by Diana Philbrick

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Voyager by Diana Philbrick

Voyager is the story of Jesse, a beautiful woman who offers herself for submissive sex to the highest bidder. Such arrangements are now legal. More important, they are grudgingly accepted by society, although the women themselves are still branded as whores. Whores or not, competition among young women for the most lucrative contracts is intense, fueled by armies of lawyers, brokers, agents, scouts, trainers, and accountants, all looking for their piece of the action. But there's more to it than money--much more. Submission has become as important as romantic love in the 21st Century and is a primary motivator for new CELTs (Contract Escort Long Term). Jesse recognized her own deeply submissive nature long ago, and although she resists, she accepts the idea that as a CELT she can get her life into alignment with her feelings.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781257491698
Publication date: 03/14/2013
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 663 KB

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To: r.thomas @

From: arthur.fea @

Date: June 15, 2107

Subject: Your PRIORITY-LIVE-SHIP package

CELT-Ex Airway Bill #52-2387444

Per your instructions, we have today shipped: One (1) Female CELT, CID #3221243, via HAF* to Naryn, Russia,

With the following shipping options:

1. 24-hour guard (Authorized discipline: NO-MARK Prod(R) [patent pending])

2. Soft-Touch CELT Cage(R), guaranteed tamper proof

3. Two-person, over-under cage configuration

4. 3U-prep service (Unclothed, Unbound, Unpunished)

* HAF--Human Air Freight

You can track your PRIORITY-LIVE-SHIP package online at using the above referenced Airway Bill number.

We will send you a Delivery Confirmation when your PRIORITY-LIVE-SHIP package clears [Russian] Customs in approximately fourteen [14] hours.

Thank you for choosing CELT-Ex--your number one solution in CELT transport.

Arthur Fea, Shipping Manager, Walk-In Depot #243, New York

CELT-Ex, a Division of Federal Express Corp

* * * *

Chapter One--Journey

The plane rolls, and I pull back on the yoke. It yaws; I adjust the trim. My movements are stiff, clumsy--as if I were book-trained, but unpracticed. I stare into the blackness transfixed by the tiny ice-balls shattering on the windshield. When did I learn how to fly? Movement ... my body senses it and my hands adjust the controls, but there's something wrong. A single bead of sweat appears on my forehead. When did I learn how to fly? Doubt washes over me. I think about making a mistake,losing control ... the plane falling, plunging its passengers to certain death. I can see their eyes bulging, their fingers digging madly into the armrests ... the passengers?

I glance back quickly ... nothing. No cockpit, no passengers, just more blackness. What's going on? I'm confused, disoriented. How can I get out of this? The plane starts to fall off to the side; I can feel it in my ass. I try to respond, but now my arms are strapped to the seat. I pull with superhuman strength and break free, but jerk the wheel in the process. Panicked, I try to correct, and I overcompensate. The plane swoops sickeningly in the other direction.

"No!" I scream out in fear and frustration. What's happening here? Where's the real pilot? I can't be the pilot; I don't know how to fly. I'm a ... a passenger...

A passenger?

Why does the word passenger seem wrong? I struggle to think ... to remember. Focus! Somehow I know the answer is important--even more important than our sickening freefall. I force my mind to step away from the terror and think.

The passenger's screams fade into the background, and I can hear normal background sounds: frozen air scraping the plane's skin, joints creaking, a metallic echo, heavy-duty fans blowing hot air across my bare skin ... The vision of a plane in freefall fades into the background of my consciousness. Is this the passenger compartment? It sounds more like the cargo hold. A smile freezes on my face ... the cargo hold? Is this the plane's hold? Passengers don't typically ride in the hold, do they? The hold is for cargo, for animals, for CELTs. Could I be in the hold? Could I be ... in ... wait ... It's blowing hot air across my bare skin ... my bare skin?

I'm naked?

My eyes spring open and wire mesh comes into focus at the end of my nose. Still half asleep, I try to sit up and hit my head on the top of the cage. The cage..." This is a weird dream. Am I still in the dream? I close my eyes and go fetal, trying to get beyond wire and cages. The wire feels soft against my bare skin ... soft?

