Slave Yoga, Part 7B by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

A bit more from Joe, who thanks you for your feedback and encouragement.

My nipples hardened as I felt the hot sun warm my skin. I had been scoured clean with hard bristle brushes and salt water from the firehose at the pier, but already my skin and hair were dry. I was fair, and I hoped they put me on the block soon. I didn’t want to burn, and decrease my block price. I hoped my masters to be satisfied with the money I’d bring.

I smiled at the absurdity of the thought: the silly little slave girl was worrying about pleasing her masters, while engaging in the classic slave girl vanity of worrying about her block price!

As unpleasant as the scrub brushes were, I was glad the men had cleaned me. Yes, they had been rough on me. I smiled as I thought of the little flag they used to put in the baked potatoes at the steakhouse near campus: “I’m moisty, juicy, and delicious, and I’ve been scrubbed, tubbed, and rubbed.”

I had no idea how long I had been in my cage, or long I had been in transit. All slave girls are filthy piggies, and I had fouled myself in my case. The men had been right to give me a good scrubbing, and scour the slave stink off of me. Painful, but it was for my own good! I was glad that they had done such a thorough job, and had taken such good care of me. After all, what girl doesn’t want to look her best on stage? And for a slave girl, the auction block is the ultimate stage.

No, no! What was I thinking? I wasn’t a slave girl. I was a Ph.D. student, a scholar, a trained academic doing research on the psychology of slavery. I couldn’t let my role consume me. I was in control. Surely my intellect and sophistication would save the day.

Yes, I was in charge! I thought back to my days at University. I remembered myself strutting down the quad in my belly-shirt and calf high jean skirt, reveling in the stares of the students and male Professors who ogled me, longing for my body. I would give them nothing, of course, for none of them were good enough for me. But it was fun for me to tease them, even as I pretended to ignore them.

Every now and then one of them would look a bit too long, and I would turn and glare at them contemptuously. They would look away, ashamed of their longing, ashamed of their desire. I enjoyed putting men in their place, and the power it gave me over them.

As much as I enjoyed prick-teasing the pathetic wimps who longed for my body, even then I knew there was something missing.

My nipples hardened as I remembered Professor Bakas absent mindedly tapping his slave whip against his palm as he lectured the class on the wonders of slavery. Yes, he was lecturing the class, but on the hardest whip taps he always seemed to be looking at me.

“For a slave girl, the auction block is not a humiliation, but a culmination. It is the fulfillment of her destiny, and her chance to demonstrate her worth to the world.”

“Slavery is the foundation of all great civilizations, not just of antiquity but of the modern world. For all of its hypocrisy of freedom, the United States economy was built on slavery. Even The White House and The Capital were built with slave labor, ha-ha.”

“It is the natural order of things for the strong and powerful to sell the weak and the stupid. Slavery is, in fact, a benevolent institution, with the master providing food and protection to an animal too weak and stupid to live by its own wits. The free & liberal use of the slave whip, so often derided as cruel, is in fact an expression of compassion. It is a directional sign for animals too stupid to understand signs, or even read. It is no crueler than a bannister, or a guardrail on the side of a road.”

I heard the crack of the whip, and suddenly I was back in the ancient slave market, listening to the cry of the slave girl on the block. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust in the sun, but when they did, I could see the bidders were laughing. The slave girl on the block had not been pleasing. Or perhaps the auctioneer had just decided to whip her to catch the audience’s attention, or drive up her price a bit. It didn’t matter why; “the whip has its own logic.”

I scanned the market. I could not read the signs; I was an illiterate slave girl. But the auctioneer had a whip in his hands, and that was enough. I didn’t need to know how to read, or write, or think, or reason. As Professor Bakas said, “The only thing a slave girl needs to understand is the whip.”

One of the slave mongers stuck his whip between my legs, and then tapped my thighs with the business end of the whip. I spread my legs as wide as the noose allowed, and then some. He gave me a command in his rough, guttural language, a command I did not understand. He frowned, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

“Please,” I explained. “I’m an American. I only speak English. I’m a University student.”

I’m not sure why I felt the need to tell him I was a University student, or why I thought that at that moment, hanging in a slave market like a side of beef with a rope around my neck, I thought such things mattered.

He apparently thought it was funny, to, or at least absurd. “Okay, Pro-fess-a”, he said, his voice oozing contempt. “P!”

He tapped my pussy with his whip. I looked at him, confused. “I beg your pardon, Master. I don’t understand.”

“P!” he said, tapping my pussy harder. It caused me to jump, and lose my balance, and I gasped as the noose tightened around my throat, momentarily cutting off my air. When my toes found the stones beneath my feet again, he repeated his command.

“P!” he shouted. “Meg wadder! Meg wadder!”

I looked down, and noticed that the stones were sloped down slightly, and led to a street grate. Of course! The riddle was solved. My master wanted me to make my water! He wanted me to pee. I smiled, pleased that at last I understood.

His command made total sense, of course. Slave girls were often required to relieve themselves, lest the dirty little piggies foul themselves on the auction block. A girl, under the crack of the whip, could easily lose control of her bladder. Some buyers found this amusing. But in a small, primitive market like this one, with the buyers crowding around the old stone auction block as they made their bids, there was always the chance that a few of them might get sprayed, depending on what position the little slut was in when she disgraced herself. The auctioneer could use the whip, of course, but too often that only reduced the girl’s control, and made the spray all the wider as she flailed around.

