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Jonas was a purchase expert at Waylon and Sons inc., one of the largest slave trading companies in the country. The company dealt in selling, and sometimes buying, slaves, as well as taking care of the upkeep and training of those yet to be sold.
As a purchase expert Jonas was the one who bought new slaves into the company. It wasn’t as customer facing as sales, and he liked it like that. He hated sucking up to potential customers and trying to figure out what the rich assholes wanted in a slave when they kept talking in riddles.
His newest purchase was a group of eleven babies from the East Harbour naval base. He stuck the crates into the back of his van and put the signed check into the hand of the officer he had done business with.
“I’ll see you again for the next batch,” the officer said and waved him off as Jonas climbed into the car.
The back of the van was soundproof, so he didn’t have to listen to the wailing of the babies. It had been a nightmare before they had gotten that done; bastards at the finance didn’t want to give money for anything unnecessary. Well, the sanity and hearing of Jonas and the other purchase experts was necessary, thank you very much. Waylon and Sons inc. had the cost/profit margins maximised indeed. It could be seen everywhere; everything was calculated for the maximum amount profit.
It meant, for example, that all the milker slaves had no more than ten and no less than seven babies to take care of per slave. Any less and the upkeep of milkers would become costly, any more and the babies wouldn’t get enough to eat and would turn out frail which would lower their selling prices.
The nursery was in a big warehouse-like building. Jonas parked his van at the back entrance and the nursery supervisor came out to greet him.
“How many?” She asked, peering into the back of the van.
“Eleven, a good size batch. I don’t like making the drive just for a few.”
She hummed in agreement and called a slave to help unload the crates. The slave was a young man with a heavier build, clearly one raised for manual labour. They brought the crates into the building and started opening them. There were five crates, each holding two or three babies.
“When have they last been fed?” Asked the supervisor over the sound of the babies’ cries.
“A couple hours ago, maybe three. They were already packed when I went to pick them up,” Jonas answered.
“Okay, we’ll take them to be fed first then. This way,” the supervisor said, lifting two babies into her arms.
Jonas had been to the nursery before multiple times, but the twisting hallways didn’t seem to be any more familiar than any of the times before.
They walked past rooms full of babies of different ages. At any given point the nursery had somewhere between seventy and hundred babies. After the babies were weaned of milk they would be sent to a training centre instead.
“We’re almost at a full capacity, but there has been talk of expansion. Getting a couple new milkers and then we could hold a twenty or so more babies easily,” the supervisor told Jonas as they walked through the hallways. Jonas nodded. Carrying the babies took most of his concentration: they were so easily breakable this young and if something happened that decreased their value it would be on his head.
They arrived at a room where the milkers apparently were kept. The milkers turned to look when they walked in, eyes dull and tired. They were all woman of indistinguishable ages, their bodies wrecked by constant pregnancies and lactating, faces lined with the demands of their lives, skin sallow and dull.
“Everyone, come here,” the supervisor commanded. One by one the milkers heaved themselves up and waddled over, huge, sagging tits swaying with their laboured movements.
“Here, Red, take these.” The supervisor pushed the babies into the arms of the closest milker. Red was a heavyset woman, made even heavier with her clear pregnancy. She had a short red hair and tired blue eyes. She took the babies in her arms easily and soon enough they latched onto her large nipples. They resembled not so much normal human nipples than distended animal teats, stretched out and swollen as they were. Her eyelids fluttered and she made a little noise as the babies sucked.
“Mel, here.” The next milker was so fat that Jonas couldn’t even tell if she was pregnant. Jonas knew that weight gain was sometimes a side effect of lactation medications that the milkers were given as well as the constant pregnancies. Her pale skin was stretched over rolls and rolls of flesh and her tits would’ve probably hung down to her navel if her stomach wasn’t on the way. She too expertly arranged the babies so that they could latch on to the nipples.
And so, it went. Every available milker got two babies, and the last one was pushed to a one that was feeding babies in the first baby room they went to.
The supervisor wrote the babies information on the charts hanging from the end of the crip and at the same time Jones put the information into the company database on his handheld computer.
On the charts went the baby’s birthyear, birthplace, sex and a short description of things like hair, eye and skin colour, any visible birthmarks and large moles. Things that would help identify them before they could answer whatever name they were given.
“The doctor will be here in a few days to microchip them.” Slaves didn’t have birth certificates, but they were microchipped, and their information logged into a government database along with their owner’s information, Waylon and Sons inc. in these babies case. This was supposed to limit the illegal slave trade and kidnapping of free people. If one was enslaved when they were older, the microchip would show why they were enslaved and the judge that signed the order. With babies it would show where they came from as well as the list of owners.
Jonas nodded. His job here was done now, and he would be off to the office to file his repot and then he would take the nightshift at the uptown storefront as the purchase consult there had called in sick.
“Hey, before you go,” the supervisor piped up suddenly, “would you like to try to get one of our milkers pregnant? I need to put in an insemination request soon, but you could do it too and save us the trouble. It’s been almost six months since she gave birth so it’s time soon.”
It did sound good, actually. His job did have its perks sometimes.
“Dotty,” the supervisor called into the room, “come to my office after you’re done feeding that baby.”
Dotty was an average milker. Soft, round stomach, huge tits and tired, expressionless face. She had darker skin, and her short hair was curly. Her tits leaked milk, and the droplets ran down her stomach. She wasn’t especially sexy or enticing the way bed slaves were, but a warm hole would still beat jerking off.
