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Ellie May's 4-H Project

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Carl Bradford
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Ellie May's 4-H Project

Post by Carl Bradford »

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Note: Joe Doe, the master of public humiliation and sexual submission, gave me the basic situation and some of the dialogue for this story. He granted permission for a guest appearance by Professor Sarah Hollister, who after all teaches at the university where the male protagonist is an undergraduate. I also confess to having borrowed ideas from slavery expert Badger Therese and added a few of my own, including two familiar characters, but the basic premise is pure Joe, for which we should all be grateful. Any errors are, of course, mine; I hope you enjoy the story.)

*****

During the numerous lock-downs associated with the recent pandemic, a bunch of creative young 4-H-ers came of age without having finished high school yet, let alone presented their final projects for 4-H, where county fairs and annual conferences were suspended in 2020 and 2021. It wouldn’t be fair to have these experienced future ranchers and farmers compete against the younger kids, so for the past several years there had been a special, aged-18-and-over, section of the local county fair where all the overaged high school seniors could compete.

Of course, the pandemic had also produced severe economic hardship in the countryside, resulting in more than the usual number of curvy, long-legged, coltish young women being sold into slavery to keep their families’ farms and ranches afloat. Once the local Fair Board set aside a separate building for activities involving only 4-H-ers who were over the age of 18, a lot of people suddenly realized that these activities could now involve human slavery and other sexual activities, with which those under age 18 were not allowed to have any contact.

So this year, when I visited our local fairground in East Texas, a bored-looking volunteer stood at the entrance to one of the exhibition barns, checking IDs to ensure all who entered were aged 18 or older. Inside, I found a long row of collared young women, appropriately slave naked, cuffed and tied onto a row of sybian saddles where they were squirming and moaning. Audience members could put in a dollar and "drive them" like the little motorboats at the amusement parks, attempting to bring the helpless sluts to orgasm. Overhead monitors graded each 18- or 19-year old woman on number of orgasms, staying “mounted” and in good riding form while climaxing, degree of juiciness in the saddle (there was a device like a rain gauge connected to each saddle to measure accumulated moisture), and especially total number of up/down motions before coming, also known as the ‘cowgirl score.’ Owners and spectators encouraged the young sluts to herculean performances as they bounced on their sybians (and their boobs bounced on their chests). Based on the sexual innuendos being voiced, many of the spectators had gone to high school with the now-sticky equestrians, cheering when the former cheerleaders and other “stuck-up bitches” humiliated themselves by climaxing in public while bound naked and teased beyond endurance.

There was also a bonus round where, for an additional fee, the spectators could each plant a black metal binder clip, originally designed to hold papers together, on a sensitive portion of a captive’s anatomy before another round of sybian riding ensued. The squirms and moans that these clips elicited when applied to ripe young female flesh were only exceeded by the extreme wriggling and howling when those clips were later removed, permitting the blood to flow through sensitive areas that had gone numb.

Besides that, the fair featured a pony ride, where a random stranger could feed dollars into a slot to control the twin vibrators impaling a cute, corn-fed young woman who, not that many years before, might well have won her class in horsemanship at a previous fair. Only now she was working on whoresmanship, riding dildos rather than ponies, and because there was very little fabric on her body the winning ribbons were sometimes pinned directly onto her massive mammaries, sort of like slapping the sharp pins of airborne wings into a new parachutist’s chest until you draw blood. The judges appeared to take particular joy in catching a slave nipple with the pin. Perceptive new slave owners had installed several mounting racks behind the pony ride where spectators could rent the immobilized bodies of winning riders, some of whom they had known in high school, while those riders blushed furiously and moaned frantically as they got shafted in their bonds.

The milking barn contained at least half dozen machines of various configurations and models. Some machines were experimental or were for judging, but HCI had their brand new 2021 XL, designed for slave stallions, on display. It was very large and had room for 16 pizzles. Some owners tested it out on their slaves, but most of the "cows" were actually visitors who either wanted to try it out or were persuaded by their wives or girlfriends to do so. Of course, after they were strapped in, the women were at the controls, with the speed of the milking entirely in THEIR gentle hands. As the voice collars that came with the machine prevented the males from making any sound other than "MOOOOO", there was a lot of mooing going on in the barn, interspersed with feminine laughter and giggles. Unlike the sybian rides, here the males were the sex objects and the females were the foul-mouthed spectators, although at least the guys got off. Equal opportunity sexual humiliation?

*****

After watching these festivities for a while and even wasting a few bucks to see and fondle last year’s corn festival queen, I moved into the project barn, where various free over-18s were showing off their latest projects to the judges.

The three judges, two females and one male, crowded around one naked male subject. He was in his late teens or early 20s, strong, handsome, and muscular. He stood with his arms cuffed behind him, his legs spread, and a horse bit in his mouth forcing him into a perpetual smile (aka slave smile). But the focus of the judges was the specially built metal cage around his cock, his stepsister’s project for the fair.

