Slave Yoga, Part 7C by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

The conclusion to the chapter 7, from Joe. Literally an out of body experience!

When my stream of urine at last ended, I struggled to regain my footing. It was not to be. Apparently in my panicked writhing I had caused the gear holding the other end of my noose to ratchet up a few notches. Not much, mind you, but just enough to prevent me from putting any weight on my toes. The tips of my toes could brush the wet stones beneath my feet, offering me the tantalizing possibility of survival. But straining to reach the stones simply tightened the noose around my neck further, quickening the end of the silly little slave girl who had pissed herself waiting to go on the auction block.

The slave monger who had attended me hand turned his back on me to watch the last few seconds of the auction. My choked gurgles and strangled whimpers were of no interest to him, now that there was money being made off the other little slut on the block.

I couldn’t blame him, really. Seeing a skilled auctioneer wrangle the last bit of change out of some randy slave slut is the height of entertainment. Like all such skills, when done well, it is truly an art form. The auctioneer was apparently good at his job, because everyone’s attention was focused on his closing call, and no one was looking at the idiotic slave girl kicking her life away at the end of her rope.

I did have Billy’s attention. I call him Billy, because as my thoughts clouded and my life force ebbed, he did become Billy, and I could swear I heard him talking to me.

“Did you enjoy prick-teasing me in class, bitch? Do you like teasing? How do you like the way your toes are brushing the ground, teasing your sorry, skanking ass while you dance for my pleasure. That’s it! Shake your tits, and wiggle your ass for me, just like you did in class. Show me what a little bimbo you are. A brainless little airhead, pissing on herself as she dances on the end of a rope. You don’t look so in charge now, do you?”

Did I lose consciousness? If so, the bucket of salt water revived me quickly enough. The pain as the slave monger took the rope off of my neck was excruciating, and I was afraid that I’d have a permanent scar, forever marking me as a stupid, disobedient slave girl who barely escaped the noose.

I’m not sure how long I lay in my pee, but I screamed aloud when the slave monger grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and lifted me to my feet. Pushing me forward, it only took me a few seconds to reach the rounded, well-worn steps of the auction block.

As dazed as I had been by my near-death experience, the terrifying reality of what was about to happen to me instantly refocused me totally.

Kidnapped or not, once I was sold my enslavement would be a legal fait accompli. True, a foolish master might choose to free me, although that was unlikely, for it would simply be throwing money away. Regardless of whatever happened afterwards, though, once the sale was complete, I would be a slave. I would be a slave!

“No, please,” I pleaded, resisting as he pushed me towards the stairs. “You’re making a mistake!”

With my hands still bound behind my back, such protests were futile, if not laughable. How many stupid little slave girls, many of noble birth, had made the same plea on the steps of this block, in how many languages, over the countless millennium that connected their fate to my own? Was I any different than a member of a royal family captured by Alexander and sent to the block?

I was not. I was neither better or worse than any of the girls who had gone before me. I was simply pussy to be sold.

No! I was trained psychologist, educated and respected, a professional woman on the verge of beginning a brilliant career. Someday soon I would be well paid, tenured, and respected – even feared – by my cowering students. Yes, I was in charge, and in control.

My reluctance earned me a short hard smack across my naked backside, followed by the laughter of some of the onlookers. Billy, who had enjoyed watching me hang myself, had moved to a front row seat. Perhaps I would piss myself on the block again, and he could get some more footage.

The blazing spank across my ass stung, and it was clear that resistance would earn me nothing but pain. As odd as it may seem, I suddenly recalled the class I had taught in ACT Therapy, a form of cognitive treatment designed to help people overcome their fears.

Suddenly I was back in the classroom again, dressed in my smartest business suit, lecturing a classroom filled with doe-eyed students furiously scribbling down my every utterance.

“Through experimental acceptance the subject can lessen their fears by accepting what they can NOT change, allowing them to focus their attention on what they CAN change, our actions.”

