Human Commodity (6 page)

“Damon is most thorough in explaining any ‘terms’ you may have misunderstood,” Phillip replied, and he sat back down to hide the erection pressing into his zipper.
 
This was becoming much more enjoyable than he had anticipated.

Monique felt the blade of the scissors under her collar and thought of the wasted destruction of the expensive garment.
 
Clothes had earned her fortune and respect… and shit, she had modeled in bikini tops and bras before.
 
“Stop… please… I’ll take it off.”

Damon released his hold and he moved to stand in front of her, keeping the scissors in view.
 
Monique glanced back at the door, but she instinctively knew that she would never make it.
 
Her shaking fingers reached under the inch ribbed hem, and she lifted the sweater over her head.
 
She folded it carefully, and gripped it in one clenching fist.
 
“This is a four hundred dollar sweater.
 
I expect to see it returned with my things.”

Without warning, Damon reached out with the scissors, and clipped through the lacy material of the bra holding her breasts.
 
“They’re real,” Damon noted.
 
“God, I can’t wait to get some ropes and clamps on those puppies.”

Monique tried to cover her slightly sagging orbs… another distressing sign that time was marching on… and tears began to fill her eyes.
 
“Please… this isn’t what I wanted.”

“Phillip, grab me some training bands and a gag, will you?
 
I don’t feel like fighting her or listening to her whining while we walk to the clinic.”

Monique thrashed and cried while Damon overpowered her and locked a metal collar around her throat.
 
It had two six-inch chains hanging down from the back of it, each ending in a metal wrist cuff.
 
Her arms were twisted so that her hands pointed up towards her shorn hair and rested uncomfortably on her shoulder blades.
 
She continued to scream and curse, until Damon squeezed her jaw and forced a red foam ball into her mouth.
 
“That’s better.”
 
He looked at Phillip.
 
“You coming to her initiation?”

“Don’t wait on me.
 
I have six other girls to move through here today.”
 
Phillip watched the former model being roughly guided through the door to the underground passage.
 
Monique… Mary Bentley… was soon forgotten as Phillip studied the file of a paralegal in a real estate law firm.
 
Her attempt at blackmailing one of her bosses over ending their affair had produced a contract that Phillip understood was forged.
 
The executive at the firm that had swindled the land and buildings that housed SHCI’s financial empire had paid them to take the little problem off their hands… and lose her in the world of commodities.

Monique found herself staggering down a dark, uneven passageway, and one of her expensive heels slipped off her foot.
 
Damon made note to pick it up on his next trip, and continued to lead the girl forward with a hand gripped around her right breast.
 
Monique was shrieking behind the gag, and she was terrified of the pain in the massive attribute that had given her and sexual partners so much pleasure on her rise to the top of her career.

She hobbled in pistoning movements, up and down on the one shoe until the thin peg broke off and caused her to twist her ankle.
 
She shrieked in pain, but the man kept pulling her forward and she had no choice but to kick off the injured footwear when her foot left the cement.

Her expensive French nylons were shredding under her feet, and the makeup she had conned Gertie into artfully applying to her face that morning, was running down her face in muddy streaks.
 
Monique had lied and convinced the cosmetician to push off a ‘paying’ appointment by saying that she had an interview for a trade magazine.
 
Gertie was the only one that she trusted to fill the little lines at the corners of her eyes.

They reached the end of the darkened hallway, and the man kept tugging her forward.
 
When she balked or stalled, he squeezed her breast harder, and it felt like the meat was sponging and churning inside of her.
 
Her terrified mind barely registered muted screams behind doors they were passing, and she was finally led into a small room where her breast was released to throb into blood circulating fullness again.
 
She glanced down at the bruises forming, and sobbed.

A machine spat out tags that were inserted into leather restraints, and Monique made a feeble attempt to kick out a foot when the man lifted her leg and ripped the nylon over her ankle.
 
After her ankles were cuffed, her wrists were released and they fell in numbed strain to her sides.
 
Damon did not give her time to rub the chafed skin before he wrapped her identifying cuffs around her wrists and secured them behind her back.
 
The collar was replaced, and Damon reached forward to center the commodities identifying tag.
 
The one time top model of 2013 would now be known as US28BN97.

Monique’s frazzled mind still had trouble accepting that she was not going to be given an executive apartment for guests of the Commodity Training Compound.
 
It had taken many years, and even more sexual favors, to rise out of the poverty of her small town.
 
Now, she would trade this situation for life back in Martinsville, just to be back in her small bedroom in the farmhouse.

Further down the block from the Training Compound… next door to the Commodity Law Firm, in fact, stood the fifty-seven story brick building that housed Sanford Human Commodity Investments.
 
Mason Sanford manned the helm of his firm, glaring at the monitor on his desk.
 
He yearned to smash the digital clock for relentlessly counting down the numbers too quickly.

The firm in Dubai had not managed the sale of the 23NN lot before the overseas Exchange had closed.
 
Enough commodity movement had taken place to split the lot, and now he had the anticipated loss on the level three through seven trainees, and they could expect a loss on the eight through tens this afternoon.
 
It was not really a loss, of course, but anything that earned Mason less than his strategic planning counted on, he considered to be a financial blow.

The Exchange had opened ten minutes ago, and the three associates sitting across from Mason tried to keep from squirming.
 
Whatever their employer was watching was clearly not making him happy.
 
That meant another long day of pressure as they tried to produce the orders he issued while improving the outlook for the following day.

“Fifty-four, push the DU23NN level eights to the smaller off-street firms.
 
For fuck’s sake, don’t let them beat you down below seventy-five thousand each.
 
Fifty-five, take level nines.
 