Ellie May Wilson, also smiling for the judges, showed off her project. She was a strikingly well-endowed young blonde in sprayed-on jeans, low-necked sweater, and ponytail, clearly in charge of the bound male. "This is my stepbrother, Steve, and he's helping me with my science project. This doo-hickey here is the EDGER, and it's been keeping him erect, but not letting him come, for the last four weeks. See, the little stimulator starts pumping like THIS..."

Steve's nostrils flared as his sister turned it on with an evil grin, and the cock cage began pumping his cock. He groaned in desperation and frustration, causing the judges and onlookers to laugh.

"Looks like he's gonna blow!" one of the Judges said.

"Nope, just keep watchin'," Ellie May said.

The cage continued to pump, until seconds before blissful release, when the bound guy’s eyeballs started to roll upwards, a spark from the cage and a YELP from poor Steve marked the end of the machine masturbation session.

"It'll start up again in a tick," Ellie May said. "The idea is to see if I can raise his sperm count and ejaculation distance and velocity though 31 days of edging. Tomorrow, when he’s ready, we can hook up this camera and finally let him shoot his load, only we'll measure speed and distance with this highspeed camera. If this works, it should help ranchers train up their stud stallions to be more potent, more effective at impregnating mares. It could also be used to discipline stallions, human or otherwise."

"Not so fast," one of the female judges said, cupping Steve's balls in a manner that caused him to again grow rigid. "You said he's your stepbrother? And you've kept him like this for 30 days? I'm surprised he agreed to that."

Ellie May smirked. "He's home from his smarty pants college for the summer and my mom, his stepmother, said he had to help out his little sister if he wants to go back to school. She said if he didn't like the EDGER, she was gonna have him help me demonstrate the new gelding clippers I built." The two female judges smiled and the male judge gasped as Ellie May took the sharp pliers off her work belt. "They got a real SNAP to them," Ellie May said, releasing the spring, and causing the women to laugh and the men in the crowd to wince and cross their legs as the pliers closed around an imaginary victim. "Whenever I wave these clippers around, my big bro gets all nice and docile, and I can do anything I want."

Steve whimpered as the EDGER kicked on, and the cycle began yet again.

(I could see why the female judge had asked how long poor Steve had worn that instrument of torture. A little background, for you Yankees who may not understand things too good because you’re too busy worrying about using your turn signals: Because human slaves are technically livestock, the same state Department of Agriculture that oversees county fairs ALSO records slaves and supervises the slave industry in Texas. And if this guy, who looked to be aged 19 or 20, allowed his stepsister to keep him caged and controlled for 30 days, then in effect he had submitted to slavery and could/should be collared and recorded as such. He might have been a rising college sophomore, but he was still dependent on his family. With his father often out of town on business, his new stepmother (who had moved in while he was away at college for freshman year) was in loco parentis, with the emphasis on “loco.”)

(Of course, I found out later that the stepmother had already installed another cock cage so her new husband didn’t wander while he was on business trips like the one where he met her—needless to say, the father was just as pussy-whipped behind closed doors as his son was at the fair. The family that slaves together stays together, I guess.)

After the exhibition for the judges, I asked the son, Steve Wilson, about this device. I learned that there were a few times where Steve got to remove the humiliating EDGER around his cock, but the embarrassment of those moments was even worse than the frustration of wearing it. Ellie May and her bitch friends insisted that he strip off in front of them, after which they would hand-wash and shave his junk. His prick couldn’t decide whether to stand up straight from female handling or shrink and hide from the straight-edged razors they used. The female cackling reminded Steve of the witches in Macbeth, and when he said as much just last week, Ellie May immediately squealed on him. In her greatly enhanced narration of his minor rebellion, Steve had called her not a witch but a similar word that began with a “B.” Steve soon ended up over his stepmother's knee, pants pulled down to his knees, with the three harpies giggling as they handed his stepmother the wooden hairbrush that was going to be used to tan his cute buns and reduce him to a crying, repentant little boy.

Unfortunately, the metal in the contraption dug into his stepmother's thigh, so it had to come off—the device, not the thigh, although as you’ll see more than that “came off.” Alice—or “Mizz Wilson” as she always insisted he call her—pulled up her skirt and bent his body tightly across her lap, so his dick was rubbing between her creamy thighs and his head (like his dick) was dangling, pointing harmlessly toward the kitchen floor. His hands, of course, were still cuffed behind his back. Ellie May and her friends laid it on with a trowel as Alice rubbed his naughty bottom with the brush, scolding him for being a "naughty, horny little boy" and warning him he was "really gonna get it good!"

Once the spanking began, his stepmother alternated blistering spanks and scolding with thigh squeezing and "adjustments" to his position, while the three girls laughed and taunted him for being so "nasty" and such a wimp. Both the whacking and fondling of his exposed rear end excited the poor guy. All of the women were overjoyed when poor Steve, teased beyond endurance, climaxed on Alice’s soft thighs. That was why he wasn’t ready to shoot for the judges that first day at the fair and had to wait to “reload” on the next day. Meanwhile, his stepmother was so outraged to feel him cum on her thighs that she really laid it on and used first the hairbrush and then Ellie May's belt across his tenderized ass. After which he had to lick his cum off that grade A soft skin.

