Black Box: Book Three

14 ~ My rich American family

I am part of a rich American family, in a rich American suburb, full of rich American people.

Life is hell.

Every morning, me and the rest of the Wives get up at 5:00am sharp. Fifteen minutes of jogging around the neighborhood, five minutes in the shower (set to cold), twenty minutes for hair and makeup, and then five to get dressed. If we've managed that in time, meaning no later than 5:45am, we might be allowed solid food with our coffee.

We live in suburbia. It's white, wealthy, and contained. We aren't allowed to leave. My family are the Rogers: The Husband, the Boy, and the Girl.

Clean, cook, and tidy. Pack lunches. Wave goodbye to Boy, Girl, and Husband. Water the plants. Change the beds. Clean and tidy. Wave hello to children and husband. Cook, clean, and tidy. Pray. Go to bed. Sometimes my husband will gesture for me to get on my back so he can fuck me, communicating with, "On your back. Get on your back. Ye-e-e-e-s. Just like that. God. Yes. God," like I'm a slow child or an animal. When he's done, he rolls over and snores.

Socialising with one another isn't encouraged, but neither is it outright banned. We have conversations with our neighbors' Wives consisting entirely of small-talk. We might get lunch in the Ladies Café with a "friend". Or while the kids are at school and our Husband is at work, we may spend a snatched few minutes licking cunt just out of sight of the porch windows.

It's not perfect. It's not even good, most of the time, but it's something. A demonstration that underneath all of those pink lipsticked smiles and chipper voices and perfectly coiffed hairdos, we aren't alone.

Those pink lipsticked smiles never reach the eyes.

John Rogers likes blondes with blue eyes, snub noses, and beguiling features. He likes them in the 5'7"-5'10" height bracket. He likes them thin, with almost androgynous bodies, and aged between twenty and twenty six years old. If any of these things change, or we grow too old, he calls up the Agency and requests a new model.

They tell me my name is Lana Rogers. It's not. I don't know how many Lana Rogers there were before me, but the Boy and the Girl are both teenagers, so there must've been a few. What I do know, however, is that I was born on the 19th of November, 1990. I turned twenty six today.

Since my mind was wiped clean during conditioning, I'd say that my first memory is of being inside that plush Agency car as we pulled up outside the Rogers' house.

"You remember this, right?" said the man sat in the backseat with me. "You do remember."

"Yes," I said. They'd shown me lots of pictures of it.

I was let out of the car. I walked up the manicured green lawn to the front door, opened it, and went straight to the kitchen. Boy and Girl were sat in there, doing their homework. They looked up when I entered. "Hi, mom."

"Hi, sport. Hello, darling."

"What's for lunch?"

I knew how to answer this. I'd been grilled on it over and over again. With one of those pink lipsticked smiles, I went to the refrigerator and opened it up. "What would you like?"

My Husband had called the Agency six weeks in advance, as per protocol, and they'd selected and abducted me from... well, wherever I was from. Most of the specifics of the training regimen and conditioning are lost to me now, but I sometimes get flashes of it. Non-stop music, talking, pictures, and crushing hunger.

But that doesn't matter.

I'd been the Rogers' Wife and Mother for a week when I first saw Janet Brown. On some coincidence, we'd gone into our back gardens to water the flowers at the same time. Mr Brown likes redheads with green eyes, button noses, and smirks. He likes them in the 5'4" to 5'7" range. He likes them thin, but curvy. He likes them aged between twenty five and twenty nine years old.