Rehab: Chapter 1

Rehab

Chapter 1: Registered

As the van was speeding across the desert southwest of the U. S. towards the prison, I had plenty of time to think of how my situation had changed with my capture and sentencing.

Just a few days ago, I'd been living happily -- check that, just living -- with Sue and Mindy. Of course, I hadn't officially been there, I'd been an unregistered male. That isn't totally illegal, it's just that if you try to do anything, it become illegal. For a while it had worked, Sue and Mindy weren't that experienced being mistresses, but they certainly had experience being bitchy. I didn't mind serving them, they were cute enough, and Sue in particular needed oral satisfaction often enough to keep me busy.

But in the last week before my capture, things had taken a nasty turn. Mindy really started hurting me: ropes so tight I got numb, keeping me in bondage till my limbs started to shake, yanking my neck in really bad ways. I tried to talk to Sue about it, not make a scene, but just make my point that I was being damaged. Sue didn't want to get involved. I tried just to suggest to Mindy the difference between service and being damaged, but she just got excited, threatened to call the Collector if I made any noise and I backed off. What could I do?

It was Thursday, I guess. Mindy insisted on tying me up again in the afternoon after a morning session of being spanked. Normally, I had to clean the house that afternoon, another task made difficult because Mindy would deliberately mess things up, but now Mindy wanted to tie me. I should have picked up on her different mood, she seemed almost frantic to get me in total bondage. Maybe I hadn't been quite enthusiastic about bondage the past couple of days, I tried to mask my feelings and go on, but Mindy probably noticed.

So, I was lying on the bedroom floor, wearing my clothes, another clue that something was up. I was bound with rope: legs, knees, hands behind back, elbows, the works. I heard the doorbell ring. I heard Mindy quickly run to get it and let someone in. I heard her babbling away as the person came in. We never did group things, since Mindy and Sue weren't officially licensed to keep a male. That didn't stop lots of people, any more than it being illegal stopped people from smoking a joint, but Sue cared about such things.

After a bit I heard the two of them coming to the bedroom. Mindy's voice became distinct. "We just found him last night, he was wandering around the area, we lured him in, because we just knew he wasn't legal, there is a reward isn't there?"

I looked up at Mindy and the woman I'll call the goddess. She was magnificent, tall, a long fan of black, gently curing hair framing a face with sharp features. And muscular, rippling ripped muscles. Not steroid enhanced muscle, this was the real kind. Her shoulders were wide. She had an aura. That and a tight outfit, all black: shorts, and a short t-shirt, revealing a nipped in waist and sculptured abs. She was clearly a Collector, I'd have figured that out even if she wasn't effortlessly carrying a black duffel bag, the mark of the Collector's toys. She and Mindy exchanged a few words, or rather, the Collector calmly said a few things to cut off Mindy's flow, and ushered her out of the bedroom, telling her that the actual act of collection was probably something that might upset Mindy. She shut the door.

"How long have you been living here?" she asked me.

"Six months," I said with disgust at Mindy's lies.

"Yea, I figured. You two have a fight?"

"Actually there's another woman, who probably doesn't know about this, but yes, Mindy was really beginning to hurt me, and I just asked her to go back to being a domina."

"You know," the Collector said, "I probably believe you, she seems about to loose it. Why'd you put up with them, lot's of women looking for an unregistered male?”

"What can I do? If I left, they'd probably report me anyway." I said that with sadness, probably starting to realize where I was going and what I was in for. I knew that being collected led inevitably to prison, and it wasn't just a local county jail. I was probably headed for The Prison, or "Rehab" as it was known. Torture, beating, and you came out a eunuch, or worse. Not sure what worse would be.

"Well," the Collector said, as she began to pull things out of her bag, "you might actually be better off there than to stay here. It's a real good class of woman that gets her slave license, lots of training, and they really care for their possessions. You don't need bitches, you need a dom."

Maybe I looked skeptical. After all, I was tied up, the Collector was laying out quite a set of restraints, and I was headed off to Rehab. Was that really worse than just getting rope burn twice a week?

She continued, "Oh, I know they tell the stories, but most of those come from jerk men, not real subs. You might have promise, lot of guys would be cursing me, telling me stories, screaming, talking about how I just need their dick between my thighs, that hasn't been your approach. Do you like to serve women?"