Although he was frustrated and bruised, Steve was also surprisingly honest about some of the threats Ellie May made. “As much as I hate to admit it, Ellie May teasing with the clippers and making the "snip-snip" motion with her fingers also turned me on. I didn't want her to actually castrate me, of course, but Sometimes I was struck by the thought that she COULD do it, and that I was really as helpless as a bull or dog or any other dumb animal to stop her from "fixing" me. Yes, she could snip them off, right in the 4-H barn if she cared to, and I'd have no recourse. It would be a good place to do it, as she could probably sell my nuts, for jewelry for fine dining, and get a pretty good price for them, too. No, I really don’t WANT that to happen, but if I’m in the right mood her clippers can even increase my erection.”

*****

Being excited in the heat of the moment was one thing, but accumulated pain was another. The evening after the first exhibition of her device at the fair, Steve was really uncomfortable from the genital torment and physical punishment that had been inflicted on him.

"I can't go back to Harvard with this THING on my dick," Steve whined. "It shocks me when I'm sleeping!"

"It only shocks you when you get a stiffy, because of all your nasty thoughts," his stepmother said. Alice was standing there in mommy pose, hands on her hip, relishing her power. This was so much fun, and his plaintive pleas only made it more of a turn-on for both her and her daughter Ellie May, who was standing right behind her and making the "L" LOSER sign on her head as she taunted her smarty pants stepbrother. The mother was clearly doing a good job of training her daughter to dominate any male she met; pity her future boyfriends and husband.

"How am I supposed to go out with girls in college with my dick locked up?" Steve wailed.

"You broke up with your girlfriend... Stephanie was it? -- because you were cheating on her. Maybe a semester treating women RESPECTFULLY would be good for you!" Ellie May nodded in agreement and stuck out her tongue.

"But I can't go three months without... without..."

"Of course not, dear," his stepmother said. "I've already talked to Stephanie. When you can't bear it anymore, talk to her, and she'll call me. I'll talk to Ellie May, and we’ll give Stephanie written permission so she can book you a session at the animal husbandry barn off campus. She'll take you over there, and Ellie May and I can watch remotely while they hook you up to the machine, insert a nice exciter up your butt, and use the high speed camera to record your ejaculation."

"There she blows!" Ellie May said, laughing fit to bust (and she certainly had a bust). “Besides,” she added, “Now that I own your little butt, I get to charge a stud fee every time you mount some filly. Or maybe you’re so small we should just put you on a milking machine and sell the semen.”

With the addition of the spankings, Steve's life had entered a new phase of hell. It wasn't long until his stepmother had delegated "disciplinary duties" to her sadistic daughter, who used them to subjugate her stepbrother even further.

That evening, Steve knelt in front of his sister and her friends, very, very carefully painting their toenails as they chatted about him.

"What really galls me is he thinks he's so fucking SMART, going to Harvard, while I'm taking slave management at the community college. But little Stevie doesn't look so smart painting my toesy-woesys, does he?" she tittered, wiggling her toes.

"Naw, he looks like a ball-less wimp with his dick locked up. Not like a REAL man." Tammy agreed.

"No, he still has his nuts... at least for now," Ellie May said causing Steve's hands to tremble in fear as she touched the ever present clippers in a holster on her belt. Ellie May LOVED to play with her "nut stealers" as she called them, and by now everyone in town knew what they were for.

"Look!" Betsy said gleefully. “Mr. Harvard got scared you were going to snip him, and now he smeared some on the end of your toe. You should take off your belt and tan his ass for that."

"I don't know why you're always threatening to use the clippers on him, if you never do it," Betsy said.

"I'd do it in a second, if my mom would let me," Ellie May said. "She doesn't want to do it, because she's afraid that as a ballless wonder he'll get all fat and lazy and won't care about anything. It's no fun beating someone who just wants to die. Letting him keep his balls gives him that little spark, that fire, that makes him a great slave. Plus, it's fun to punish him for his boners!" All three girls laughed as Steve carefully painted and then blew on Betsy's toes.

"If you're not going to do it, why threaten him?" Tammy said.

"Because it's not a threat," Ellie May explained. "He knows that when I touch these" - Steven flinched when she touched the pliers, "I'm thinking about fixin' him, and fixin' him good. Yeah, if I do it, I'll get punished, but it will be worth it, just to see that look of panic on his face when I release the spring and SNIP!"

"Look, he's peeing on the floor!" Tammy yelled. "Scardy cat, scardy cat!"

"Rub his nose in it!" Betsy said.

"Yeah!" Tammy agreed. "Then give him the belt!"

