The checkpoint is busy again - as usual. You sigh in silent resignation, joining the long line of vassal slaves, silent, their heads hung low as they queue up to enter the special economic zone for another exhausting day of work.

You lower your gaze as well, not wanting to draw attention or court the ire of the guards by making uninitiated eye contact. Instead you stare blankly at the bare heels of the man in front of you in line, swallowing your pride as you shuffle slowly towards the familiar humiliation of the inspection point.

Your anxiety grows as the line snakes closer, hoping that you will not be unlucky enough to be made an example of this morning. You nervously check your authorization card once more, confirming that it is valid for today and for the correct zone, then reflexively check one more time that your behavioral plug is properly seated and that your shock collar is firmly fastened.

The check is not necessary of course - the heavy metal plug in your anus is impossible to ignore, as is the thick metal band locked around your neck. Both are permanent reminders of your powerlessness and vulnerability, only removed under supervision. They ensure that each man remains highly motivated to obey every rule and order by offering the constant threat of debilitating pain should any woman decide to activate the shock electrodes in the devices.

The visceral memory of the crippling agony of punishment makes you wince as you recall the indignity. All it took was a young woman deciding that you were insufficiently deferential. Deciding she was tired of dealing with you, she pulled out her remote, pointed it at you, then pressed the button. The look of contempt on her face is burned into your memory of the split second of paralyzing fear between her action and the excruciating series of stabbing shocks. Then, blinded by pain, you collapsed to the ground, your limbs spasming uselessly as the electricity coursed though you, unable even to scream as you lost control of your bladder.

All of the men in line are dressed the same as you - as they always are. Their ill-fitting transparent plastic tunics just another part of the constant surveillance that all indentured workers have been subjected to since the reparations laws were passed. You remember how you did not take the reparations movement seriously at first, thinking it was a ridiculous idea that would never take hold.

When the first laws were passed that allowed women to sue for reparations from men who had harmed them the targets were all convicted sex offenders. No one fought their passage, or felt sorry for the rapists and abusers who were bankrupted in civil suits brought by their victims.

It took less than a year for a series of amendments to pass allowing women to sue for emotional and indirect harm, but still you did not believe that you would ever be affected. You didn’t even take it seriously when you were served, the papers informing you that you were being sued by Sophie - your ex girlfriend - for misrepresenting your intentions. 

The judge at your hearing was a stern faced older woman, her grey hair tied up in a severe bun. She listened to Sophie’s testimony with a sympathetic frown, occasionally shaking her head in your direction as the young woman told her story.

You had lied, she said - telling her that you were looking for a committed relationship to trick her into having sex with you even though you had no intention of settling down with her. It was fraud - tantamount to rape because you had fraudulently obtained her consent to have sex with you.

You remember the scent of wood and aged leather in the courtroom as you listened, bemused, to Sophie’s accusations. You watched her on the stand, as transfixed by her pretty face as you ever were. You mind wandered, contemplating her delicate up-turned nose, wrinkled with distress as she glanced accusingly at you.

You couldn’t help your eyes being drawn to the firm globes of her small breasts, her athletic body managing to seem endearingly modest despite the low cut of the white dress she wore. Even as she delivered her closing remarks, your brain was remembering the intoxicating beauty of her naked body, imagining her writhing exquisitely beneath you, trembling as you thrust yourself inside her again and again.

It wasn’t until the third witness had given her account of your behavior that you began to realize the seriousness of your predicament, but by then it was too late. The judge awarded damages - an amount that you could never hope to pay - and reminded you that the judgement could not be discharged through bankruptcy. Your choices were to pay, or to be taken into vassal servitude until your debt was paid.

You had no choice, and when Sophie declined to accept you as her personal bondsman you were ordered to be sold to a slave-holding corporation where you could work to pay your debt, joining the millions of other men facing the same fate.

Of course, there is no way your meager wages can ever even service the interest on what you owe, you reflect as you notice you are almost at the checkpoint. The line splits, and you are motioned over to one of the booths.

“Scan your card.” The uniformed woman says, her neutral tone a refreshing change from the usual casual disdain. You press your ID against the pad, glancing up to see your face and biodata appear on the screen as she looks from you to the monitor and back again.