I looked at her. "I could worship you."

She laughed, and patted my thigh. “And I could make you do it. But you see my point, you might have subed to that bitch, but you've never worshipped her. You know the difference. Now look, talk is fun, but I've got a job to do. Going to change out your bondage here. I have to take some precautions, but if you don't give me trouble, I won't hurt you. And you can see," she said, flexing in her arm, "that I could hurt you."

I nodded, and she set to work.

First she put a collar around my neck and attached a chain from it around the base of a nearby chair. "Just keep you in one place," she cooed. Her hand rested on my chest as she did this, and it actually felt good, almost a shock. She took out a blindfold and fit it over my eyes. I understood her talk of precautions. She was going to untie me, and she wanted me under control at all times.

She cut the rope around my knees. Quickly, she grabbed my belt and pulled my pants and shorts down around my ankles. Now I was exposed. Just as quickly she fitted some leather cuffs around my knees, clipping a short link between them. Then, she cut the rope on my ankles, and pulled off my pants. I had to admire her technique. Never were my legs completely free. She fitted little boots over my feet, trying a couple of sizes before she got a pair that fit. "Got to do some walking, you need your shoes," she said cheerfully. But these were special shoes. A strap around the ankle was cinched up, so the shoes could not be removed. A sort rubber strap with locks at each end went between the ankles and was locked to the buckle on each shoe's strap. My legs were secure.

Next she went at my arms. She cut off a twist of the rope around my wrists, and fit my hands into bondage mitts. These were locked together, securing my hands behind my back. Then she cut off the remaining rope, and cut off my shirt. I was totally nude now, except for the restraint. She fitted some elbow cuffs and tightened them until they were snug. Then she took off my blindfold and unhooked my neck chain from the chair. She helped me to a sitting position, my back pressing against the chair.

"I've got to secure your cock. By regulations, I should really spread out your legs, but I don't want to do all this twice. Can I trust you?" For some reason this seemed like a serious question. She was all-powerful, and I could hardly move, but honor and trust have nothing to do with power.

I said that she could. She smiled, a smile with a lot of promise to it, but I knew she wasn't going to follow through. She released my knees, pushed my legs apart, and sat in the space between my knees. She fit a strap around the base of my cock. She took another long thin strap and looped it around my waist. Once that was locked in place, she attached the cock strap to it by means of another strap. I could see the logic, this would keep the cock strap from sliding off, no matter how much pressure was on it. Actually, the strap she had put around the base of my cock had other straps attached to it. These quickly resolved into a cock harness, and she swiftly secured my cock into it. I guess I should have said, "my throbbing member," since all this attention had caused it to grow.

"My, its so big," she said playfully, and stroked it a time or two, causing me to groan. She took my head in her hands, and got serious. "I'm not just selling you a line. If you really respect women, and want to be of service, this is the beginning of paradise for you. Oh, there's some hell to go through, but you can have so much more fun with a real dom, fun these bitches know nothing about."

I guess I was getting emotional, tears getting ready to go, because, she kissed me lightly on the forehead and got briskly back to business. She bent over me, and effortlessly lifted me up. I wasn't small, so she was strong. She put a slightly longer strap on my knee cuffs, and adjusted the ankle strap to be a bit longer. I guess it was time to walk. She put all her stuff back in the bag, and turned, holding a leash in her hand. She smiled, and clipped it to my cock. She picked up her bag, and opened the door.

I remember that walk out to her truck as a long one, but not for the reason you might expect. First, I had to listen to Mindy tell another version of her story, much embellished this time and for her to spit at me. Then we went down the hall, and into the elevator. I know people were curious, but the women who lived there were too afraid to look me in the eye. Then I was on the street being frankly stared at by the women. Some clearly were amused, but the hunger of others was surprising.

The collector took me to her truck. It was a mini-flatbed with a double row of cages, one down each side. She stopped before one, opened the barred door, and before I knew what was happening, had picked me up and put me in one. She took off the cock leash and shut the door, locking it with a big padlock. "I'm supposed to secure your neck and legs, but if you don't tell, I won't.” She walked around to the driver side and got in.

