Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 03

[Carl Bradford]

Merry Xmas. (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.)

(Joe Doe has approved the appearance of Lindsay Williams, Sarah Hollister, and other characters in this story. Southwest Airlines and its ULL appear by permission of Natalie, Will, and their technical advisor, El Jefe.)

(Lindsay Williams’ Viewpoint)

There’s a new form of entertainment that is spreading rapidly in Southern cities—a clear plexiglass pool, almost a hot tub, mounted on the back of a flatbed truck to allow a group of young people to “party hearty” as they cruise the downtown. The pool or “tub” comes complete with water filters, heaters, and (because everyone is proven to be of age) a keg of beer—as I said, a self-propelled party vehicle.

The group of young adults with whom I was riding in downtown Dallas were enjoying themselves, but I was far from comfortable. That COULD be because they were all wearing swimsuits and had towels they could use to wrap up in the brisk winds of early fall, whereas I was butt naked and shivering. My real concern, however, was that my legs were bound wide apart while I was bent over with my head and wrists immobilized in a wooden pillory mounted on the truck bed next to the tub/pool. The five guys in the party were taking turns pounding both of my lower openings, while the three young women, far from objecting to my treatment, took turns diddling my clit and fondling the nipples on my dangling 38DDs. If you haven’t put this image together, I was naked and helpless in full public view on a busy city street, being gang-banged and teased to distraction by eight strangers while anyone was free to look at or photograph me. Photographs would include my dripping twat, oversized boobs, and the Long Horn slave brand seared into my left buttock, but what I was most afraid of was someone photographing my face and circulating the image in Massachusetts, where I normally taught at the university. My body was having trouble deciding whether to send blood to my cunt, my anus, my breasts, or my blushing-red face; my brain lost, and I almost passed out.

The term for my job was “tub slut.” In my case this was an appropriate term because my owner, Master Paul, had sub-contracted me out to work for SlutsRUs, infamous throughout the South for providing temporary slaves where sexual performance was a job requirement. Because slaves can’t legally refuse sex, we were not restricted by morality laws; both my owner and SlutsRUs were within their rights to rent any of my openings for sexual use by any adult, including the five guys in the early 20s who were currently ravaging me.

If you haven’t read the previous episodes of this humiliating story, you may wonder why a college professor was in this situation. The short answer was that it was my own damn fault. Because I taught slave studies and hoped one day to advise slave merchants in their businesses, I had concluded that I had to indenture myself for a year to understand better the psychology of these unfortunate women. OK: truth time. NOW I call any slave an “unfortunate” man or woman, but before I self-indentured, when I taught Slave Studies, I thought of all female slaves as contemptible cock-obsessed sluts with IQs of about room temperature. My very first day at the slave market, I had experienced the phenomenal psychological shift of losing my autonomy—not to mention my clothes—and realizing that I was completely vulnerable to whatever sexual depredation a free person chose to inflict on me. Long before I finished my “slut” training at the aptly-named Pearson Pussy Ranch, I had become just as horny as any of the slaves I had previously belittled. Getting LOTS of cock in my openings every day was now my principal objective as well as the only enjoyable aspect of being a pleasure slave.

In retrospect, I had probably been tempted, as are so many others, by the TITillating image, the sexual vulnerability of such a situation. I soon discovered, however, that being a helpless sex object gave rise to emotional and hormonal sensations that overwhelmed my well-educated mind. By now, five months into my indenture, I was addicted to being dominated and used by any guy with a stiff dick and enough money to rent my services—let’s not mince words, to rent my ass, cunt, mouth, and boobs! Even in that pillory, under the stress of being bent over, assaulted, and humiliated by strangers, I was still VERY aroused.

But as I said, I kept telling myself that I needed this experience for academic reasons. I was blessed because my friend and counselor, the famous slave psychiatrist Nikki Sheldon, had persuaded her businessman husband Paul Sousa to buy me off the auction block and periodically—in between leasing me (including all of the above sexual parts) to SlutsRUs or having me act as a submissive in his BDSM club—allow me a few quiet days in their home while I wrote up my observations about slavery. Besides, while I was still worried about someone photographing my face, I thought I was unlikely to be identified as an Associate Professor at U Mass Amherst who was having her ass rented, piece by piece, in Dallas, Texas. I’d signed up for a year as a slave because I had a sabbatical (actually 14 months, counting the two summer vacations) off from teaching to do research, and I REALLY needed to up my game intellectually. I hadn’t expected to become addicted to submissive sex, still less to grow a bra size (from D to DD) because of the hormone injections intended to render me a more docile, eager bimbo (got to admit they did THAT, too). The experience of the past five months had almost been worth the pain and humiliation, as I now had a much greater comprehension of slavery than I could ever have gotten from books or interviews. Now I just had to survive the rest of my indenture without being outed as a slave back home, THEN figure out how I would satisfy my growing addiction to dominant cock once I regained my clothes and freedom.