Of course! The answer now seemed obvious when Professor Tracy explained it to me THAT way. I could not stop my auction; in a few minutes I would indeed be a slave. This market was walking a well-oiled machine that had been turning arrogant bitches like me into Pleasure Slaves since the dawn of antiquity. I was not going to change that. What I could do was reduce my pain, and humiliation, and discomfort, by embracing the experience, and thus regaining control. I could not stop my auction, but I could control how the nature of my experience, transforming it from a moment of defeat and humiliation into a moment of pride.

No longer resisting, I stepped forward, looking at the stone steps before me. They were rounded with age, worn down by rain and the countless little bare feet of the slave girls who had gone before me. I stepped onto the first step and lifted myself up, enjoying the sensation of the cold stone on my bare skin. Again, my professorial voice came into my head as I lectured my class, and myself. My voice was confident, calm, and assured.

“The subject must BE in the moment, aware of all the sensations around them, grounded in the here-and-now. The subject must allow themselves to fully experience the smells, sensations, and tastes of everything around them, so they can totally embrace, and thus control, the situation.”

I closed my eyes, relaxing as I relished the sensations around me. The market had a musty, earthy smell, a mix of animal excrement, the sweet flowers that were being sold a few feet away, and the aged rock, there since the dawn of civilization. I felt the warm sun, my nipples hardening in the warm air, and stone auction block beneath my bare feet.

The slave monger, seeing that I was no longer resisting, released his grip on my neck. I grasped the steps with my toes, being careful to keep my balance, mindful of my tethered hands. The rope felt good around my wrists, comforting and embracing. I did not have to worry about modesty, or shielding my breasts of pussy from the peering eyes or the crowd. The rope was my friend.

The market was crowded, but not packed. I guessed maybe 150 people were actively watching my auction, while a few others gawked as they sipped their coffees from across the square. How many times had I sat comfortably under an open-air café, and pretended to read a novel, as I sipped my overpriced espresso frappuccino, and watched the naked slave girls being paraded before the buyers? I smiled when the auctioneer cracked his whip off one of the stupid’s slave girl’s asses. Their agony please me, for I knew that they were being punished for not being as good as me, as graceful, or as smooth as I would be, showing my wares on the block.

My new found mindfulness allowed me to notice the people watching from the cafe. Were they drawn to my beauty, or simply the unusual fairness of my alabaster skin? No matter. Their attention pleased me.

With a new found confidence I turned and smiled at the bidders, surprising a few of them with my ease and confidence. Why shouldn’t I smile? I was in charge now, and I was about to teach all of them a lesson in what it was to be a slave girl.

Walking to the auctioneer, I dropped to my knees before him, lowering my head to kiss his sandaled feet, then raising it to kiss his whip. “Sell me, Master. Sell my hot, slave pussy, and turn it into coin,” I begged.

Apparently, he understood that I was his partner in this transaction, for he smiled and shook out his whip. My power established, I made my first ask, “Unbind my hands, Master. Let me show myself to my bidders, so I can fetch you good coin.”

Having seen me resist only a few seconds before he regarded me doubtfully. Raising his hand, he CRACKED his mighty whip in the air!

Cowering in fear I once again dropped my head, slobbering over his dirty feet with my tongue, sucking on his toes and slathering him with kisses. He laughed contemptuously, but I sensed he was pleased that I had responded correctly to the threat of the whip.

Raising my head, I pressed my face against his pants, nuzzling his penis until I could feel it thicken. “Release my hands, Master,” I pleaded. “Let me dance for your pleasure! Let me earn you coin!”

The knots behind my hand seemed quite impossibly tied, but it only took him a moment to free them from their “slave knot” and release my bound wrists. It felt both painful and wonderful to feel the blood rush back into my hands, and to finally move the muscles in my shoulders, but now was not the time for pleasure. Now was the time for me to perform!

Professor Tracy spoke to me as I rose slowly and faced the crowd. “Values allow you to redefine the experience. Skydiving is not about avoiding death, it’s about enjoying the sensation of flight, and overcoming your fears. This disgusting Pleasure Slut’s auction is not about her fear of the whip, but about her desire to be pleasing, and to set a record block price for her hot slave slash, and round slave ass.”

I had practiced my Slave Yoga for hours-and-hours every day, perfecting every movement, and every gesture. Of all the slave girls who had come before me, I was the best. Now it was time for me to show them all that I could do.

