Chapter 1: Pauper

“Ma’am. A Benefactor has shown interest in you.”

Benefactor. It was just another word for potential Sponsor. The word “potential” was misleading, of course. Showing interest in me indicated that my contract was already purchased. I was claimed.

“Just me? You know I have Shirley,” I asked, wary about such “Benefactors.”

“That’s the information I have.” Mary, The volunteer I was talking to, was matronly and must have been in her sixties or seventies. Her voice was completely impersonal, especially considering what she was telling me. I guess it was some sort of coping mechanism. She wouldn’t condone or implore. She was just relaying the news, and doing nothing to actually consider the news she was relaying.

“Who is he? I mean, I take it that my Benefactor’s a ‘he.’”

“It is a male, and you know that we cannot divulge personal information on Benefactors.”

I sighed. This was the part I dreaded. I signed up for the WfD in order to get out from the mountain of debt I owed and also to acquire shelter for myself and Shirley, my six year old daughter. Having a daughter got me to the front of the line for accommodations. I had also hoped it would prevent me from being claimed, but that didn’t seem to faze the person that claimed me.

It didn’t help that one of the mandatory parts of the contracts were nude pictures of me in the “eight standard poses:” full frontal, front squatting, left side, right side, back standing, back bending forward, back bending forward with spread ass cheeks, and even one “bottom view” which was a picture taken from my feet looking toward my hips while I was on an examination table with my feet in stirrups. These pictures were a normal part of the contracts, made legal about fifteen years earlier due to lobbying from the now-legalized sex industry, as they provided over eighty percent of the sponsorships that purchased contracts.

These so-called “Benefactors” were usually the from the seedier side of society, legal, but not the kind of place one actually goes to find work.

The news I just got told me a Sponsor claimed me. I owed millions, plus whatever the expenses for the tiny apartment and food I received. In return, I would become a virtual slave to this unknown person or company for a period of time based on the amount I owed with no option to leave. I didn’t have any right to refuse; I already signed the contract, and the charity had every right to sell it as they saw fit. That usually meant to the first person showing interest, but sometimes there were rumors of bidding wars, especially if the contracted person was young, female, good looking, and unattached.

I recalled a recent bribery scandal regarding Senator Roberta Fronk from Nevada. She was not only removed from office, but her family found themselves in criminal court thanks to PCP-enacted legislation that punished public servants that were shown not to be acting in their interests of their constituents. This meant she and her family needed to pay back the millions of dollars she took under the table, as well as every dollar she earned as a Senator--and to that was added a triple damages award. Since this was more than the Senator’s family had, all their assets were seized, and they ended up in the WfD program, with a delay only for the ex-senator who instead would first spend ten years in prison. Soon after, a record bidding war resulted in a Hollywood studio purchasing the contract of Nola Fronk, the senator’s sixteen year old daughter. It was said that her contract sold for four times the actual value. (And no, the extra money was not able to pay her parents’ contracts.)

At the time of my insolvency, I didn’t have much of a choice. I needed a place for Shirley to stay, and giving her up for foster care or adoption was not an option for me. I tried my mother’s house, but found the place had been sold and the property split up into a half dozen new houses, all of which were now occupied. On the streets in the city, I might find a box to call my own, but that would draw the attention of some unsavory characters such as pimps or pushers. More importantly, the street was no place for an infant. I had no idea how to live off the land, and that also wasn’t the life for a child. I needed a place for us, and the WfD was the only choice.

I knew what I was getting into. I filed with the tax court, had them do a complete audit of my finances, accepted the requirements, and pre-signed the contract for payment of my bankruptcy and room and board from the charity assigned to my case. In return, the charity would let me find work as potential Sponsors perused the contracts available, including mine. That was precisely how the WfD program worked.

Since most sponsorships came from the sex industry, my plan was based on the idea that a woman with a child would not be as sought after as a woman without. I also kept myself dowdy looking, preferring the baggy clothes available donated by thrift shops. I tried not to call attention to myself, and always brought Shirley with me in tow. Of course, that wouldn’t keep people from seeing the explicit pictures I was required to take, but there was hope. In fact, for four years, this strategy actually worked. I think I was the person that was staying at the shelter the longest that wasn’t an NSSA case.

Finding work was difficult. I never got my degree, which was in History. Even the most menial jobs available preferred dealing with Sponsored cases. A WfD charity case may call in sick to avoid work, look for other jobs, steal, show up drunk, or just not show up. There was no such risk with sponsored employees.

I did get a babysitting job at one point and received some money from that, and most went toward my contract’s totals. The job only lasted about eight months before they didn’t need me anymore. Although I got nice references from them, nobody else ever hired me. It was a seller’s market.

Now, at the middle of my fifth year, my luck ran out. Somebody claimed me. That meant I would have work, but the job would no longer be my own choice and I would not have any right to refuse.