I was familiar enough with slave markets to know that as humiliating as the request was, it was customary. Indeed, as I looked down to take my aim I noticed that the stones beneath my toes were discolored from the streams of the European, Egyptian, Turkish, Macedonian, and Byzantine slave girls who had hung from this hook and wet the stones before me. I might be an American, and a Ph.D. student, but it was time for me to make my water like all the other obedient little slave girls.

But would I be able to? I had never peed in front of anyone before, let alone peed in a crowded market, in front of a slave monger tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for me to perform. I squinted, and concentrated fully, and felt the first couple of drops come out. Then someone caught my eye, stopping me cold.

It was a teenage boy, about 18, short, scrawny, with dark skin, curly black hair and a sad attempt at a first peach fuzz mustache.

Billy?

It wasn’t Billy, of course, but with my eyes half-closed that was the image that formed in my head. Billy was one of my senior High School students, and he had a terrible crush on me, along with a terrible stammer. He always made an excuse to see me after class, and, I’m ashamed to say, I always used these visits as an opportunity to prick tease him mercilessly.

“I’m…na-na-na-not sure I under-under-stand puh-puh-puh-sitive and neg-neg-neg”

Smiling, I cut him off. After all, I didn’t have all day for his goofy stammering! Rising from my chair and sitting on the edge of the desk in a way that caused my skirt to rise up and give him a wonderful flash of my bare leg.

“You don’t understand positive and negative operant conditioning?” I said, finishing his thought.

Billy, staring at my legs, nodded. I smiled as I watched his pants begin to bulge. What fun!

“Let’s say you got an “A” on the next test, and in return I agreed to do ANYTHING you wanted, ANYTHING you asked for, no matter what it was, for a full day. I’d be your slave girl, as a reward. What would you ask me to do, Billy?”

I smiled as Billy blushed beet red. “I…I…I…duh..duh..duh…”

“Oh, I think you DO know, you silly boy!” I said, giving a bit of girlish laughter. “Me being your slave girl would be POSITIVE reinforcement.”

I shifted my weight, and leaned forward, to give him a view of my cleavage. “Now, let’s say you were naughty, and got a “C”, and I pulled down your pants and spanked you right on your bare backside. That would be NEGATIVE reinforcement.”

Judging from the way Billy’s little pecker twitched in his shorts at the threat of a spanking I wasn’t sure it would be that negative at all. But Billy, now unable to speak, nodded. My little man was so flustered he actually left his book in class, and I had to give it to him next period.

Poor little Billy, or “Silly Billy!” as I called him, when I handed him his text book back in front of the other students. Some of the other beautiful but cruel alpha girls picked up on my new nickname, and he was “Silly Billy” for the rest of the school year.

Needless to say, I was surprised to see Billy, or more accurately, Billy’s doppelganger, intently staring at me in the slave market. He did look a lot like Billy, right down to the erection in his gym shorts. But his manner was quite different. Slave market Billy was not nervous, or looking down at his shoes. Slave market Billy was staring directly at me, and smiling broadly as he waited for me to urinate on command.

As our eyes met he laughed out loud. “Uh-Mere-E-CAN!” he sounded out, in heavily accented English. “Pro-Fess-ER, ha-ha! Make PEE-PEE, HA-HA!”

Needless to say the thought of Billy, whom I had prick-teased so mercilessly, laughing and openly mocking me as he watched me pee like a dog at a fire hydrant stopped me cold.

Unfortunately for me, the distraction caused me to lose sight of the task at hand, and forget about the whip! I was soon reminded of it though, as the impatient slave monger brought the crop up between my spread legs, striking me directly on my exposed pussy!

He didn’t hit me very hard, as it was an underhanded shot, but given how sensitive I was down there it hurt like hell. “WEE-WEE!” he commanded.

Now fully focused, I didn’t dare wait for another blow. With the threat of the whip, and the pain in my poor pussy, I found that I was soon able to get a stream going. Much to my surprise, it was a copious stream, and it sprayed out widely, making a noise like raindrops as it hit the browned cobblestones beneath me.

I had spread my legs as widely as I could but with the ever-tightening noose tugging at my neck there was only so much I could do. Oh, no! I was peeing on myself! Dirty, stupid little slave girl, couldn’t even pee without hitting her own feet and making a mess.

Worse, my shameful little puddle made the stonework beneath my feet slippery. With no real slack in the rope, when I slipped I was literally dancing on air at the end of my rope, kicking as I struggled to find my footing, peeing everywhere. As I twirled in Billy’s direction I saw him recording my foolishness on his cellphone, laughing as I danced on air, my stream tinkling noisily onto the browned stones.

If Billy was taking a Psychology class, my pussy whipping and hanging would make a perfectly splendid example of negative operant conditioning. Or at the very least, the foolish little slave girl spraying her stream in all directions as she danced on the end of a rope would make a wonderfully viral TikTok video.

[Hooked6]

Another great installment. I love the head games she is playing with herself as you create the backstory of her past. Looking forward to more.

Hooked6

[jeepster]

A wonderful chapter ! Really like the mind games part of the story!

[gary]

Excellent. You can really see her becoming a slave in her mind. I do wonder, what happened to Suzie and Professor Agatha Crush?