Looking across the square, I took notice of one particular girl, sitting under the awning in the café. I felt certain she was a graduate student, for I certainly knew the look! She was reading a book with a very distinctive orange & green binding, like the binding of the AVANCED SLAVE PSYCHOLOGY book Professor Agatha Crush had written, and had given me to study

The student was wearing a gray skirt, cut about an inch above her knee, and was wearing a pink blouse. Oddly enough, it was the same outfit I had worn during my last meeting with Professor Crush, when we had discussed my Slavecation.

The student sipped her tall drink, then paused to looked my naked body up and down in a cool, appraising, and highly critical way. It was only when our eyes met, and she gave me a chilling, contemptuous smirk, that I realized that I was looking at myself.

How could it be? Fortunately, the beautiful and perfectly coiffed graduate student, in charge, and in control, explained. “Cognitive diffusion allows the subject to step away from themselves, and experience the moment as if they are watching it, rather than experiencing it. It’s a useful mental gymnastic, a simple trick that allows the subject to perform the required tasks without becoming overwhelmed by the emotions of the moment.”

Yes, that was it. I was not naked on an auction block, a nameless Greek slave girl about to be auctioned off like the endless parade of Pleasure Sluts that had proceeded me. No, I was an international traveler, visiting the market, and sipping my refreshing espresso frappuccino under the comfort of a covered awning as I watched the stupid, naked, slave slut parade herself on the auction block.

I watched with detached amusement as the Pleasure Slut on the block took a step forward, smiled, and then jumped up and down in a slow circle, laughing along with the bidders at her bouncing breasts and bottom. Still laughing, she pranced across the length of the block, showing a wonderful side view of her bare legs and bouncing titties.

Returning to center stage, she smiled mischievously, then spread her long legs. A few men in the crowd laughed and hooted something at her, calling out in a language that the little fool was clearly too ignorant and stupid to understand. Illiterate, silly, bimbo!

I smiled, and took another sip of my coffee. Hot and tasty. Returning my attention to the air headed slut on the block, I concluded her obvious stupidity was an asset. Seeing that she was of such limited intelligence, she did not need to understand what the men said. The only thing the little piece of slave gash needed to understand was the whip!

She slowly raised her arms above her head, letting her breasts bounce freely. Leaning back, she inverted herself, demonstrating her flexibility as she formed an upside-down “U” with her body, bending herself into a half circle as her fingers reached down to touch the stone block behind her. Of course, the shameless little contortionists pose opened her pussy up wide, making her snatch the highest point of her body, and the focus of all attention… as it should be. It wasn’t like anyone would be buying this hot slave twat for the conversation.

Raising her feet off the ground, she went into a backwards handstand, holding it for several seconds and displaying her nicely rounded bottom, before completing the circle by letting her feet drop behind her. There was actually a scattering of applause from the impressed bidders.

The auctioneer, amused and surprised, simply stood back and watched as the little slut sold herself. He was pleased, but kept the whip in his hand, absentmindedly running the lash through his fingers as he watched her performance. For her part, she seemed constantly aware of him, or, more likely, the ready lash.

Smiling as she tweaked her hardening nipples, the horny bitch slowly did the splits on the stage, groaning as her wet pussy hit the stone block. Turning toward the audience, she raised her feet wide to the audience, as if she were putting them into imaginary stirrups.

The auctioneer frowned. She was offering the men in the front row a wonderful view of her pussy, but she was low on the block, and not all the buyers could see. He allowed his whip hand to drop to his side as he prepared to register his displeasure.

His dissatisfaction was soon displaced with delight as the flexible little slut reached her head forward and began to lick her own pussy!

Needless to say, I was shocked! I knew she was a disgusting pig slut – that was obvious from the broad grin on her whorish face as she pranced for the men – but I had never imagined that any woman would be so willing to disgrace herself before a crowd of lecherous perverts bidding on her naked body!

The little slut did not seem to mind the men hooting at her or saying the rudest things. Indeed, it seemed to spur her on! I watched in horrified disbelief as she flicked her own clit with her tongue, and spread and fingered both her pussy and her butthole, both of which were fully displayed to the crowd. Billy was in front, filming, but the added humiliation of his enjoyment made her flick her darting tongue all the faster as she shamelessly revealed the secrets of female self-simulation to the prying eyes of the men before her.