*****

The next morning, Steven’s butt hurt him terribly, and that was even before Ellie May inserted a large, lubricated plug between his cheeks. His stepmom had insisted that he crawl backwards, hands cuffed and mouth again gagged, into a wire mesh cage suitable for a large dog. That cage was already sitting in the back of the family’s better pickup truck, which Ms. Wilson had appropriated for her own use. Steve was acutely aware that he was travelling in exactly the manner usually used to transport slaves, something often termed “poodle express.” The only slight difference between himself and a slave was that he was wearing a tight pair of shorts, but even at that his zipper was open with that damn cage and EDGER wrapped around his junk. The shorts didn’t help his modesty, just held the buttplug in place. Four times on the way to the fair, he heard the whine as the EDGER whirred, kicking into gear. And four times it pumped him up, brought his cock to full erection, and then shocked him before he could get off.

Soon enough, Ellie May was showing off her device to the judges in the finals for human animal husbandry. (She and her friends snickered every time they heard the term “animal husbandry” used—cuckoldry would probably be a more appropriate term. Steve might have been nominally male, but he was playing the bitch in this experiment.) With everything lined up, Ellie May turned on the device one more time. It pumped and pumped, while her handcuffed, nearly-naked stepbrother kept jerking his hips lewdly forward. Suddenly he shot off and the camera recorded white stuff flying in a graceful arc that hit the ground more than three meters away from where he stood. The judges were very impressed.

“Now, can we PLEASE take this thing off my dick?” Steve begged.

Just at that moment, however, another adult walked up to Steve, Ellie May, and Alice Wilson as they were standing together. He introduced himself as Sam Houston Sterling, a slave inspector for the state Agriculture Department. Virtually ignoring Steve, the inspector asked Ellie May and Alice to confirm the facts as they had been reported to him by one of the 4-H judges—that Steven was over age 18 and had been kept in this device for more than 30 days, oftentimes cuffed and gagged when Ellie May used him for her project.

“And he never demanded that you free him?” Mr. Sterling asked.

Alice gave him the same come-hither look that had turned Steven senior and many other men into jelly. “Well, he tried a few times, but whenever he got uppity, Ellie May would threaten to geld him and then I turned him over my knee and tanned his butt for him!” She chuckled and Ellie May giggled at the recollection of their total control over the hapless college student.

“In that case,” Mr. Sterling pursued, “It seems to me that your stepson has submitted to enslavement. I understand he’s about to go back to college in a couple of weeks?” Alice nodded. “Problem is, he might get slave-rustled or reported as a runaway unless you register him. It’s for his own protection--You need to chip his body, tattoo a Slave Identification Number inside his lower lip, and enter him into the national data base for slave livestock.”

“I dunno,” said Alice. “Sounds like a lot of bother and expense.”

“Oh, no, Momma,” Ellie May interrupted, proud to show off what she’s learned in the slave handler’s course at McLennan Community College in nearby Waco. “Any licensed slave merchant can do that, and probably only charge you twenty bucks if you don’t want him slave-graded as well. I saw a slave merchant in the next barn over, offering that slut Tammy Faye Cole for sale—I’ll bet he could register Stevie for you.”

Watching Steve carefully, you could see he was obviously crushed—just when he thought his stepsister would end this nonsense, now she wanted to record him as a slave? I followed as they walked next door and accosted a tall young man with a string of nubile, mostly blond or Hispanic slaves for sale. He introduced himself as Jim McNamara, a partner in Aldrich & McNamara, slave merchants, and gave Mizz Wilson a business card. At first, when Mr. Sterling and the two women tried to explain the problem to him, Jim shook his head and said there wasn’t much market for male laborers, even young healthy ones like Steve, unless they wanted to pimp him out? Eventually, though, the slave merchant understood that they just wanted to legalize what he called “de facto” slavery. Jim was laughing, almost giggling like a girl when he heard the story of how this smart-ass “college boy” had let hisself be enslaved by his own stepsister, so he offered to do what they needed for ten bucks because “A guy like this isn’t safe walking around on his own—we’ve got to protect him.” In fact, when he heard that the girl was studying slave management at McLennan College, Jim offered to let Ellie May help process Steve as a sort of homework or internship. That made her squeal happily, and she handed her cell phone to her mom to get photos of the entire process.

Because Ellie May had in effect enslaved her stepbrother, Jim produced a fill-in-the-blank power of attorney that allowed her to do just that, and asked Steve to sign it. Horrified, Steve refused until Ellie May pulled out her clippers and announced “snip, snip” after which he capitulated. (I think he was hoping to go North and never come back, but that ain’t gonna happen under the Revised Fugitive Slave Act. That chip will report his presence any time he enters a transportation terminal or public building anywhere in the U.S., and the Slave ID number tattooed inside his lower lip will lead any law enforcement officer to the data base and then directly to his new owner—Ellie May.) Naturally, a distinguished state official like Sam Houston Sterling was a notary public who just happened to have his Lonestar seal with him to legalize the dirty deed!

After that, Mr. McNamara ordered Steve to strip. Then his stepsister walked him through various slave yoga positions while the slave merchant got the revealing naked photos he needed for the data base. Ellie May was giggling and taking still more cell phone snaps. (Being a normal male, I found her much more attractive than him, but had to admit that he was a buff, handsome guy; she really enjoyed poses that both made him appear submissive and exposed his butt and genitals. Nor did she miss a chance to stimulate those areas with her hands and even her cowboy boots.)

