Dreams of Submission by IronQuill
At twenty six, with a successful career in advertising sales and a handsome fiancé, Dakota England should be on top of the world. But when unpaid bills start piling up, she’s plagued by a series of disturbing dreams. As they begin, Dakota is ordered to appear before the “Creditor’s Protection Bureau”, where the unsuspecting young woman is ‘Repossessed’ by this mysterious organization, and consigned to a lifetime of slavery for unpaid student loans. She’s stripped of her clothes in a humiliating display, then stripped of her name, her identity, her rights and declared legally dead. She’ll be known only as TA 1983 until she’s sold to a wealthy buyer, just one of many females suffering the same shocking fate.
This is just a dream, isn’t it?
But, rather than fading into forgetfulness as dreams should, this nightmare transforms into obsessive real-time fantasies that threaten both her job and her relationship. Her fiancé, Daniel, can make no sense of Dakota’s sudden desire to be treated like property. However her new boss, Ian, quickly takes advantage of her fragile state. He introduces her to ‘pixie dust’, a powerful aphrodisiac that turns her on so strongly that she can barely control her raging libido, if at all. Soon, she’s giving Ian blowjobs just to keep her job. The line between her dream-life and reality begins to blur. As her dream-self endures the trials of forced incarceration, humiliation, punishment and sexual training, her waking self descends further into the sexual surrender she’s come to crave.
Hooked on dreams and pixie dust, there’s seems little Dakota can do to stop her raging lust, or prevent this outrageous nightmare from becoming a reality.
“Please don’t make me go in there. I’m sorry. Give me another chance.”
Dakota felt an incredible anger at the girl. She wanted to slap her, and tell her to shut up, that her little fit wasn’t doing anyone any good. She wanted to tell her to shut up and do what they said, so everyone could just get on with what they were doing.
But why am I feeling more anger towards her, thought Dakota, than the people who are doing this to us?
As Dakota stood in front of the thick, heavy door, her mouth was dry and her palms grew sweaty and cold. She stared at it, as if she could somehow see through, get a sense of what was going to happen on the other side, but it rejected her stare coldly.
Finally, the door opened a bit, and the stern-looking female guard looked out the door.
“Next! C’mon, we don’t have all day.”
Dakota took a deep breath, and walked in, trying to summon all of her confidence. Somehow she expected to face someone older, more authoritative. Instead, behind a classic wooden desk in the oak-lined office sat a young man, perhaps two or three years younger than Dakota. Behind him stood a teenage boy, an intern holding a few files. In addition to the female guard who let her in, there was another guard, a plump Latino man.
There was another door in the back of the room, behind the man in the desk. There also was a rolling laundry hamper, with cloth sides. It was full of clothes, and for a moment, Dakota didn’t understand what it was doing there. Then she noticed that at the top of the pile of laundry was the flowered dress that the college girl in front of her had been wearing. On top of the dress lay her shoes, and a pair of underwear and a bra, which she must have had on. Her heart began racing faster as she thought she saw the clothes belonging to several other women in the basket.
The man at the desk was not looking at her. He was filling out papers on his desk, bringing down a heavy stamp on them every now and then.
Dakota cleared her throat.
“Um, my name is Dakota England and I was told to...”
The female guard interrupted her.
“Did he ask you a question?” she yelled.
“Well, this is how it works from now on. Someone asks you a question, you answer it, fast. If no one asks you a question, you shut up and wait until someone does. Got it?”
Dakota nodded, terrified. She didn’t know what else to do, so she just stood there. She crossed one arm across her body and held the other arm, her purse resting from her dangling hand. She felt as if a spotlight was on her, because everyone in the room except the man at the desk was looking at her. She tried to look at the ground, as if nothing was happening.
Finally, he looked up, but he did not look at Dakota. He handed the intern some paperwork.
“Here’s the papers for 03B5568,” he said. “Make sure they mark her properly. And check her with her number again; the stupid twats always forget a few times. Make sure she gets five if she doesn’t know it.”
The intern nodded, and ran out the back door. From the briefly open door, Dakota heard disturbing noises: metal clanking together, a frightening buzz, and possibly the sound of a woman crying in pain.
“Now,” said the man at the desk, pulling out a new file, “what do we have here? Dakota England, 26, works as an ad salesperson, grew up in – ooh, East Hampton, a rich bitch. But not anymore, looks like the family business went under. Went to Barnard, English major...what do you think, Candace?”
He looked over his shoulder to the female guard, and she spoke.
“Well, face is okay, Ricky. Little pale round girl-next-door face. I bet she turns into a lobster if she’s out in the sun more than five minutes. Nice curvy little ass, from what I can tell of it so far. Tits aren’t huge, but you could do something with it.”
“I swear to God, I have never met a dyke so into watermelons as you are. I think they have promise, if they keep their shape with the bra off. Nice little white peaches, a perfect handful.”
© Oscar Brunet – Fotolia.com