Two of the slave mongers moved the crowd around the auction block back, widening the circle so that more people could enjoy the show. A part of me hoped that the smiling auctioneer would use the whip on the disgusting little slut, cutting her disgraceful performance short and ending her humiliation. But he had dollar signs in his eyes, and with his eyes fixed firmly on his commission, he did not interfere.

My pulse quickened and my pussy quivered as the little slut’s tongue darted around her engorged clit, causing her pussy to quiver in a way that made it clear to everyone watching that the end was near. With one final groan of pleasure the little slut pushed herself over the edge, treating me to the most intense slavegasm I had ever experienced, at least to that point.

Where was I? I was in the café, and on the auction block, and holding the whip, and bidding on her. I was her, and everyone, and everywhere at once.

My tongue kept flicking, and I kept orgasming, and the men kept hooting and cheering as my sloppy wet pussy meat spasmed uncontrollably. Now the auctioneer was using the whip not to threaten me, but to point at the various buyers as the bids poured in!

Professor Tracy, standing next to me on the stage, completed her lecture even as my pussy quivered in pleasure, and the men shouted out their desire to fuck me.

“The final phase of Act Therapy is the most difficult one: committed action. Changing one’s behaviors and personality to achieve the desired outcome. The little slut on the block has abandoned her identity, her dignity, and all her pretensions of being a proper young lady to achieve her goal. No longer a well-educated young Ph.D. student, she has now embraced her new identity as a nameless Pleasure Slut being vended in the slave market.”

“How many girls have been sold off this block? Ha-ha! Too many too count! You might as well ask how many grains of sand there are on the beach, or how much light or dark there is the Universe. The point is that upon the block, she is no different than her sisters. She is simply pussy to be sold.”

“That might seem cold and reductive, and indeed it is. However as you notice from the shamelessness of her performance, the little slut has sought refuge in her slave girl vanity. Embracing fully her role as a Pleasure Slut, her sole focus is to drive up her price, and earn her master’s as much coin as possible. This is as it should be, for whatever else is she good for?”

Seeing that the bidding was slowing, I lowered my feet to the floor, and rose to confront the audience. “Are the so-called men of this village CHEAP?”, I said, laughing. “I think so! You stink of fish, and cheapness. Your stinginess burns this slave girl’s nostrils!” I said, laughing.

I am not sure how many of them spoke English. A few of them did, and those who didn’t certainly picked up on my inexplicable brazen, hands-on-my-hips, feminist ATTITUDE.

The auctioneer seemed a bit surprised at my brazen disrespect, and out of the corner of my eye I watched as he once again teased the business end of the slave lash with his fingers. But the audience did not seem angry. They seemed amused, and so he waited.

“Is there no one here man enough to master me? To fuck me, and whip me, and put me in my place! Bid on me, masters!”

The bids once again poured in as the smiling auctioneer used the whip not to discipline the disrespectful slut on his block, but to point at the laughing bidders!

Relishing my power, I continued to taunt them. “Imagine me chained to the foot of your bed, Masters, eagerly rubbing my hot slave pussy all day as I awaited your return. Imagine me in my kennel, begging to be released so I could suck your cock! Imagine me crawling to you with the whip in my teeth, begging for your discipline, begging for me to fuck you!”

I noticed a commotion in the preparation area. The college girls were there, protesting loudly as the man with the badge casually removed the money from their purses before tossing their passports and bags into one of the fire bins used to heat the branding irons.

“You can’t do this to us!” Ellie May shouted. “We’re Americans!”

“Stop! Don’t take off my clothes! Why are you stripping me? I’m not a SLAVE GIRL!”

Ah, but they were, even if they didn’t realize it yet. Laughing, I pointed across at the girls, who were screaming as they were quickly being stripped naked by the soldiers, who added each garment to the fire.

“See?” I taunted. “A-MERE-i-CANS! We think we have rights! We think you can’t enslave us! Teach me masters! Make me your slave girl!”