Your ass is saved with anything over a hundred, so you better get in gear before the ‘golden boys’ realize that we’re dumping them.
 
Fifty-six, level ten.
 
Anything over one-fifty earns an associate split of an additional three percent.”
 
Mason mentally calculated that the damage could be minimized to a loss of an anticipated half a million.
 
He would have to be satisfied with the five hundred thousand the firm would be gaining on dumping the commodity.

The leaders of the lower three floors stood in unison, and left Mason’s office in silence.
 
Mason had noticed the strain around the eyes of the fifty-six floor manager, and he realized that “Purgatory Hill” would be needing a new leader within the month.
 
The man’s figures had been steadily dropping, and his efforts had quickly dissipated since he had been promoted to the top associate position.
 
Mason was not going to get a year out of the stressed out planner, and he wondered how the hell the associate had managed to climb the brass elevator to the top.

He scribbled ‘Dubai’ on his notepad.
 
There would be several overseas floor leaders and an executive beating the streets for a job by tomorrow.
 
He also wrote ‘Hill’ and circled it, already considering replacements for the fifty-six floor manager.
 
Mason’s fickle clock clicked another second, and he stood and stretched.
 
There was a tattered magazine he had placed in Lance’s tray, and smiled at the picture of the woman on the cover.
 
Monique Bouvier, his college fantasy, should be receiving her cuffs.
 
Mason entered the elevator and descended to the basement tunnel to make his way towards the Training Compound.

Monique was pulled down the hall to another door, where she waited in a dark cubicle for a red light to turn green across from them.
 
A panel slid open and she was roughly pushed into a clinic.
 
Eddie turned to see the ruined mess of Monique, and he noticed her cuffs latched behind her.
 
“Reluctant?”

“She’ll come around,” Damon assured him.
 
Monique twisted and turned while Damon pulled off her skirt.
 
He lifted the front band of her pantyhose, and with it popped up over her ankles, it dug painfully between the lips of her waxed pussy.
 
“Shut up,” he demanded.

The girl continued to shriek, until the cutting band wedged so deeply she was forced to her tiptoes.
 
Monique managed to quieten to erratic sobs, and Damon pulled the ruined hose from her legs.
 
Eddie looked at the girl and noticed the softening tissue gravity was fighting for.
 
Her wet makeup stuck in the creases around her eyes, and the deepening hollows spreading down from the sides of her nostrils and the corners of her mouth.

The door behind them opened and Mason came in, expecting to see the desirable girl he had jerked off to when dates blew him off in college.
 
He studied the fallen beauty in front of him.
 
“How the fuck
old
is she?”

“US28,” Damon replied.
 
“Though, we’ll be changing her bands next month.”

“Crap!
 
She’s going to be
US30
when she’s offered for sale?”
 
Mason calculated the financial damage.

“That’s right.”
 
Eddie chuckled.
 
“And Phillip called to tell me that she actually had the nerve to bring a three page addendum of requirements with her contract.”

“Ah, Monique,” Mason sighed.
 
“I’ll be tossing your magazines in the trash, I guess.
 
My dick won’t rise to salute your picture when my thoughts turn to the reality of the true visage before me.”
 
Mason turned and left without another word, already planning afternoon interviews for the positions in Dubai and the ‘Hill’.

“You know, Eddie, sometimes Mason confuses me,” Damon said, as he forced Monique over to a metal table.

“Join the club,” Eddie chuckled while he organized instruments.

“Seriously.
 
He has to be one of the smartest dudes I know, but it doesn’t occur to him that a girl he jerked off to six years ago might have aged a little?”

“Not just a little, Damon.
 
Once we get that makeup off her, you’ll see what damage the lights and fast life-style have done,” Eddie replied.

He was right, Damon discovered, when the makeup was harshly scrubbed off with a watered cloth instead of using the creams that Monique had faithfully applied for years.
 
“Damn, Eddie,” Damon said, staring at a rather washed out face with average brown eyes… perhaps a little small, in fact… that did not pop and beg for sex without the careful shadow and makeup lined accents.
 
Her complexion was a mass of little raised bumps and veins.

Monique cried in embarrassment.
 
No one other than the cosmeticians had seen her bared face in years.
 
She knew what the men saw… the mottled complexion of her mother’s ancestry, destroyed by years of working in the hot sun on the farm when they could no longer afford a full crew of laborers.
 
To make it worse, Eddie picked up the phone and said to Phillip, “Whatever you paid for her, cut it in half.”
 
Eddie listened while Phillip informed him of already cutting the fee for the age fraud.
 
“Give him the lowest amount to bind the contract.
 
We’re going to have to take our chances and throw her in with a lot.”

“Shit… that bad, Eddie?
 
I figured we’d get a decent return from some reminiscing old fuck.”
 
Phillip wrote a check for ten dollars, and sealed it in a courier envelope that required a signature as proof of accepted payment.

“She’d be lucky to pass for 35,” Eddie answered, and hung up the phone.

While Damon continued to pinch her nipples, waiting for a less than arousing response, Eddie pushed her secured ankles up and studied her pussy.
 
“Fuck… she’s had a kid.
 
She’s as loose as a cow down here, and there’s makeup covering stretch marks on her thighs and pelvis.”

Monique began wailing.
 
Her mother adopted the boy when Mary Bentley had spread her legs for a seasonal foreman after celebrating her high school graduation.
 
It had been the last group of laborers they had been able to afford, after covering the cost of a new baby.
 
She wailed harder when Damon licked his finger, and smeared off the foundation covering the white spidery lines on the breasts that had blossomed and thankfully never retreated after the baby was born.