"Just a dream ... it's all just a dream," I whisper. "I'll wake up in a second." I pull my knees up higher and fold my arms tightly against the sides of my bare breast. It's not working; I can still feel the cage pushing into my skin. I gather my courage and open my eyes again. The mesh is still there. I turn my head. The light is dim, but adequate. Yes, it is a cage, and I'm ... inside. Inside a cage! The thing has two compartments, one over the other, separated by the same mesh. I focus beyond the barrier; a beautiful girl is kneeling on the mesh above my head. For some reason, I focus on her toes, which are curled around the wire. They're unusually long, like mine.

I guess focusing on something like toes gives the mind time to shift gears, although mine seems to be taking forever to engage. Go easy now ... It's not everyday that one awakens to find herself naked and caged. Cages are for animals--wild, naked animals--not for ordinary people. But the girl watching me is no ordinary person; she's an exotic, a rare beauty. It's hard to tear my eyes from her body and move them back to her face, which is framed by the most incredibly lustrous white-blond hair.

We stare at each other for several moments then I turn my head and look outside. A uniformed man sits nearby, leaning back against the wall in a hard-backed chair. He's staring at me as well, waiting.

Did I cry out in my dream? Is that why they're staring? I open my eyes wide and look back at him for several seconds, still not fully convinced that he's real. At first, he seems amused. After a few seconds, though, the good humor fades, to be replaced by annoyance. He's not used to being eyeballed. Pointedly, he glances down to the metal rod at his feet as if reminding me of something. I follow his eyes and focus stupidly on the rod--not understanding, but feeling vaguely uneasy. There's something about the rod that I need to remember ... something important ... and then it hits me. Instantly, my stomach knots and my heart start to pump wildly. A spurt of adrenaline clears away the lingering fog of the dream and blood rushes into my brain.

I let out a frightened cry and scramble back wildly to the far side of the cage, trying to cram my body into the corner. "Please, God, don't let him touch me with that thing." The prayer leaves my lips without conscious thought. I can feel myself shaking; a warm liquid pools between my thighs and then runs down to the floor.

This is real ... too fucking real!

My fright startles the girl above. She lets out her own surprised yelp, and then she grabs the mesh and begins to pull on the sides of the cage like some wild gorilla. I can feel the cage vibrating, but only to the limits of its metal stops bolted to the floor. This cage isn't going anywhere. The girl doesn't care; she's in her own world. It's as if a spell has been broken. She begins to moan and pull even more violently on the sides. I've seen this before. At some point all living things want out of a cage. The feeling manifests itself in different ways, but eventually everyone loses it.

The man leans forward and noisily sets his chair on the floor. He's annoyed now, at both of us, I guess. Slowly, he picks up the rod and walks over. I have the feeling that he's moving slowly, so as to give the girl time to recover. It doesn't work. If anything, she's even more agitated. He watches her for a moment and then runs his metal prod ominously over the mesh. It sounds like a snake's rattle. The girl ignores him. He does it again, more loudly.

I try to push myself further back into the corner, but I can't move--I'm literally paralyzed by the fear. He waits a few more seconds, and then carefully slips the rod through the mesh, as if it's a pool cue. I watch as he gently touches her dimpled ass-cheek. There's a loud snap and the girl is thrust back violently across the cage. She looks back at him, her face frozen in stunned disbelief.

Dead silence.

Then in slow motion, she opens her mouth and screams. The siren-like sound is piercing: full of pain and outrage. I know the feeling; it's like having a stranger walk up and slap your face. The guard holds two fingers to his lips. She's beyond such signals. Her screams are involuntary. He shrugs and shocks her again then a third time. Mercifully, she passes out. The hold echoes her pain for a long time.

He watches her still form for a minute, and then opens the cage with a magnetic keycard. She is lying in a pile on her side. Carefully, he turns her to her knees, pulls her arms back and straps them to the top mesh by the wrists. I can see her shoulder muscles being pulled back. He ties her elbows together and then to the mesh, increasing the pull on her shoulders. Placing his palm under her pussy, he pushes her hips up so that he can pull her ankles to the back of the cage, where he ties them to the mesh as well. Her head starts to bob; she's waking. Moving like a well-trained coiffeur, he gathers her long hair together into a tight pony tail and ties it off with a wide rubber band.

