and clerks, not a manager like her. How would she be able to command her subordinates like Gareth and Luke at the same time as complying with the new rules? The young woman knew there had to be an exemption for women in leadership roles.

The brunette closed the email and shut down her PC, the screen fading to black. Rising from her chair, she stretched out, the bad memory of dinner fading from the enjoyment of the humorous email. Emma headed to her bedroom, slipping off her top and pants, ready for bed. She climbed into bed and fell asleep, eagerly anticipating what awaited her at work tomorrow.

❖

At 8:45 AM the following day, Emma strode through the glass-walled lobby of CuffTech’s headquarters, her black latex catsuit shimmering against the natural sunlight, accentuating her form as she walked. Her dark ponytail swept with each step, her red lipstick enhancing her commanding presence. She’d worn this catsuit countless times as a trainer at the company, a symbol of authority in the Slave Improvement department, and today felt no different. Her management status would surely exempt her from the absurd uniform policy she’d read the previous night, she thought, her lips curving into a faint smirk.

As the woman crossed the lobby, an older man in a tailored suit caught her eye. His gaze lingered with visible confusion, his brows furrowing as he stared. Emma brushed it off, chalking it up to her striking appearance, a common reaction from those unused to a woman in her position in this day and age. She continued toward the security gate, her low-heeled boots clicking softly against the floor.

Ahead, two female employees shuffled through the lobby, their new uniforms drawing Emma’s attention like a magnet. The first woman wore a black latex hobble dress, its tight fabric restricting her steps to a slow, awkward waddle, a wide gap exposing her large breasts, shamelessly on display for all to see. Her feet were forced en pointe in black ballet boots, trembling slightly, while a large black harness ball gag stretched her lips. A faint glisten of drool escaped the corners of her mouth as she got used to her new attire. The second woman was clad in a black strappy latex harness, thin bands crisscrossing her torso, framing her bare C-cup breasts, and barely covering her crotch and ass, where embedded plugs pressed visibly beneath the taut material. Her own ballet boots clicked unsteadily, and a black panel gag covered the lower half of her face, the subtle bulge of a rubber cock beneath it betraying its intrusive presence. The pair’s muffled breaths and constrained movement reminded Emma of the slaves she trained for their owners’ delight rather than a pair of CuffTech secretaries.

Emma chuckled under her breath, her amusement bubbling up as she watched the women struggle past, their exposed breasts swaying in unison with each tottered step. The sight of these secretaries, reduced to such degrading attire, sparked a familiar thrill through her body, reminiscent of the control she wielded over her trained slaves every day.

Approaching the security gate, Emma spotted Mike, the security guard who greeted her most days at the entrance. He was stationed behind a console cluttered with monitors, his middle-aged face breaking into a friendly grin as the brunette neared. “Hey, Mike,” Emma said, her voice warm as she leaned against the gate.

“It’s good to see you, Emma,” Mike replied, his tone casual. “How are you holding up?”

She smiled, her red lips curving with assurance. “Oh, I’m doing as great as ever, Mike,” she said, pulling out her employee ID badge from the lanyard around her neck and swiping it across the scanner. “Just keeping the sluts and slaves in line, you know?”

Mike chuckled at her answer. “You’re one of a kind, Emma,” he replied. “Never lose that fire.” He began to wave the woman along until an amber light flashed on the scanner instead of the usual green, causing him to raise an eyebrow.

“What’s that about, Mike?” Emma asked. “Something wrong with the system?”

Mike leaned closer to the console, his eyes narrowing as he studied the screen. “Let me check,” he said, his voice shifting to a more serious tone. He scanned the message, his brow raising further. “Looks like you need to visit your new boss, Carlos Mendez, the Director of Slave Improvement, before you can head to your office.”

Emma’s lips parted, her blue eyes shifting in confusion. “Carlos Mendez?” she asked, the name unfamiliar, a spark of irritation flaring in her chest. “Who the hell is that? I’ve never heard of him.”

Mike shrugged, tapping a finger on the console. “He was appointed this morning, from what it says here,” he said, glancing up at the slave trainer. “You need to stop by his office on the exec level before you get full access to the Slave Improvement wing. Sorry, Emma. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Emma sighed, her fingers tightening into fists as she stared at the amber light glowing back at her mockingly. “Great,” she said in frustration. “Fine, I’ll deal with it. Thanks, Mike.” She nodded curtly before heading toward the elevator bank, her steps less confident than before. A couple of years ago, her life seemed to be set. She had a father who’d do anything to protect her, a CEO who pushed her for progression, and a boss who had her back. Now, as she stepped toward the elevator, Emma realized just how much that protection had waned in a world that capitalized on vulnerability.