Steve ended up on his knees, hands again cuffed behind his back; the only covering on his body was the EDGER cage, which Ellie May had turned back on just to tease the guy. Jim McNamara charged the Wilson women an extra $3, which he said was his cost, to pay for a basic leather collar. Ellie May began to giggle again, describing various pet tags she could have engraved before attachment to his collar. Her favorite seemed to be “SLUT STUD. Property of Ellie May Wilson. If found, please restrain and telephone 254-333-2789.”

The last I saw of that poor guy, Ellie May had him on a leash, leading her naked, collared, and cuffed stepbrother out of the exhibition barn (how appropriate, I thought; he certainly put on an exhibition.) Jim McNamara was having a hard time containing his laughter, mumbling something like “Serves him right—every arrogant stud muffin ought to be treated like that.” The slave merchant was staring at the helpless young man as if he were the centerfold in a magazine; funny, Jim didn’t strike me as gay, but who can tell about sexual preferences any more . . . I guess all that training in how to grade a slave might make a slave merchant a little odd in how he looked at males. It takes all kinds.

*****

(Steve’s perspective)

I had thought that the County Fair would mark the end of my torment, but thanks to that self-important clown Sterling, my life went from bad to worse. Of course, I had to ride home from the fair the same way I had travelled to it—cuffed, gagged, plugged, and kneeling in a dog cage. Once we got home, my stepmother let Ellie May treat me as a full-time slave—she had me move my books (but not my clothes) out to a stall in one of the barns, then padlocked me into that stall every night, left to sleep on the ground with just a horse blanket. I began counting the days until I could go back to college and get away from these two female freaks. Meanwhile, I spent most of each day naked and cuffed, being trained along with our pony girls. The two women insisted that, to protect the pony girls, they needed to keep my junk caged at all times. If I needed to relieve myself, I had to signal with a whinny, then unload in the open like a dog while Ellie May or Mizz Wilson watched me. After which they made a big show of pulling on rubber gloves and using toilet paper on my ass. And THEN they often decided to ram two fingers up my butt, causing me to dance desperately. “Just checkin’ your prostate,” my stepmom would giggle before discarding the gloves into a trashcan. “Now you know what it feels like when you goose a young lady,” something that I had never done and now might never have the chance to do.

Even when those women weren’t using that damn EDGER on me, they came up with every excuse in the book to restrain and fondle me. They seemed to take particular delight in bending me over so they could goose me and squeeze my Johnson. Let’s face it, they were two attractive, well-endowed broads whom I wouldn’t have minded screwing if I met them in a bar—so long as I didn’t have to listen to their inane chatter (I’d love to fill one of those mouths with my . . . aw, forget it.) Their dumb blonde sex appeal just made the situation worse—every time they played with me, my erection kicked in and before I knew it I would get shocked by that stupid device. When I complained, my stepmother just commented that it “Serves you right—this doo-hicky of Ellie’s will discourage all those impure thoughts you’re having about your MOTHER and SISTER. Any more complaints, and I’ll have to wash out your mouth and tan your butt again.” Sheesh—how many days left before school?

The next Saturday evening, three of Ellie May’s obnoxious, cornpone girlfriends arrived for a sleep-over. They all giggled and made lewd comments while Ellie May paraded me around the corral. My stepmom reinforced Ellie’s instructions, which was that I would stay locked in “my” stall until she came to get me at 10:00 that evening.

“Knock, knock,” came that grating, Texas cowgirl voice with the ignorant, dumb-as-dirt drawl at just before 10:00. I heard a metallic clunk as handcuffs slipped through the narrow slot in the stall door. “You know the drill, Slut Stud.”

By this time, I was resigned to the inevitable. So I stepped into my flipflops—the only “clothing” I was allowed in the stall—and then cuffed my hands behind my back. Only then did Ellie unlock the stall door and enter.

“Well, don’t you look just scrumptious, almost-a-brother,” she remarked, eye-fucking my naked, helpless form and winking at me with a smile. “Turn around,” she directed. When I complied, I felt the familiar tug as she hooked a dog leash to my collar. But then she really surprised me by pulling a dark cloth bag, apparently equipped with a drawstring at the bottom, over my head. I tried to protest, which just earned me a sharp slap from her ever-present riding crop on my naked butt.

“Hush, Slut Stud. I don’t want you staring at my friends, all of ‘em free women. Besides, what we want you to do don’t require you to see.”

I was now blind and took very short steps for fear of falling. Seeing this, Ellie May decided that she needed to guide me more directly—which meant grabbing my butt with her hand, fingers fully inserted in the crack, as she walked me into the house (I could tell where we were by the smells and sounds).