I watch this, wide-eyed, fascinated. He handles the girl with the loving care of a museum curator packing a priceless work of art. Why not? It's obvious that she's extremely valuable. It's equally obvious that he doesn't want any bruises or any marks, but there's something more. He's into this. It's as if he's creating art, not just handling it. Of course, not many people see the art in pain, but that's irrelevant to a real aficionado like this guy.

I have to admit that he's pretty good for an amateur. I'm no Dom, but I do know pain, and I can appreciate more than most the special touches he's applied here. Pulling back her legs, for example, forces her to use all the muscles in her upper body. And the use of an elbow strap ... most people would leave her straight-armed, but a real expert knows that an elbow strap inflicts twice as much hurt. It also creates a contra-pull with her legs, making her decide which pain she wants when. Yes, he's a real sadist ... with refined tastes. How many other men would tie her hair back to watch her face, or leave her un-gagged to hear her cries? He steps back to take in the full effect; her body is already moving in response to his stimuli. Watching her is now both his duty and his pleasure.

Within seconds, she opens her eyes, confused and in pain, but no longer insane. The guard goes back to the cage and smiles--another job well done--and then he closes and locks her door.

His eyes move to me. There's no pity in them: none. I'm innocent, but that's irrelevant. Innocent CELTs are routinely punished for another's bad behavior. The prod is lying on the floor inches from my face. I lower my head into my arms and begin to whine softly. This is the way CELT's beg for mercy. Usually, it's for show, but this is no affectation. Right now I am terrified and truly cowed. There's nothing, nothing that I wouldn't do to avoid the pain.

He picks up the prod and holds it just outside my cage. I hold my breath and tense every muscle in my body. Beads of sweat appear on my upper lip. My mind fades out defensively, and I focus all my attention on his boots ... waiting. Sometimes pain is sweet, even sexual, especially after the endorphins start flowing, but waiting for pain is horrifying. So little effort ... a flick of his finger and I will be in agony. Each second feels like a year. Incredibly and seemingly in ultra slow-motion, his boots turn and begin to walk away. I lift my head and watch as he swaggers back to his chair, whistling an unrecognizable tune.

It takes another second before the relief washes over me. I piss myself again. I can't help it--electricity hurts. For a moment I feel a deep irrational love for our sick torturer. He had mercy on me at least for the moment. The threat of pain is gone for the moment. I feel giddy.

I look up through the mesh. The white-haired girl is fully awake now, quiet, but breathing heavy. Her long conical breasts hang down like stalactites. I can see goose-bumps running down her body. She's already anticipating the real pain to come; I can see it on her face. At some point, the intellectual abstraction of future pain changes to the gut-wrenching realization that you are going to suffer. That's when the real fear starts: the terror. That's when people lose control, when they start to shake, to drool, to piss themselves. It's the taste of the pain to come mixed with the certainty of its arrival.

We stare at each other for a second. I turn down the corners of my mouth and shake my head in sympathy. My commiseration is no comfort, but it's all I can manage right now. I feel sorry for her, of course, but truthfully, my strongest emotion right now is happiness--no, elation. I avoided the prod. Later, maybe I can offer more heartfelt sympathy, but right now I'm just glad that it's not me. CELTs learn quickly to disassociate themselves from each other's suffering. Your own agony is burden enough.

She'll be okay. Despite their reputation for rough treatment, the CELT-Ex people know their business. And the electric prod they use doesn't do any real damage. It produces a sharp, terrible pain, but it's gone instantly--there's no lingering hurt. And as painful as her strappado is, she will get through it okay. Someone this well-toned can easily handle a full-body muscle burn, even for hours. The pain is excruciating, but again, it's not dangerous.

I trance out for a moment, listening to the rhythmic sound of the plane and her soft moans. Why didn't he shock me? That's the protocol. Maybe he's just biding his time. As far as I can see, there are only two of us down here. Maybe he needs to conserve his entertainment choices? His boss would be annoyed if he knew. I shudder. Electricity--I hate it more than anything. It rips your flesh--or at least, that's what it feels like. I don't even like to think about it.

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