She started the truck and we went off. As she had walked around the other side, I heard two male voices hurling abuse at her. I hadn't even thought about other men, but apparently there were at least two other prisoners on the other side of the truck. Each cage had a solid back and partially solid sides, just the front door, top and the front part of each side were metal bars, so I couldn't see who was on the other side. Just as well. "How'd that pussy get you?" one called out to me, but their noise had made me feel dirty, and I said nothing. After a few more abusive questions, they gave up and were silent.

My thoughts returned to the present. I could see a little of the desert out a very small window of the van. Each of us 10 prisoners had a small, metal seat with a high back. Our hands were cuffed together at our waists, and attached to a chain around our waist, so we had to keep our hands in our laps. Our ankles were bound, and further secured to the floor, so we couldn't kick. And our collars were clipped to the seat backs so we couldn't move our upper bodies. That, and we were nude. I had been told by a friendly guard that we had about a two hour trip. One more hour to go. If I relaxed, I could keep from wrenching my muscles.

I thought about the sentencing. It had happened the next day after the Collector deposited me at the local lock up. She had asked me if I really liked bondage, and I'd said yes. "Well, I'll put down on my report that you need maximum security. That should get you lots of bondage."

"But, I didn't give you any trouble!"

"Oh, honey, I know you didn't. You were so good, I'd like to take you home, spank you and keep you tied up. I won't mark you as a troublemaker, I'll mark you as cooperative, but that isn't the same as maximum security. You'll see."

I sure did. Two burly woman guards came to get me the next morning, and a third hovered just out of the cell. One looked at me, "he don't look maximum security to me."

The other grunted, "nothing looks like anything to you, babe, just follow the rules."

They pushed me to the ground, and one sat on my head. My hands were again cuffed behind my back, my ankles put in chains. A thick metal band was attached at my waist, and my leg cuffs attached to it. I found out later that the chain was deliberately just a few inches short, I had to bend at the knees to walk at all, keeping me from any sort of pace other than a slow shuffle.

Then they sat me up, and the third guard handed in a collar. One of the big guards squinted at the dog tags hanging from it, "I got K937650."

"Yup," said the bored guard in the corridor. The collar went around my neck. And that was that, I was a prisoner, a slave, a registered male. The collar had no lock, or rather it had a permanent lock. Once the end of the strap was slid into a little box at the other end of the strap it fused the material. The material was some space age composite. Utterly unbreakable.

Oh, I forgot the muzzle. Not allowed to talk in the courtroom. A muzzle sees to that. But my thoughts were on the collar and all it meant.

Very useful that collar. Once I was brought in the courtroom, the guards brought me up to the prisoner's stand, and pushed my head over till I was leaning with the upper part of my body almost parallel with the ground. Then my collar was snapped into a hook on a post, I had had to maintain that position.

Then, my "case" was started. The judge and two female "processing facilitators" were talking about me. "Living to his age as unregistered, that must mean some cunning, and a determined antisocial attitude." Another brought up that I had been cooperative. Someone wondered if that was truly possible for an unprocessed male. "Well, I think we have to honor the word of the Collector," one said. This went on for some time, to what end, I don't know, since the verdict was a forgone conclusion.

Eventually, my neck was released, and I was allowed to stand for a second. The guards growled “kneel” in my ear and pushed me to the floor. I knelt and looked up. For the first time, I really got a picture of the courtroom and its richly dressed women who sat in judgment on this nude male. The facilitator's were staring at me with faces full of warm compassion. Sort of like a lion looking at a deer.

The judge spoke. She was in her 40's I guess, utterly beautiful in that way a woman who knows who she is, and is allowed to be who she is gets. Her voice was pure honey as well. "I sentence you to a term of at least two years in the state rehabilitation facility, to be followed by a probationary term as a slave for not less than three years. You should know," she added, no longer officially pronouncing the word, "that your term may be extended if it is judged in the best interest of you and the state. Cooperation and understanding are in your best interest." She banged her gavel, and I'd have asked, cooperation with what, but I was muzzled, and it would have probably gotten me another year.

And so that was how I came to be speeding across the desert in a van with nine other naked, sweaty men, headed toward rehab. I had only the word of the Collector that this was something that had some hope to it, but she seemed like an honorable person.

[ On to Chapter 2 ]