Next thing I knew, she ordered me into the “Display” position, which involved bending far, far over to place my bagged head between my knees. Needless to say this forced my butt up with cheeks slightly spread, an obscene gesture greeted by a chorus of giggles and crude comments from Ellie May’s friends. Just as I realized that I was completely exposed in front of a collection of young women, I felt a lubricated plastic rod pushed aggressively up my ass! I whined and tried to shy away, only to feel a female hand reaching between my widespread legs to grasp my dick cage, holding me immobile as she alternately pressed and paused with that monstrous shaft. After about the third shove, my butthole got stretched to the max by a bulge in the dildo or whatever it was. Then the bulge slipped inside my rectum, leaving me stuffed and unable to expel the invader. Not to mention I was trying not to cry in front of these bitches.

Next, Ellie May—it must have been her—moved my cuffs from behind my back to in front of me, then ordered me to lie on my back on what turned out to be a bed. That position just pushed the damn butt plug farther into me! Then she bound my wrists to the headboard and my ankles, together, to the center of the footboard.
What followed was an hour or two of heaven and hell combined. For most of that time, one young woman or another straddled my head, rolling the bag up just far enough to expose my mouth which was then put to work trying to entertain her orally. My tongue got tired. Licking pussy wouldn’t have been too bad, except that the butt plug remained installed throughout this time and my EDGER cage was removed. At one point, I thought I heard my stepmom climaxing just as I brought off another female on my face. Meanwhile, a series of anonymous female mouths and pussies engulfed my much-abused dick, but most of the time the mouth or pussy was removed just before I could blow, leaving me more frustrated than ever when the women re-installed the cage. Surrounded by pussy and unable to enjoy it!

*****

When my Dad came home from his next trip, I appealed to him to call off these two crazy women, but he looked at the paperwork and said it was legal; I was now Ellie May’s slave for the next five years (the limit for free people who allowed themselves to be coerced), so I would have to wear her collar and obey her orders. (One time when we were alone he apologized, and showed me that my stepmom had HIM locked up as well!) The best Dad could do for me was insist that my “owner” had to release me from bondage 24 hours before I was due to head back to Massachusetts for sophomore year, giving me time to get ready. Now I really started counting days and hours to freedom.

My first stop when I regained my clothes was to buy some turtlenecks and other high-neckline items to conceal that damned collar, which she refused to remove. And yes, she DID get an engraved pet tag to attach to my collar. Her mother insisted that it was a safety precaution, so that when (notice she didn’t say if) someone realized I was a slave they couldn’t just lock me up and use me for their own purposes.

I came back from Walmart with my new purchases, only to encounter Ellie giggling like mad as she sealed an envelope full of forms. She told me to carry the envelope with me, as I would need the forms while returning to college. Whatever—I was just glad to escape her for a few months. I had wild ideas of finding a summer job to stay in Massachusetts, or perhaps even fleeing to Canada. In the interim, she made me strip down one last time so she could replace that awful device with a mostly-plastic chastity belt to go through metal detectors—a slight relief, although she insisted I pack the EDGER as well. Someday I am going to get back at that heartless bitch somehow!

I had booked my flight well in advance, but I had some unusual encounters along the way. At the ticket counter, at the boarding gate, and again on the aircraft itself airline personnel said they had to scan my chip, and then asked for my authorization to travel unaccompanied. With a sinking feeling, I fished out the envelope that my stepsister had handed me. The first form on top of the pile was an authorization for “unaccompanied slave travel” from our home in Texas to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and return at Christmas time, signed with a huge flourish “Ellie M. Wilson, property owner.” She had dotted the two “I”s with little hearts, but they might as well have been devil emoji.

That satisfied the airline, but when I got to my seat the flight attendant came to me, looked at the form again, and told me that I had to press the call button and get her permission to leave my seat. When we got to the other end of the flight, this stunningly-attractive young woman told me, she would have to cuff me and escort me off the aircraft, so please wait in my seat until everyone else had deplaned.

With a sinking feeling, I looked at the other forms Ellie May had given me. She had included a note, saying that she had coordinated the “disposition and maintenance of her property” with the appropriate officials at Harvard. She insisted I send her an e-mail describing how well all this worked, as she needed it to complete a school project. [Yeah, right!] Underneath that note was a “Commitment Order” containing my name and slave identification number and consigning me to the “Harvard Slave Kennels” for the dates of the term. This form included a notation that my dorm and meal fees, originally included in my scholarship, had been reallocated to the Kennels for my “maintenance.” Crap—evidently I wasn’t going to be able to stay with my buddies as roommates. It was going to be a long, lonely year.

