Spellbook Slaves Collections Desk. 8:00 AM
The phone rings. It’s too damn early for phone calls.
“Spellbook Slaves, collections desk. How may I help you?”
My name is Mitchell Rivers and I work at Spellbook Slave’s Collections desk. I’m also the only one that works on the desk right now. Mr. West has just started doing conversion debt collections, and is waiting to see whether it pays out or not. Spellbook Slaves does not do normal debt collections where we take your money or maybe your car. If I get called on a collection notice, I’m leaving with your wife, one or more of your daughters, or just all the women in your family, depending on your contract. People should read their loan applications better. Or their utility bills, or anything else that requires you to make monthly payments. Most of them include a clause now that puts your women folk at risk if you default or even have a late payment. Defaulting on a contract isn’t a good idea in 2025. Any way, back to this damn call. Sounds like a prank call, what with it being what sounds like a teen or sorority girl, and giggles in the background.
So, do you collect girls off to be slaves and stuff?
Yeah, if someone is late on their bills or like that.
Well, what if, like, some girl wants to be, ah, converted? Like, you know, into a sex slave?
Ok, now I’m sure it’s a prank call. I’m bored, let’s see how this goes.
Well, yeah, I can take voluntary conversion, sometimes happens on a pickup. Why would you like to be converted?
Yeah, all four of us do…
I hear giggles in the background.
OK, let’s see how much of slave law, as done in Oklahoma, these girls know. I’m betting not enough to keep them out of trouble. This might fun after all.
Ok, then I want you to say your name, then say “I would like to be a slave”. Can you do that for me?
I hear giggles in the background. I turn on the record function on the phone.
My name is Felice Edwards and I would like to be a slave
Well, got one at least. Then there is a different voice.
My name is Kirby Beck and I would like to be a slave.
That’s two
Celia Vargas and I would like to be a slave.
Three
Suzanne Holland and I would like to be a slave.
And four. Then the phone goes dead. No big deal, this is the 21st century and phone calls tell more than they should, particularly if registered to a woman. I typed in all four names (took a while to get the spelling right on some, thankfully the search by name feature has an AI “helper”) into the state slave commission website and found that they are all, in fact, legal for conversion. And, of course, they are students at Eastlake University. Doesn’t say what sorority, but I’d bet Delta Delta Delta, given their general lack of clue. I’m glad that the state doesn’t keep as much information on men as it does on women, it’s unsettling how much they do keep on them. I make a few entries and upload the recording I just made, changing their status to provisionally converted, awaiting urine test. Doing a reverse on the caller ID, I find that it is a smartphone registered to a Felice Edwards. Gotcha bitch. I go to a website that only PI and registered debt collectors can sign up for and find the billing address of that account. It’s in the Southside, of course. That just cost Mr. West fifty bucks, but I’m betting that it will pay off with four young slaves, and he will not be pissed.
I decided that I’ll handle this pick up, instead of passing it on to the regular pickup teams, given they called me, not the main number. Plus I’ve seen the daily work orders, and I don’t have anything to do today, unless we get a call in, which is unlikely do to the time of the month. I would be swamped if it was the first week, but it’s not, so I’m idling at the desk. So I forward the desk phone to my mobile, just in case I do get a legit call, upload the recording to my smartphone, then gather my slaving kit and go out to the white panel van. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. At least I think Mr. West works that way, he seems pretty laid back.
After dealing with the semi-nightmare that south side traffic is during morning rush hour, I arrived at the address I got.
After ringing the door, it’s opened by a cute brunette with white girl dreadlocks.
Felice? I’m Mitchell with Spellbook Slaves’ collections department…
Wow, you came out, I’m Felice, glad to meet you… Hey girls, the slaver dude came out…
From the back I heard, Is he cute? Felice looks at me and says
Sort of, in that older working guy way.
Well, invite him in…
I come in once invited and follow Felice back to the den.
Sorry that you had to come out for nothing, but we will get naked for you, and you can look at us if you would like…
That will do for a start.
Well, it’s all you are getting… You’re cute, but not cute enough for anything else. You look like you are one of my stepdad’s friends. It would be icky to do anything more frisky. Right girls?
Oh, yeah, looks far too much like one of daddy’s workers. Has the working-class look to him. Not putting out.
Yeah, I don’t fuck workers. Or even give them head. A girl has got to have standards, you know.
I don’t even do scholarship boys at school. You got to have money, or you don’t get the honey.
Yeah, but if they do have money, well, you give out lots of honey, like you were a queen bee or something. Even to some girls.
Well, yeah, but never often enough for that slave thing. I spread it around. And yeah, I like girls occasionally. Nice change of pace. Don’t tell me you don’t visit some sister’s room at the house from time to time.
I wait as they strip down, keeping my face neutral, not showing how pissed I am at them. One grade A+ maybe A prime, two grades A and one B+, possibly A- if I were to make a guess. Have to wait and see what the machine says. Good haul for free. Mr. West should like this. The one possibly A prime, Felice, has tattoos, so she’s safe from Issac’s monthly harvest, but the others must might make it. Given their general classist attitude, I’m going to recommend that to Mr. West. Going to recommend Felice be sold to a brothel with a “full use” option.
It doesn’t matter whether you would fuck me or not. You have all verbally indicated to a licensed slaver, that would be me, that you all wish to be converted to a person of limited rights, which was duly recorded and registered with the Oklahoma slave registry. At this time, you all are now provisionally a person of limited rights, pending verification of your status regarding pregnancy or drug use via a urinalysis. I am allowed to use any level of force, up to and including lethal force, to take your conversion.
They looked a bit shocked. I pull out my multi shot Taser.
Don’t me use this Taser, or my real gun. Actually, yeah, make me use it. Make my day, bitches.
Of course, an X3 only has 3 shots, but I think I can take one of them if it comes to that. Mr. West hasn’t given me one of the Taser 10 guns yet. I understand they are expensive, and the darts cost a lot more than the normal ones, and in theory I shouldn’t need 10 shots for the sort of pickup I do. I do carry a Smith and Wesson M&P 9, my “real gun” in case things go completely sidewise. I don’t understand why the regular pickup people don’t carry a piece. They do have 12 gauges, but those are loaded with bean bag rounds. Haven’t needed to do more than wave the M&P around so far, but I’m waiting for the day I get to blow away some resisting teen, or better yet, her mother. Assuming she wasn’t on the pickup list herself, don’t want to not get the target. Today might be the day. If I need to, I’ll shoot the B+ slut, she’s worth the least. With my left hand, I pull my phone out and play back their call.
Girls, you have done fucked up with the wrong working man. If you weren’t so classist, I might have taking this for a joke, had a laugh with you and left, but that’s not happening now. You’re coming with me.