Once a person is claimed, they are under close supervision by the charity until such time as they are delivered to their Sponsor. This replaces the “ankle bracelets” (monitors injected somewhere in the calf area of the foot) that non-claimed WfD people were required to wear. Unemployed people would not be able to go very far outside a certain radius, with exceptions made for job interviews. The entire idea behind the bracelets and the supervision was to prevent runaways that would spend time in the system and then run off to another state or wherever to start anew at a different shelter. They were also for people who had the best of intentions but got cold feet when a Sponsor made the claim. Running was getting harder and harder, and I never heard about any successful runaways in all the time I spent at the shelter. Not that the shelter would be advertising that it might be possible to run out on the contract. That would leave the charity with nothing to show for the now worthless contract, although I also heard rumors of bounty hunters that were specially trained to track these runaways...

Luckily, my “escorts” were two older ladies that worked for the charity. Their names were Sarah and Holly, and the same as all the other charity workers, never told me their last names. They would be with me during the period before I was delivered to my Sponsor, working in alternating six-hour shifts. They effectively moved into my apartment and helped me pack the small amount of belongings Shirley and I managed to accumulate over the past four years. They would also supervise Shirley when I went to the clinic to get collared.

Yeah, that was the latest thing: the collar. You can put air quotes around it. The “collar.” It wasn’t really a collar, though. However, I guess it duplicated the idea of a slave’s collar. In actuality, it was something they injected into your neck. That’s as much as anybody really knew, at least anybody that I knew. It is supposed to either influence behavior or correct misbehavior ... or both. I wasn’t sure how it worked, but the talk was that it somehow attached to your spinal cord, brain stem, or whatever. It either controlled your thoughts or actions, communicated instructions, or maybe it worked on a reward/punishment idea. Nobody I ever talked to was ever claimed, so it was all guessing. Advertisements on the comms and holos never offered any details. They only used the words such as “humane” and “efficient.” That would be nice if they were describing a mouse trap, but when it involved humans, it seemed to me to be a bit ... out there.

The collar was the reason most jobs preferred sponsored cases.

Once I was collared, I would no longer need to have the charity workers looking over every detail of my life. In some ways, I would be grateful, since once I was claimed, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom or take a shower without the escorts watching me closely! Somehow, once the collar was applied, it enforced compliance to the terms of my contract, and escorting wouldn’t be as rigid afterward, a mere formality in fact.

Before I was escorted to the clinic to get my collar, Sarah actually took me to a bar to get a couple of drinks.

“This is your last moments as a free person, Jess,” she told me. “I’ve found that a drink or two can help ease some of the worries you are currently having. I can only allow you to have up to two drinks because there will be surgery involved, but you can make them doubles if you want.” She turned to the bartender. “Charge her drinks to the charity young man.” Sarah then left me alone, although she was still watching from a few tables away, affording me some privacy--more privacy than I was afforded since the moment I was informed that I was claimed.

I made a vow against alcohol since before I entered the WfD program. No money and the lo-jack on my calf kept me within a short perimeter of the shelter before an alarm sounded an alert. I think they actually set the location of the shelter so that there weren’t any night clubs or bars nearby. Such a shame, because a lot of women in the shelter knew bars to be a source of free drinks (and occasionally food). Just smile at a guy, and pretend to listen to him. Bingo! Since this wasn’t a way to earn money, I didn’t play that game, although I did think of it a few times when I was at the shelter. However, I got drunk the last time I saw my ex, and made a vow never to drink again. Up until now, I lived up to that vow, mostly due to poverty, but a vow was a vow.

This was different. Sarah was right. These were my last moments of being a free woman. Soon, I would be working in the sex industry. I was a shy person, and the idea of performing sex with somebody not of my choosing was abhorrent to me. I figured a drink or two right now was a perfectly good exception to my vow. It wasn’t lack of will power. I was simply scared shitless.

My normal drink was wine way back when. The only thing I refused to drink would be Champagne, but this wasn’t a Champagne occasion. A couple of glasses of wine weren’t going to do anything for the nervousness I was experiencing in advance of getting collared. I asked the bartender for something fruity and strong, and he made me a Mai Tai. It wasn’t bad, and it was actually stronger than I anticipated.

The bar wasn’t crowded, so the bartender spoke to me once I started my first drink “I’ve seen Sarah come in here before. She’s a tea-totaller, but still buys you girls drinks. You’ve been claimed, huh?”

I nodded my head. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

“So, today’s the big day?”

Another nod.

“I put an extra shot of Gran Marnier in there in addition to the double rum. You seem pretty calm and collected compared to some of the girls I’ve seen, but I can bet I know what’s going through your mind right now.”

“Yeah. I hoped that a woman with a child would be less likely to get a Sponsor.” That was the official name for the unknown male that paid up my contract. The word “Benefactor” seemed to me to be an ironic term, as the only person that normally benefited in such a relationship was the guy with the money.

“Well, some people enjoy MILFs,” the bartender said. He hurriedly added, “I don’t mean that in a disparaging way.”

I knew the acronym. “Mothers I’d Like to Fuck.” It was a age old expression describing people my age with children and good looks. It could be taken as a compliment or an insult. Somehow, I didn’t think the bartender was insulting me.

“Yeah. It’s a bitch all right.”