The next form authorized the Harvard Slave Kennels to release me for classes and studying daily (except Sundays) from 7:45 a.m. until a curfew of 10:00 p.m. Under the heading of “Restrictions,” this authorization described my clothing while in the kennels as “collar and genital cage ONLY.” At the discretion of the Kennel slave handlers, I was to be authorized to receive “One (1) hour of masturbatory time in his stall or recreational sexual contact with other authorized slaves” per week. In the event that I needed more masturbation or recreation, additional time or sexual contact could be authorized by a series of names, each with an e-mail address and telephone number beside it: Ellie May Wilson (owner), Stephanie J. Cole (social supervisor), and Professor Sarah Hollister, Department of Slave Studies (work/study supervisor). Any of these individuals could telephonically sign me out from the Kennels at any time including evenings and Sundays. The same individuals could also telephonically direct the Kennels to punish me for any “insubordination or misbehavior.” Double Crap! Ellie May had threatened to put my ex-girlfriend Stephanie in charge of getting me off, but who was this Professor Hollister and what work was I supposed to perform to satisfy my scholarship requirements?? Have to contact her at the first opportunity, since I noticed that my G___ D____ Bitch “owner” had forbidden me from having a cell phone in the kennels and restricted my computer use to the machines available for common use. All electronic devices must be checked in whenever I was in the Slave Kennels, then signed back out for classes. Realizing that I would have to hand these forms in at the Kennels, wherever that was, I copied down the names, telephone numbers, and e-mail addresses.

When the flight finally landed at Logan International, I faced a long wait as the other, free passengers deplaned. I seized this opportunity to dial the telephone number listed for Sarah Hollister. Amazingly enough, a female voice answered on the third ring.

“Professor Hollister? I’m sorry to trouble you, but my name is Steve Wilson, I’m a sophomore and I’ve been notified that you’re supposed to be my work supervisor this semester.”

“Steven! Glad to hear from you.” The voice sounded sophisticated and reserved, summoning up an image of Leonard’s psychologist-mother Beverly on that TV show about California nerds. “Well, I’ve received your class schedule and so I’ll do my best to schedule your sessions so they don’t interfere with your studies.”

“Yes, Professor,” I replied, meekly. “Can you tell me what I’ll be doing for you?”

“Well, much of it will just be field interviews, discussing how you became enslaved, how it made you feel to be controlled by your—sister, was it?”

“Stepsister, yes Ma’am.”

The cultured, self-satisfied voice came through the phone again. “I had the opportunity to interview her at length about the procedures she used on you—I must say she seems very assertive and innovative for her age and background.”

“She’s certainly that, yes Ma’am.” I replied trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Oh, I just love to hear a Southern slave being courteous. It’s as if your parents brought you up to be slave-ready, always calling your betters Ma’am and Sir and deferring to their judgement. I think that culture helps make the slavery system effective.” She replied.

“We’ll, I’ve always been taught to be respectful of ladies and all people in authority,” I said, trying to get her off this subject.

“Anyway,” the professor continued. “That attitude is relevant to my current research in slave studies. My own field research has prompted me to shift focus from the business aspects of the slave industry to the psychological effect of being enslaved. I’m particularly interested in why certain people seem to be naturally predisposed to slavery, as if they ENJOY being submissive, especially sexually submissive. The experience of losing your clothing and freedom, being publicly exposed, branded, and humiliated, seems to be a kind of sexual high for such people. As I said, I want to begin by having you describe your loss of status and independence when your sister enslaved you. After that—I understand you’ve never been slave-graded?”

“No, Ma’am,” I replied. Oh, lord, where was THIS going, and how do I get out of this mess?

“Excellent!” She replied. “As you may know, the famed Big D Slave Market has recently opened a branch here in Boston. To promote tourism, there’s an inter-state agreement to treat the premises as if they were subject to the slave laws of Texas. So, your Mistress has agreed that I can take you there for slave grading. It may not have the full impact of running you through a Texas market, but it should provide an interesting control study for how much of the psychological impact is due to the culture of slavery in the South, and how much comes just from being stripped, dehumanized, and processed. I’ve looked at your schedule, and you apparently don’t have any classes on Monday mornings?”

Triple crap! My buddies and I had carefully designed our schedules so we could sleep in after a long weekend. Now, it sounds like my sleep-in was going straight into the toilet so I could spend a Monday morning being felt up by curious (and horny) residents of Massachusetts, residents who had recently learned that anyone aged 18 or higher could pay a dollar to gawk at naked, bound adults of both sexes in a genuine Texas slave market. Kill me now, why don’t you? I reluctantly agreed with her interpretation of my schedule—no sense irritating her.

“So, I’ll kennel you there on a Sunday afternoon, have you go through grading Monday morning, and then interview you immediately afterwards, right?” She appeared unaware of how uncomfortable the entire discussion made me.

Again, I acknowledged that she was correct, but then asked her what else I could do for her.

“Oh, there are lots of things you could help me with, especially if you don’t need to go home to Texas for Thanksgiving or other short holidays.”

The way I felt right at that moment, I had no intention of returning to Texas EVER, or at least not until my enslavement had expired, so I quickly agreed to her suggestion. But I could almost hear the smile in her voice when she resumed speaking.

“Slaves make the best servants, so eager to please. One of my grants comes from a consortium of slave industry investors, who are experimenting with a floating slave brothel operating in international waters. That way, they avoid all the legal issues of slavery and prostitution that might arise if they used slave whores in Northern states. I’m sure I could persuade your Mistress to agree to have you work on such a ship, off Cape Cod, during holidays. You could get some nice tips servicing free women on that ship, nor to mention having more chances to have sex than you might otherwise get. Meanwhile I’ll be on board to interview you and other slaves about the psychology of being prostituted for the profit of their owners. Interested?”