I realized as soon as I had spoke it that I had made a mistake. The bidding slowed as the crowd’s attention was diverted from the block to the bleating girls being stripped.

Fetching though I was, there is a certain pleasure in watching a girl’s enslavement, particularly if the girl is proud and thinks far too much of herself. Seeing a group of sorority girls, smug, arrogant, and stupid enough to think that they could prance through a foreign slave market, was a particular delight. I had pointed them out because of the cruel way they had teased me, and my delight in seeing them enslaved. I hope the little bitches got branded, right on their spoiled, rich asses. But my schadenfreude at their well-deserved downfall had diverted attention from my own sale, and slowed the bidding. The auctioneer frowned at me.

I knew I must regain the men’s attention, but how? How could a pleasure slut who had shown all she had divert attention from the delightful spectacle of these American college bitches being stripped naked, and introduced to the harsh realities of the slave market they so foolishly stopped to browse in? I had only one thing left to offer.

Dropping to my knees, I moved to the center of the block. Gracefully kneeling, I spread my legs, and lowered my face to the stone, raising my naked ass high in the air for the bidders to see. “Whip me, Master!” I said to the auctioneer. “Whip my bottom, for daring to slow the bidding, wise Master!”

I caught his eye, and he smiled at me. I smiled back. We were partners now, and we both knew what we needed to do. It was almost like we were dancing…

The first blow of the lash hit my bottom dead center, cutting it in half like a knife. Snapping my head back, I screamed lustily. “Punish me master!” I cried. “Whip my ass, for every new bid!”

Does it surprise you to learn that he did exactly that, or that the audience, anxious to see the slave girl who had insulted them brought to heel, now turned their full attention to me? With each bid from the audience, the whip rained down fire, and I screamed, and wiggled my bottom for the cheering, applauding buyer’s amusement.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! With each snap of the whip, my block price rose!

From the side of the bock, Professor Tracy, looking quite smart in her suit, adjusted her glasses as she offered dispassionate and pedantic commentary on the slave slut writhing under the auctioneer’s whip.

“The paradox of ACT therapy is that by distancing herself the experience, while simultaneously relishing the tastes, sights, and smells around her, the subject can fully embrace an experience that might have otherwise terrified her. Watch this little slave slut rub her hot slit for the bidders, even as the auctioneer cracks the whip against her ass as the final bids come in. Humiliated and degraded, yes, but also freed to experience the joys of block pussy, and the most shattering multiple orgasm of her life.”

And so I did.

[orflash64]

Joe, while it was highly detailed and unique perspective, you seem to dwell on piss alot. I started and stopped reading several times because of this. Otherwise a good story.

[Hooked6]

Okay, it's official. I am truly addicted to the story. I can't wait to see what happens next. Professor Tracy is such a rich character and the ever evolving venues and situations into which she finds herself in is so fascinating I hope the story never ends!

The piss scenes are erotic to me, partly because the situation is so humiliating and I LOVE embarrassment and humiliation when it is part of such a colorful story like this one. Slave Yoga is one of the top ten stories I have read in over 20 years of erotica.

If I made plead my case, "Please Master Joe. May we have some more?"

Hooked6

[jeepster]

A good read! Was interesting with her in 2 roles at once! Gave both perspectives at the same time which made it a fun story to read! Thanks!

[Scman493]

Love the visuals created by this story as well as the mind play inside the subjects head. Thank you for writing.

[Freight_Train]

Wow! Great development, as expected in a Joe Doe story. Really excellent. Thanks.

[gary]

Outstanding, seems unlikely that she will avoid enslavement. My only complaint is the soldiers grabbing rich American tourists, if they are rich this could cause a real stink with a powerful country, and would destroy the tourist industry, which in our universe is contributed 18% to its GDP. In general I dislike the idea of people just being able to grab women and make them slaves, if anything would cause people to rise up it would be that, and governments don't like chaos, they want things orderly.

[submit63]

Thank you, Joe Doe for this superb story, and you too, imreadonly, for sharing it. Your foray into the psychology of slavery is particularly fascinating and the handling is engrossing. I'd very much like to see how the relationship between the heroine and Dr. Crush will evolve! And please, don't let us wait very long!