Despite the public humiliation, being a tub slut was actually the best part of my weekend because it maximized my contact (physical and social) with virile young men. Weekends were often periods of high demand for us slave whores, but many of the customers were repulsive. I had to work a double shift that evening, chained on my knees sucking (mostly inadequate) dicks in a glory hole, followed by two evenings street walking in Dallas—but NOT the nice part of town where the tub truck had driven.

*****
After that weekend, thank heavens, my first lease to SlutsRUs was up and Master Paul came to get me—a rare mark of personal attention (Nikki had told me privately that Paul was a softie. Having been one himself, he cared deeply about any slave and especially a female slave with whom he had sex, but he tried to act like a tough guy, telling me that having exploited slaves I could expect nothing better for myself.) For the next week in their home, I was able to relax and catch up on my writing and analysis—and when I got too horny, Paul and/or Nikki would oblige by dominating me sexually. The climax was kneeling on their bed with my face buried in Nikki’s moist snatch while Paul pounded my slave brains out—again!

At the end of that week he took me back to work at his BDSM club. Master Paul told me to expect to spend several weeks there, but also warned that I might be leased out again to (pardon the pun) “broaden” my experience as a pleasure slut.

It may sound strange when I tell you that a Ph.D. professor enjoyed being a waitress, flirting with all the “members” as they felt me up and activated the three vibrators attached to my leather shorts, two of which vibrators were stretching my lower openings. Of course, what I REALLY enjoyed was being a submissive, tied up, dominated, and fucked senseless by the doms (including Paul on one occasion.) So, I was really enjoying myself at the club until mid-November, when, one late afternoon, Master Paul suddenly told me that he was delivering me himself for another contract that would run for “several weeks.” I didn’t think much about it, but dutifully obeyed instructions, stripping off my leather submissive costume, putting on a clear plastic poncho (it was, after all, November outside) and placing my hands behind my back to be cuffed.

Master Paul walked me, thus scantily attired, out to his Mercedes AMG-SL where he moved my hands and cuffs to the front and belted me into the shotgun seat. I was just pleased to be under his control, getting his attention, as we talked idly. Eventually, I noticed that we were headed towards the airport rather than the downtown office of SlutsRUs. At first, the submissiveness trained into me discouraged me from questioning our route, but I was worried when we pulled up to a large warehouse with a discreet sign reading “Southwest Shipping.”

Paul could see the confusion in my face; I was still so in awe of my owner that I could barely ask him what we were doing here, rather than at SlutsRUs.
His response was calm, almost cold. “I thought I told you that I wanted to give you different experiences as a slave—this is one of them. I’ve contracted you out to travel, along with five other Choice- or Prime-rated pleasure slaves, to fill in for a temporary shortage up north. Come on, let’s go inside.”

Gulp. Being a slave slut in Texas was risky enough, but being shipped somewhere up north, where people might recognize me??? I obediently climbed out of the car and did not resist when he walked me into the building, removed my poncho, and re-cuffed my hands behind my naked back. “Where am I going, Master?” I asked meekly, my heart racing.

He must have realized that his next words would terrify me: “You’re going to Boston, to work on the cruise ship Yo Ho Ho.” He caught me as I started to collapse in shock. “Come on, Lindsay. You know this will be an essential experience for you to understand slavery.” I started to babble my fears and protests, but he stopped me. “This is going to happen, girl. I know you’re worried that someone up north will recognize you; that’s always a risk, I agree, but you KNOW how to act like a good little whore; just do what you’re told and try not to make eye contact. Think how much this will help your research,” he ended with a slight smile.

As he talked, he had been walking me over to a massive aluminum box that appeared to be in a U-shape, as if it could fit into the bottom of a widebody jet. I had heard about the ULD-40, designed to transport six slaves while using less space than just stacking as many poodle cages, but I never expected to ride in one as a naked slave! A guy dressed as a slave wrangler with “Southwest Shipping” embroidered in his shirt was already prodding other bound females of various hair colors—presumably the rest of my select group—into the structure, each in a separate, wired-off segment of the frame.