She is tall - you judge she would be a couple of inches taller than you even without shoes - and heavy set. Her grey uniform is tight across her generous chest, and you notice a distinct muffin-top spilling over her grey pants. You’ve seen her before - her brown hair tied back in a braid, making her square jawed face seem bigger than it is.

“Sorry - erm - Greg.” She says, a hint of kindness in her voice as she reads your name. “You’ve been selected for secondary screening. Please place your hands in the cuffs.” 

You wince slightly at what you know is to come, shuffling forward. You put your wrists into the pair of polished metal shackles attached to the security booth, flinching slightly as she closes them with a loud click.

“Spread your legs.” She says, moving to stand behind you as you drag your ankles apart to stand even more uncomfortably exposed. She passes a wand up and down your body, the wailing noise of the scanner going up in pitch as it passes near your collar and butt plug. You feel the cold touch of the scanner between your thighs, hearing it screech again.

You feel her lift the hem of your tunic, grasping the exposed ’T’ shape of your plug with her gloved hand and tugging it. The sensation is visceral, the thick plug wrenching your body as if she has grabbed hold of your insides.

“Good boy - that feels secure.” She says, reaching between your legs to cup your balls. You flinch at her touch, feeling yourself blush slightly, your cock moving involuntarily at the unexpected touch. Some part of you still feels resentful of the casual violation that you are subjected to daily, still clinging to the expectation of privacy and dignity.

“When was your last authorized release?" She asks.

"Erm?" You murmur, trying to remember, trying to think and not to move as you feel your cock stiffen under her invasive touch. "It was - I think - three weeks ago Ma'am? I'm sorry Ma'am - I don't recall the exact date."

“That’s a violation.” She says, matter-of-factly, and you feel your body tighten, her voice more stern now. She grips your balls more firmly as you hold your breath in fear.

“I’ll let it go this time, but I expect you to know the exact date next time." You relax slightly, exhaling in relief.

"T-thank you Ma'am. Sorry Ma'am." You manage breathlessly, trying to maintain your composure.

“Are you on a corrective action plan? That seems like a long time." She asks, letting her hand linger, seemingly enjoying your helpless unease.

"N-no Ma'am. I just - I mean - I just haven't earned enough good behavior credits yet Ma'am." You say, trying not to react as you feel her withdraw her hand, your body aching with frustration.

"Hmm - well perhaps you should be trying harder?" She says with a playful smile, slapping you firmly on your bare ass cheek as she walks back to her booth to collect your medication.

“Yes Ma’am.” You say meekly as she offers you the small pill, opening your mouth to let her place it on your tongue, then swallowing, before opening your mouth again to let her verify that it is gone. She bends slightly to look into your mouth, and your eyes are drawn involuntarily to her bust, your heart rate quickening with lust at the simple proximity to a woman as you inhale the slight musky scent of her body. You know that you would not have been attracted to this woman before, but you burn with desire at the sight and smell of her.

All vassals are kept on the same drug regime, administered daily at the first checkpoint they pass through. The ritual is humiliating, reinforcing the fact that you cannot be trusted with even the most basic tasks, but you understand perfectly why it is enforced. The drug is one of the most difficult parts of your captivity, affecting you in ways that feel more intrusive than either your plug or collar. The effects are dramatic, and highly motivating, increasing your libido while at the same time preventing orgasm no matter how much your genitals are stimulated. The first days are the worst, the body unaccustomed to denial, the subject not yet having accepted that attempts to masturbate only increase the frustration of not being able to cum.

The only way to earn release is by being awarded ‘good behavior credits’, which can be redeemed when enough have been accumulated to allow the drug dose to be skipped for a day, which usually allows the man to orgasm with enough effort. The points are discretionary, and can be dispensed by any woman. In practice, they are exasperatingly rare.

“OK I need to verify your collar and plug functions now.” She says, and you nod, gritting your teeth in fearful anticipation.

“Mhgh!” You grunt, trying to stifle the cry of pain as the shocks shoot through you - nowhere near the intensity of a punishment level, but still deeply uncomfortable.

"Good boy - that seems to be in order." She says, an almost imperceptible smirk in her tone. “If you’re interested in earning more credits make sure you are in my line tomorrow morning. She says as she presses the release for the shackles. "Move along".

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you Ma'am." You say deferentially, pulling down your plastic tunic as you pass the checkpoint into the special economic zone, quickening your pace in an effort not to be late for your work assignment.