The bartender smiled. “Well, I hope things work out for you. Remember that all contracts have an end date, and after that your so-called Sponsor is responsible for paying you a living wage as a pension. You could also get a Waldo.”

If you have been living in a cave, Waldo was a reference to a popular holo from a few years back. It involved a Sponsor named Waldo that sponsored a pretty woman named Lisa in the WfD program. He surprised his charge by putting her into an expensive Ivy League school, having her get a degree, and then helping her find a job. She was able to work and eventually paid him back. At the end, the two married. It was a movie they played back at the shelter on movie nights more than any other movie.

“I doubt a Waldo would be sending me to get a collar,” I mused, as I finished the last of my drink.

“Perhaps not, but you never know what you’ll get. Hope for the best, and maybe life will surprise you. Another?”

“Yeah.”

“No problem.”

The bartender mixed another drink for me. It seemed even stronger this time.

“Anyway, you are entitled to see the contract before you get collared. Not that you can do anything about it, but you can find the expiration date. That’s when you are supposed to start receiving your pension. The date is important! Some people don’t think about it, and end up working the rest of their lives, unaware that they’re really free. Be smart!”

“I will,” I said. “Oh, I really needed that one.”

“I can’t offer you another. Sarah is watching you like a hawk.”

“Like she has been since I was claimed. I’ve gotten a bit used to it, though. Soon, it won’t matter.”

“She also probably has somebody waiting at the back entrance in case you make a run for it. I saw a nice girl get caught a few months ago. It wasn’t pretty.”

I didn’t even consider a back door. I was grateful that the guy told me about that, because I was sometimes prone to coming up with an idea such as running without thinking ahead of time. Now I knew that the back door wasn’t a good idea. I knew I was strong for my gender, but a person trained to catch runaways would still be able to subdue me.

Nodding at the bartender, I finished my drink. “Thank you. I really needed this.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you...” He left the end of the sentence dangling.

“Jess. Jess Sterling.” I went back to using my maiden name once I found I was broke. I didn’t want to be associated with my ex. It wasn’t my legal name any more, since I didn’t have the money to get it legally changed back. The bartender, for one, didn’t seem the type to go checking my ID.

“Anthony. Tony to my friends.”

“It was nice meeting you, too, Tony.”

“Come visit me here when your contract expires. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

Sarah came up to the bar and led me outside.

At the hospital, I asked Sarah if I would be allowed to see my contract before the procedure. She seemed a bit surprised, but she nodded. She pulled out her portacomm and asked for somebody to deliver me my papers.

I looked over the contract. It was all legal mumbo-jumbo, but there was a definite end date. Five years! Shirley would be eleven. I’d be free and able to enjoy her teen years! I did the math on the money I knew I owed, and figured that whoever paid my contract fee and got only five years was either stupid or misguided. I also noticed an abbreviation on the contract “PA” referring to my job. I didn’t see any definition for that, so I asked Sarah, and she pulled out a portacomm and said “Personal Assistant” or “Production Assistant” and that she sent a query to check. The former didn’t seem to be a sex industry job, although the latter seemed to be a non-actress job in holos.

Sarah must have gotten a haptic signal from her portacomm, because she looked at it. “Here it is. Personal Assistant. It’s listed as a housekeeping job. Both you and your daughter will be living on site for the duration of your contract.”

“Where?”

Sarah said, “That information is redacted. You have no need to know at this time.”

That figured. At least it didn’t sound like soap work. I felt a bit better. Of course, I’d have to arrange Shirley’s schooling, as she was supposed to start first grade soon. Then register at a clinic for medical needs. Well, I was moving out of the shelter and its limited services.

When they actually brought me into the operating room to get collared, it didn’t seem to be that big a deal. One minute, I was lying in a bed as an anesthesiologist gave me an injection, and the next thing I remember, I was awake and Sarah was nowhere to be seen.

“I see you’re awake.”

I turned to see a nurse at the other side of my bed. “Yes. Is it ... finished?”

“Yes. Your Microservus Principis Unit has been installed.”

“Micro Serve ... what?”

“Microservus Principis Unit. MPU for short, popularly known as the collar.”

“I don’t feel any different.”

The nurse nodded. “You shouldn’t feel anything different. Besides, it isn’t activated yet. It doesn’t need maintenance, as it draws its current from your body’s normal neural transmitters. There’s a ten-year warranty on the unit itself, and free updates on the software. You’ll probably get about five software upgrades throughout its lifetime, but that happens automatically. That is, without surgery.”

“What happens when my contract expires in five years?”

“Well, the software will automatically shut down at the expiration of your contract. It’s a basic part of the emancipation process along with enfranchisement. Afterward, it has no effect. You could have it removed if you prefer. Some do, actually. The cost isn’t that high.”

“I see.” I was going to have that thing removed the day of my emancipation! “You said it wasn’t activated yet?”

“The implant takes a few hours to meld with your neurons. However, there are basics that are already in service. If you were to run, for instance, your voluntary nervous systems would be disabled. You wouldn’t get five feet outside the building.”