Jonas bent her over the desk after the supervisor left the office and kicked her legs apart. Her cuntlips were large and battered, a bit ugly, but her cunt was dusky pink and warm and moist when he spread them apart and yeah, this would work just fine. His dick was already getting hard.
He jerked his dick into full hardness, coating it in the lube the supervisor had left for him to use, before pushing into the warm hole. It was surprisingly tight, gripping his dick and pulsing around him as he started to fuck in. The milker let out little plaintive groans as her stomach and tits were mashed against the table’s hard surface with every thrust and her cunt abused as Jonas chased an orgasm.
He dug his fingers into the milker’s wide hips and pulled her towards him as he bottomed in her, pushing in as deep as he could go.
Soon enough he came with a groan, spurting his come inside the milker. God, it had been long since he’d fucked someone bare. He pulled out and watched as a small pearly white trickle fallowed. Better not let it escape, he though and used his finger to push the come back in.
The nightshift was pretty quiet, and he spent most of it playing solitaire on the office computer in the back of the shop. The noises of the darkening night filtered in through the shop’s open front door and he could hear Samantha buttering up a customer at the front. She was clearly close to closing a sale, even if the customer made all sorts of faux hesitant noises. The slave in question was a boy of sixteen, a slip of a thing and well trained in the art of sex. Jonas had brought him and two others into the shop front himself, Samantha taking advantage of his lack of work to make him act as her assistant.
The slaves, of which there were twenty-five at the moment - though they did have a larger catalogue and could have others brought in from the warehouse or other locations – were kept in a room in the back of the shop. The room was filled with cages that were barely large enough to walk three paces back and forth. Each one was equipped with a sleeping pallet. Chamber pots were disgusting and messy, so the slaves had to ask to use a bathroom. They were also given two meals a day.
“Jonas, come here please!” Samantaha called from the front. Jonas paused the game and went to see what was going on.
There was a man, presumably a customer, with a slave on a leash.
“This gentleman would like to sell his slave. Could you please take care of it?” Samantha asked in her peppy customer service voice. The slave boy she was trying to sell was kneeling at her feet and her customer was standing next to her, looking impatient at the interruption.
“Yes, absolutely. This way, please.” Jonas led the man to the counter. This was the most demanding part of his job and his least favourite. Babies were easy and he purchased them all the time from the military, from brothels and even from individual slave owners. Older slaves were where it became complicated. There were many things to consider. Did they need a doctor? Did they need new training? Their possible resale value and how that would compare to the cost of their upkeep. The people looking to sell their slave were also rarely understanding when he told them that they could not buy this particular slave or if the money he offered for the slave was less than what they wanted.
“Well, what do we have here then? Could you tell me about your slave and why you want to sell her, sir?”
“I inherited her from my father, and I can’t keep her. I don’t really know much about her.” This was not new; a lot of people inherited their parents’ slaves and then had to get rid of them for one reason or another.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jonas said because that was the sort of thing that was expected in this situation. The man nodded. “Do you know if she has a microchip?” She looked young enough to be born after the microchipping law had been implemented but that wasn’t a guarantee.
“I don’t know, probably. My old man tended to do things by the book.” Jonas nodded and dug out the scanner from under the counter. He ran the scanner over the back of the girl’s neck and did find a chip. Good. That would make thing easier.
“Name: Scarlett, Sex: female, Age: 25, Owner: Rober Brickwell. Does that sound right?”
“Yes, that’s my father.” Well, shit, a new complication.
“Well, the thing is, sir, you need to register the change in ownership before I can buy her.” The man groaned, frustrated.
“You can do it easily at the city council’s office during the opening hours, you just need a copy of your father's will and his death certificate. And if you want, I can write you an offer for her and if it sounds good you can come back here after you get the registration done and we’ll take her.”
“That sounds good. The sooner I get her off my hands the better.”
Jonas checked the girl over and there seemed to be no signs of any health issues, but the lack of doctor’s certificate would bring the price down. She had been trained as a house slave and those were a dime in a dozen, so she’d probably need some additional training. She was young and healthy but there wasn’t any mentions of children so there was no proof of fertility. And so on. He went through the whole checklist and then went to check the rates on the computer.
“I can offer you a grand for her,” two actually, but you weren’t supposed to start at your highest offer. Especially with customers looking to just get a slave of their hands it always paid to start low.
The man hemmed and hawed and asked for two. Jonas raised to twelve hundred and so they went. He ended up signing him an offer of 1450.
After the man left Samantha came to the counter with her customer and the little pleasure slave. She had closed the deal and the thought of a commission from a sale of this magnitude – pleasure slaves were among the most expensive – clearly made her eyes shine as she filled the paperwork and sent the customer away with his new bedwarmer.
“Wanna go out for drink after closing?” She asked as she updated their stock report. Her long pink nails clacked against the keyboard.
“Sure, if you’re buying. You just made a big sale after all and I’m just an underpaid purchase consultant.” Jonas smiled and she giggled. Her soft lips curved up in a much more genuine smile than the one she had offered to the customer.
“Expert. I know you were promoted last year, so don’t try that with me. But sure, I’ll pay.”
Together they closed up the storefront, fed the slaves and locked the doors. They headed to the closest bar, their fingers brushing against each other as they walked. The night was very much looking up for Jonas.