She pressed the elevator button, her latex catsuit stretching with the motion, and waited for the door to open. Men waited alongside her, their confused, silent glances unnerving the brunette woman. As the door opened, Emma sighed and stepped inside, glancing down at the floor, avoiding the gaze of those around her. What did her new boss want? She had a lot of work to get done today, and didn’t want to waste her time with bureaucracy. Perhaps Gareth and Luke had messed up again? Whatever it was, Emma resolved to use it as an opportunity to introduce herself to this man and show her just how indispensable she was to the department.

❖

The brunette slave trainer knocked on the heavy door of Carlos Mendez’s office, her knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. A voice, thick with a Mexican accent, called out, “Enter!” She slowly pushed the door open, stepping into the large office on CuffTech’s restricted executive floor. A man sat behind a wide desk, his grossly overweight frame draped in a garishly bright Hawaiian shirt, its neon flowers clashing with the room’s sterile gray walls. His handlebar mustache twitched as he grinned, his dark brown eyes studying the woman who had just entered his domain.

“You must be Emma Duke,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “The more prominent whore at CuffTech, eh? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Emma shuddered. How dare he speak to her like that? She wanted to bite his head off, but she forced a respectful, diplomatic tone in response. “Likewise, Mr. Mendez. However, I’m not a whore,” she said, standing wall. “I’m the Chief Trainer for this company, and a damn good one at that.”

Carlos chucked, his round face creasing. “Ay, calma tus tetas, señorita,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Whore’s just a term of endearment for women, no? Don’t take it personal.” His grin widened, but his eyes remained sharp, assessing her reaction.

The brunette trainer’s jaw tightened, her frustration simmering beneath her forced civility. She folded her arms, holding firm despite her new boss’s obnoxious attitude. “I was told you needed to see me, Mr. Mendez,” she said, her voice steady but laced with irritation, eager to steer the conversation to business.

Carlos leaned forward, his tacky shirt straining against his large frame. “I notice you’re wearing that fancy black catsuit, not the new uniform mandated by the CEO last night,” he said mockingly as if he were a cat toying with a mouse. “Looks nice, but it’s not what the policy says, si?”

Emma’s lips tightened, but she kept her tone measured. “That mandate clearly wasn’t meant for women in managerial roles like mine,” she said firmly. “I train slaves, Mr. Mendez. Wearing an outfit like that would make it almost impossible to do my job effectively.”

He nodded slowly, his mustache twitching as if considering her words, a flicker of hope sparking in Emma’s chest. “Si, it would make your job mas dificil, I agree,” he said, his grin returning, wide and unsettling. “But I read the policy, and it says all female employees, no exemptions.” His eyes flickered with amusement. “You look like a woman to me, Ms. Duke, but maybe we need to check, eh? I could have security strip you naked just to be sure.” He gestured to the two burly guards standing in the corner, whose stern, stoic faces had gone unnoticed until now, their presence sending a chill down the woman’s spine.

Emma forced a nervous chuckle, believing —or at least hoping —that the Mexican was joking. “You’re a very funny man, Mr. Mendez,” she said, her voice tight as she glanced nervously at the guards, their arms crossed, eyes fixed on her. “That won’t be necessary.”

Carlos’s expression shifted, the jovial mask dropping to reveal a cold, serious stare. “This is no joke, señorita,” he said commandingly. “I just took on this role, and I’m not prepared to look bad in front of the CEO because one of my employees thinks she’s special. You accept the uniform requirements willingly, or I will use other methods to ensure you comply.” The large man signaled to one guard, who stepped forward, lifting a small suitcase from the floor and placing it on the desk. The latch snapped open, revealing a pile of sickening garments.

The brunette trainer’s eyes widened, gasping for air as she stared at the contents. “No way, sir. I won’t wear that,” she said defiantly. “I refuse.”

Carlos’s laugh boomed around the office, its sound mocking his subordinate. “Refusal’s not an option, puta,” he said, his heavy Mexican accent dripping with menace as he nodded to the guards. Noticing the danger, Emma spun toward the door in an attempt to escape the room, but the men were faster, their hands clamping onto her arms like vices. They forced her to the ground, her knees hitting the cold floor with a thud, pinning her as she struggled against their grip. One guard yanked at her boots, unlacing them swiftly and tossing them aside, while the other unzipped her catsuit. The pair struggled to peel the tight outfit away from the free woman’s skin, but eventually they managed to strip her of her uniform, leaving her in the office wearing only her underwear. Her white bra and panties didn’t last long, torn off with brutal efficiency, leaving Emma naked and exposed, her eyes widening in horror as she fought to cover herself.

