Chapter 3: Special Service
The metallic scent of the city was stronger at the curb, a mixture of wet pavement, diesel, and something else—the sharp, clean smell of fear. Naomi stared at the government-issued kiosk, its bright screen glowing with cheerful directives against the grime of the sidewalk. She’d seen the bulletins, of course. The outrage over the flight hold incidents had to be managed, the narrative controlled. The solution, broadcast with solemn assurance, was “enhanced security protocols for all transit tiers.” For women like her, it meant the collar.
Driving was out of the question. The new licensing hurdles were a bureaucratic wall, and her appointment was in forty minutes across town. Her knuckles were white around the strap of her leather portfolio. Inside were contracts, her tablet, her identity. All of it would be forfeit, temporarily. The thought made her stomach clench.
With a final, shuddering breath, she pushed through the tinted glass door of the “Transit Compliance Office.”
The chill of the air conditioning raised goosebumps on her skin immediately. The space was brutally efficient: a queue rope, a counter, a door marked “Fitting.” A bored-looking man in a grey uniform glanced up.
“Age?”
“Twenty-five,” Naomi said, her voice tighter than she intended.
“ID.”
She slid her card across the counter. He scanned it, his eyes flicking from the image to her face. A light on his terminal blinked green. “Proceed to Fitting. All clothing and personal items in the provided bin. They will be returned after the physical.”
“The physical? The bulletin just said a fitting.”
He didn’t look up from his screen. “Standard health verification. Prevents transit risks. Go on.”
The humiliation began methodically. In the sterile, white room, a female attendant—her face a mask of blank routine—pointed to a bin. “Everything. Jewelry, hair ties, everything.”
Naomi’s fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her silk blouse. The cool air kissed her skin. She stepped out of her trousers, folded them with absurd care, and placed them in the bin. Finally, she hooked her thumbs into the lace of her panties and slid them down, adding them to the pile. She stood, completely exposed, fighting the urge to cover herself. Her body was slender, with the graceful lines of a dancer, inherited from her mother. Her breasts were full and heavy, with dark, responsive nipples that tightened painfully in the cold. A faint, sleek trail of dark hair led from her navel down to her pubic mound.
The attendant circled her with a detached, assessing gaze. “Arms up.”
Naomi complied. The woman’s gloved hands were impersonal but thorough, lifting her breasts, checking beneath them, running fingers through her pubic hair. “Turn around.” The hands parted her buttocks, a clinical inspection that burned with violation. “Cough.” Naomi did, feeling her face flame. “Acceptable. Proceed to the fitting station.”
The collar was heavier than it looked. A band of matte black polymer, about two inches wide, with a seamless front display currently dark. The attendant placed it around Naomi’s neck. It clicked shut with a final, hydraulic hiss that felt permanent. A pinprick sting at her nape made her gasp.
“Subdermal sync. Don’t touch it.” The attendant tapped a tablet, and the collar’s display lit up with soft blue text: NAOMI TANAKA | ID: 77-ALPHA-449 | ACCOUNT: TIER-3. “Your life signs, ID, and payment are now active. Removal requires a magistrate’s order or a bone saw. Attempting to tamper triggers a systemic neuromuscular shock. Understood?”
Naomi nodded, the new weight foreign and terrifying against her collarbones.
“Your bin will be waiting at your destination taxi stand. Use the app to hail a compliant vehicle. Next!”
Outside, the collar felt like a beacon. Naomi held her portfolio against her chest, a futile shield. She fumbled with her phone, opened the transit app, and requested a ride. A car was two minutes away.
The taxi, a nondescript sedan, pulled up. The driver, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, rolled down the window. His gaze went immediately to her collar, its display glowing softly.
“You know the drill, miss,” he said, his voice devoid of malice, devoid of anything at all. “Everything in the front seat. Then the boot.”
Her throat was dry. She opened the passenger door, placing her portfolio, her phone, her small purse onto the seat. The driver scooped them into a lockbox without looking.
“Now the rest,” he said.
Hands shaking, she reached for the clasp of her robe—the only garment the Compliance Office had allowed her to wear from the fitting room to the curb. She let it fall open, then slide off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet on the dirty asphalt. Completely naked, the city air swirling around her, she stood for a moment in sheer, paralyzing exposure. The driver’s eyes dragged over her, lingering on her breasts, the curve of her hip.
“Hurry up,” he said, but there was no urgency in it. He was enjoying the view.
She walked to the back of the car. He popped the trunk remotely. It was a clean, empty space, smelling of carpet and gasoline. She climbed in, her bare skin scraping on the rough fabric. The driver appeared above her, looking down. His hand reached out, not to help, but to grope her breast, his fingers squeezing the soft flesh, thumb rubbing roughly over her nipple.
“Just a compliance check,” he muttered, a hollow excuse. A jolt of something hot and shameful shot through her. She turned her face away, saying nothing. He chuckled, then slammed the trunk shut.
Darkness. The rumble of the engine vibrated through her. The trunk was not soundproof. She heard the blur of the city, the honks, the muffled radio. The drive was a series of lurches and stops. With every turn, she rolled against the side. The confinement, the rough movement against her nakedness, the memory of his casual grope—it stirred a low, unwelcome heat in her belly. Her body, traitorously, was responding to the sheer abasement of it. She felt slick between her legs, a helpless physical reaction that deepened her humiliation.
After an eternity, the car stopped. The trunk opened. Blinding afternoon light. They were in a downtown garage.
“End of the line,” the driver said. He didn’t look at her as she climbed out, wincing as her feet touched the cold concrete. She stood there, naked and disoriented. He walked to his driver’s door, got in.
“My things,” Naomi said, her voice raw.
“At the destination stand. Like the rules say.” He started the engine.
“This is the destination! My portfolio, my phone—”
But the window was up. He backed out, tires squealing slightly, and drove away. She stood frozen, watching the taillights disappear around a corner. He had her everything. He was gone.
A wave of dizzying panic crashed over her. Her meeting. The investors. In fifteen minutes.
She looked at the elevator bank leading up to the sleek corporate tower. There was no choice. None. The weight of the collar was the only thing on her body. Drawing a breath that hitched in her chest, Naomi walked toward the elevator, her bare feet silent on the smooth concrete, every nerve ending screaming at the exposure. The doors opened to a well-dressed couple. The man’s eyes bulged; the woman gasped and looked away with a scowl.
Naomi stepped inside, turned to face the doors, holding her head high, the ghost of that unwelcome, humid heat still clinging to her skin, a secret beneath the devastating shame. The elevator began its ascent.