The wrangler looked at us, and remarked, “If she’s going to argue or struggle, we’ll just gag her and add ankle chains for the flight.”

Master Paul looked at me: “Your choice, slut. You’re going on this trip one way or the other. If you argue, you can spend the entire flight gagged and bound hand and foot. What’s it going to be—will you cooperate?”

My heart was beating a mile a minute and for some reason I was even lubricating down below, but I decided not to make myself more uncomfortable by fighting, which wouldn’t make any difference in the outcome. “Yes, Master.”

“Good girl,” he replied, smiling, and handed me to the wrangler, who guided me backwards up the ramp. Like a police officer, he pushed down on my head as I crouched low to inch backwards through the metal opening. I had to step down about six inches on the inside to the cool metal floor. The wrangler held me by the collar with one hand, a small object in the other.

Beep! I'd been scanned, once again just another piece of inventory. (Of all the procedures used on slaves, the bar code might be the most dehumanizing, rendering us just livestock without even the thrill of sexual domination.) I stared as he closed the door, the latch closing with a clunk. There was a second beep as he assigned my collar to this compartment of the ULL. Light filtered in through what were apparently ventilation openings, but little enough of that. Not having enough space to stand upright, I began to crouch lower, where a window opened near the top of the door.

“Have a good trip, Lindsay; I’m sure you’ll gather a lot of useful data,” said Paul.

“Yes, Master,” I replied softly; my sense of isolation and helplessness only increasing as the little window closed. Cuffed, naked, caged, and unable to see anything, I was lost in terror as I felt the ULL moving, apparently on a conveyor belt. A few minutes later, echoing sounds suggested that the box was inside a more restricted space, probably the aircraft that was going to take me back to Massachusetts! A series of bangs and clicks suggested that the box was now secured in place; fortunately, a few tiny LED lights and even a small heater came on to split the darkness.

*****
I had been in some frightening situations since self-indenture, but now I was completely terrified. Eight months earlier, I had sailed on the Yo Ho Ho, but on that cruise I had been managing the slaves on board, gleefully whipping and using them as part of my effort to convince slave merchants that I was a credible business consultant. Now, not only would I suffer all the humiliations and sexual assaults of a slave whore at sea, but at any moment one of those powerful slave merchants or bankers might recognize me, ending my life as I knew it.

When the other slaves tried to talk to me, I attempted to be friendly but told them, truthfully, that I was afraid of where we were going, so after a while they left me alone. They did tell me the rumor that, for some unknown reason, some of the northern “sluts” [no sense sugar-coating our speech) who should have been on the Yo Ho Ho were unavailable, hence our last-minute shipment from Texas. (Much later, I learned that the student debt slaves of Boston’s colleges were taking final exams.) The flight went far too quickly for my taste, and before I knew it the ULL was coming off the aircraft and we were released from our aluminum coffin. A quick chance to relieve ourselves (straddling a grate, another dehumanizing technique with which I had become accustomed) and swallow some water, and we were all sitting, still cuffed and slave naked, on a van headed for the docks. I was so worried by our destination that I almost (not quite) failed to react when other vehicles in traffic noticed the bare-breasted sluts on the van and began honking their horns and calling out obscene comments. The sight of naked slaves was so rare in the North that we almost caused a riot. At least, I told myself, they were all looking at my tits rather than my face. That was also my only hope to avoid being recognized on board the ship.

At first, it seemed as if I might get away with it. We were all lined up, kneeling with hands cuffed, bent over with our heads down (staring at the deck) and butts high as the passengers came on board. Any number of people fondled (and commented upon) my moist cunt and the Longhorn brand on my rear end, where the letter “P” identified me as Prime (actually Prime minus, but still the highest grade of slave meat.) One of the passengers had to explain to several others that the different brands were from different slave markets, but “A prime slave is still a prime, regardless of where she was graded.”)