The professor must be really obtuse—I couldn’t imagine HER being a naked, horny slave, which is perhaps why she looked at us slaves—that’s right, I said “us”—as an alien species she would never join. Or perhaps she DID understand what it felt like to be a naked slave but was trying to maintain her academic objectivity. On the other hand, she seemed ever-so-slightly turned on, fascinated by the idea of enslavement, although she was trying to conceal it.

Still, if it was a choice between going home to Texas where Ellie May tortured me and going off the coast and getting this damn EDGER off my dick so I could have frequent sex with strange women, even older, unattractive ones, guess which one I would choose?

“Professor, I’m very sorry to cut this short, but the airline attendant is waiting to cuff me and take me off the plane. I’m sure that whatever you want me to do will be interesting even if it makes me uncomfortable. So, I hope I can sign up for whatever you have in mind, subject to getting my studying done, OK?”

That calm, cool, sophisticated woman suddenly giggled like a girl, and ended the conversation. “Remember the old saying, Stephen—be careful what you wish for!”

That last statement repeatedly echoed in my head as I stood, allowed the beautiful attendant to cuff me, and dutifully followed her magnificent bobbing butt off the plane. Somehow, I had to make it through the next five years, finish my degree and avoid letting Ellie May get her hands on me again. If that meant being a slave gigolo licking middle-aged beavers on a cruise ship, I guess I’d have to survive that too.
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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This was wonderful! I loved the 4H / livestock theme! :-)
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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I enjoyed the change of pace Carl took with a male slave in this story. That being said why do male slaves always get cock cages put on them and female slaves rarely if ever get chastity belts? Just one of my issues.

The next chapter should be interesting as our slave begins interacting with Sarah. I never thought I would read a story where the number one school in blue state New England would have a school slave kennel from Carl's earlier description of slavery trends in the north. It is good to see legal slavery spreading up north with a story with chapters taking place in New England. So, are there slave stockades in Harvard Yard for the poorly behaved? I would suspect that all of those Hollywood and rich tech types in the bay area would have an abundance of slave girls.
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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As I suspect that Mr. Smith already knows, I borrowed the University Slave Kennels idea from Badger Therese's brilliant series about the genius nymphomanic slave girl Hannah, especially _Girl, Recreational II: Kenneled_--If you haven't read that series, I encourage you to do so--very sexy and credible. That particular kennel was in a Texas school, but I am extrapolating to assume similar facilities would be necessary in any university, even a northern one, which has a national student body. In the slave world I envision, slavery is permitted under a Constitutional Amendment and enforced by a Revised Fugitive Slave Act. Sooo, if you're a national level institution, even in a state that disapproves of slavery, you would have to comply with requirements to secure, maintain, and discipline slaves brought there from other parts of the country. If Harvard doesn't comply, it might lose all its federal grants! And of course, all the propaganda (including on this and similar sites) to the effect that some people are natural sex slaves only encourages people to consider this normal.
The idea I'm trying to present is that Ellie May might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but she's studied enough slave management in her Texas community college (that really is the name of the school in Waco, just as her telephone number on his collar has the correct area code) to know how to make the federal system work for her, keeping full control over her stepbrother/slave even a thousand miles away.
I will have to consult with the esteemed Joe Doe to determine how and whether I can continue this tale--perhaps when Professor Sarah sends poor Steve to a pseudo-slave market in Boston (Boston Market, anyone?), she'll have flashbacks to her own horny meltdown in Texas? What say you, Professor Doe?
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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Carl where do I find Badger Therese's stories?
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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Sorry, Jeepster--once again, "assume" makes an ass out of me! Badger Therese wrote, I think, 5 novels in this series, all available on Kindle--included in the cost of Kindle Unlimited. If you do look her up, beware that the first novel (Girl, Recreational) was published in many little segments, so I urge you to find the compilation to avoid frustration. The subsequent novels, such as the one I cited, are each in only one download segment. I could not have written about what Ellie May did to her stepbrother without this conception, where Therese thought out an entire system for selling, warehousing, and disciplining slaves. Just the cover photo for the second volume, which I cited before--should blow your mind--a beautiful, naked blonde girl, wrists bound behind her back, as a demonstrator in front of a classroom full of students!
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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After searching I found the stories on Kindle! Thanks for the lead!
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Re: Ellie May's 4-H Project

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The full faith and credit clause in the US constitution requires states to respect and enforce the laws of another state. Thus Vermont must respect a Texas court's enslavement of an individual. There is also the commerce clause. There are also federal laws that legalized slavery and indentures.

Now I wish I had Kindle Unlimited so I could read these stories without my wife finding out.

Hopefully Joe will green light Carl's use of the Sarah Hollister character. There ars so many possibilities here and I am confident that Carl would do the character justice.
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