The guards hauled Emma to her feet, one pinning her arms behind her back, forcing her to face her new boss, her bare skin prickling in the cold air. The woman’s cheeks burned with humiliation, her heart pounding as she stood vulnerable before his mocking gaze. Carlos laughed, his round face grinning as his eyes lingered on her well-trimmed pussy. “Ay, I guess you really are a woman,” he said, his voice taunting her. “No doubt now, eh?” He nodded to the guards, who reached into the suitcase and pulled out a sleeveless red latex bodysuit.

They forced her legs into the bodysuit, and the woman gasped again in shock. A 6-inch plug was inserted into her pussy without warning, the intrusion sending a sharp jolt of discomfort through her body, followed by an equally sadistic 5-inch plug pressed into her ass, the pressure intense and invasive. Cutouts in the suit exposed her 32B breasts, her nipples hardening unintentionally against the cool air as the guards zipped the red suit up, a metallic click signaling the padlock securing it at her collarbone. Emma squirmed, the plugs shifting with each movement, her body betraying her with a flush of unwanted sensation.

The guards pushed the woman back to the floor, pinning her arms as one forced red knee-length ballet boots onto her left foot, the leather constricting her toes into a painful point. The zipper locked with a click, followed by the right boot, forcing her to balance in impossible footwear. They yanked Emma upright, her feet wobbling in the extreme heels.

One guard slipped a small device onto her tongue, a strange tingle spreading through her mouth before fading. Carlos leaned forward in his chair, clearly enjoying the show, before carefully speaking in as plain English as he could muster. “Gag shape ball harness, size 2 inches, color red,” he said.

Emma’s tongue tingled again, the sensation electric as a bright red ball gag mysteriously formed in her mouth, swelling to force her jaw wide. Black straps materialized, wrapping securely around and above her head, holding the gag firmly and ensuring it stayed put inside her mouth. “Mrpphhh muffpp!” Emma tried to protest, but her voice was reduced to muffled, incoherent moans, her blue eyes blazing with fury and humiliation as she glared at Carlos.

The executive smiled, his mustache curling with satisfaction. “Much better, señorita,” he said smugly as he leaned back in his outlandish shirt. “The uniform is mandatory during work hours, but outside of that, you can wear whatever you like. The SmartGag can’t be removed, but it can deactivate whenever you’re off-duty.” Carlos’s grin widened, his dark eyes sparkling with control as he stared at his subordinate in her new mandated uniform. “Managing that SmartGag constantly can be a tiresome duty, and I’m too busy to supervise you at all times. So, I‘m giving that responsibility to the two men you work with most.”

Carlos paused, savoring the moment, before speaking clearly. “SmartGagm change ownership permissions. Assign new ownership permissions to Gareth Olsen and Luke Daniels,” he said with a jovial stare.

“Mmnooo, nphhhh emphh!” Emma’s eyes widened, her muffled protests growing frantic as she realized her resentful subordinates, Gareth and Luke, now controlled her gag. The thought of their smug faces wielding such power sent a chill through her body. The gagged woman shook her head, trying to shout, but the gag rendered her unintelligible, her moans swallowed by the device.

Carlos waved a hand dismissively. “Now, I got business to attend to. Take Ms. Duke back to the Slave Improvement department,” he said to the guards casually. “Make sure she gets there safely, eh?”

The security guards tightened their grip on Emma’s arms, turning her toward the door. The woman stumbled in her ballet boots, the extreme heels forcing her to teeter on tiny steps to prevent herself from falling, the plugs shifting inside her as she moved. She shook her brunette-haired head again, her muffled cries sounding out as the men “helped” her out of the office, their hands keeping her upright and moving at a steady pace.

Emma’s legs wobbled, the locked boots making each movement a struggle, her small, exposed breasts bouncing slightly with each awkward step. The slave trainer was guided to the elevator as she was forced to come to terms with the fact that her comfortable life as she knew it was gone. She was still a prominent slave trainer and a free woman. She just needed to figure out how to navigate her new restrictions without losing any more of her freedom. Easy, right?

End of Chapter One