Fe-mail sack (M/F)
Posted: Thu Jul 31, 2025 4:17 am
Rosemary Belinda stood nude, restrained loosely – very loosely – with strap-hobbles on her wrists and ankles. A hospital attendant waited to lock her in one of the new ‘fe-mail’ sacks once the van from the dealer arrived.
It would have been embarrassing if it hadn’t been so painful. A childhood earache – at thirty! Mr. Hale, at Constantine Cuties and Collars, had sent her to Mercy Hospital, and the doctors and nurses there had nodded in grave approval of his taking it so seriously. They’d given her a shot of some new antibiotic and kept her for two days “to make sure your eardrum doesn’t rupture.”
Well, it hadn’t, and now it was time for her to be put back into the CC&C catalog.
When the van arrived, it turned out to be the Studebaker station wagon. Well, Belinda was the only passenger. Or cargo, depending on how one looked at it. The slave collar around her neck did mark her as the property of men, just like all the other women in America today.
And now it was time to get sacked up. At the attendant’s gesture, Belinda squatted down and then sat down, arms clasped around her knees. (The strap-hobbles had a lot of slack.) The attendant then brought the sack up, securing it around her neck – over her slave collar – with some clever metal-ring closure that she couldn’t see. She could hear the snick, however, as it locked in place. The attendant and the driver – Mr. Hale himself, at it turned out – put the sack containing Belinda into the back seat.
CC&C’s Studebaker had seatbelts installed in the back seat. Locking seatbelts. One of them went around the sack, with Mr. Hale locking and checking it before closing the door. Now Belinda no longer felt loosely restrained. She might have escaped the strap-hobbles, given time and a sufficiently sharp cutting tool. The sack, however, held her. Someone else would have to let her out; she would never be able to do so on her own. Not with her hands inside the sack, and the lock holding it closed on the outside.
Belinda sent out a mental probe. As she expected, the sack’s lock had psi-metal plating on the inner wards. Not only did it need a key to open, the key had to be held by a man. That made it doubly impossible for her to escape. She wiggled slightly, pleased that this was so.
“Comfortable, Belinda?” Mr. Hale asked from the driver’s seat up front.
“Yes sir,” Belinda answered happily.
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(I intended this for the "Tug Story Shorts" thread, but it turned out a bit long and I'm paranoid about 'mature' given the first sentence. So I'm posting this here. Also: I should note that this is a piece in my Demancipation alternate history setting.)
It would have been embarrassing if it hadn’t been so painful. A childhood earache – at thirty! Mr. Hale, at Constantine Cuties and Collars, had sent her to Mercy Hospital, and the doctors and nurses there had nodded in grave approval of his taking it so seriously. They’d given her a shot of some new antibiotic and kept her for two days “to make sure your eardrum doesn’t rupture.”
Well, it hadn’t, and now it was time for her to be put back into the CC&C catalog.
When the van arrived, it turned out to be the Studebaker station wagon. Well, Belinda was the only passenger. Or cargo, depending on how one looked at it. The slave collar around her neck did mark her as the property of men, just like all the other women in America today.
And now it was time to get sacked up. At the attendant’s gesture, Belinda squatted down and then sat down, arms clasped around her knees. (The strap-hobbles had a lot of slack.) The attendant then brought the sack up, securing it around her neck – over her slave collar – with some clever metal-ring closure that she couldn’t see. She could hear the snick, however, as it locked in place. The attendant and the driver – Mr. Hale himself, at it turned out – put the sack containing Belinda into the back seat.
CC&C’s Studebaker had seatbelts installed in the back seat. Locking seatbelts. One of them went around the sack, with Mr. Hale locking and checking it before closing the door. Now Belinda no longer felt loosely restrained. She might have escaped the strap-hobbles, given time and a sufficiently sharp cutting tool. The sack, however, held her. Someone else would have to let her out; she would never be able to do so on her own. Not with her hands inside the sack, and the lock holding it closed on the outside.
Belinda sent out a mental probe. As she expected, the sack’s lock had psi-metal plating on the inner wards. Not only did it need a key to open, the key had to be held by a man. That made it doubly impossible for her to escape. She wiggled slightly, pleased that this was so.
“Comfortable, Belinda?” Mr. Hale asked from the driver’s seat up front.
“Yes sir,” Belinda answered happily.
------------
(I intended this for the "Tug Story Shorts" thread, but it turned out a bit long and I'm paranoid about 'mature' given the first sentence. So I'm posting this here. Also: I should note that this is a piece in my Demancipation alternate history setting.)