Even after I was ordered to my feet and led to a stateroom to be used, my boobs got a lot more attention than my face. The next four days run together in my memory. In addition to being screwed in all my openings (not to mention between my breasts and thighs), I was belittled, spanked, whipped, fondled, bound in different positions, dropped overboard (with a rope secured to my wrists) for a cold North Atlantic bath, and made to gyrate through endless rounds of Block Positions (AKA Slave Yoga), all while loudly repeating the most obscene and degrading mantras imaginable (“Please ram your monster cock into all my openings” was one of the milder mantras.) I remembered gleefully inflicting these humiliations, most of them planned by my arch-rival Professor Sarah Hollister, on the slaves aboard the same ship on another cruise last spring—now I was actually experiencing rather than directing them. Once again, experiential learning is much more effective than just observation. I was doubly embarrassed, first because I regretted doing these things to other humans, and then because I was constantly exposed while fully naked, not to mention being forced to climax repeatedly until I passed out on several occasions. I won’t even mention the intentional “de-lousing” baths where slaves were sprayed with burning chemicals, nor the role-playing where passengers would pretend to be pirates or school teachers while they stripped me of scanty costumes, then spanked me and used all my openings. Truth to tell, I enjoyed most of those episodes—not the de-lousing but the sexual use. As I said, I’d become addicted!

Most of the time, the passengers and staff were focused on my cunt, ass, tits, and so on. More than one man seemed to enjoy using me for a Clinton—inserting and rolling his cigar inside my well-lubricated birth canal before rubbing the cigar under my nose and then smoking it in front of me. I know that Jake Henry, the owner of the Big D Slave Markets (of Dallas and Boston) and a major slave merchant whom I hoped to impress, used me that way at least once. Still, he was focused on my labia more than my face.

The one experience I feared the most was having to give a blow-job. I no longer objected to sucking a guy off—in fact, I’d become rather addicted to licking, sucking, and swallowing cum. No, the problem was that a good cocksucker is expected to smile around the dick and stare adoringly into the master’s face, trying to convince him that the sucker was honored and overjoyed to service the suckee. On the second day out, I had to blow first Jake Henry himself and later the investment banker Bill Markup, both of whom knew me fairly well and had seen my face at close range on the previous voyage. The whole time I was convinced that they MUST recognize me, that my shameful secret MUST have been out, but neither one said anything, not even much later that night when Markup did his best to pound the brains out of my cunt and the s____ out of my ass. He clearly got off on inflicting pain, so I dutifully squeaked and moaned even though his dick was too small to harm even the cocker spaniel he resembled. Seriously, as a graduate of both Pearson’s Pussy Ranch and the Sousa BDSM club, I had learned to ENJOY being reamed by a large-caliber cock driven by a masterful male, but this guy was so small I was tempted to commit the unforgiveable sin of asking “is it in yet?”
As for Jake, who almost never complimented a slave, I heard him tell someone that I was “a good piece of ass—Prime, just like her brand says. I don’t know how much she sold for, but I bet we could have got more selling her at the Big D.”

*****
The real danger was Professor Hollister, my arch-rival. Not only was she more observant than the average male (who only wanted big boobs and a moist hole to fuck), but just before I left for Texas she had published a paper on the difficulty that people experienced recognizing an acquaintance in a slave collar. So I did my best not to attract her attention on the ship. Once, when someone had made me climb onto a bar table in “Slave 4s” position, I did my best to turn my head away from her side of the table. The downside of turning like that was that she found my branded ass irresistible; if she wasn’t teasing my needy cunt she was whipping my butt. That evening she was full of her usual B.S., boastful attitude as she tried to impress a new investor. In the process, Mistress Sarah lashed me several times and then shoved the thongs of a short whip deep into my lubricated twat, remarking "See how this horny little bitch loves the whip? The great thing about a rented slut like this is you can whip her lazy ass and not worry about the marks, because you know she's not yours, and you don't have to wait for her to heal. You just move on to the next rump."

Then she giggled in a tone I found evil. “Besides, it’s fun to beat a slave’s butt. The power is such a rush. She likes it too, see?" The fear of discovery combined with the sense of being a toy on display intensified my arousal, so I moaned on cue. When I felt Sarah withdraw the whip from my cunt, I knew without even looking that the lashes were now soaked in my juices. A moment later, the professor brought the whip down HARD across my exposed butt.

I had always heard that wet leather had a bigger sting than dry—that night I confirmed the rumor. The pain was intense, but even worse was the fear of discovery. Sarah had just repeated almost word for word what I had said when I whipped that skank Flame on the spring cruise. Surely that meant that Flame had recounted the incident and that the professor recognized me! But I couldn’t do anything. A moment later, I felt her fingers manipulating my erect clit and then releasing an alligator clamp on it—the pain was intense, but at least it gave me an opportunity to get off, and I barely held my position rather than faint. A few moments later she jerked the clamp off, got up and walked away, giving me a final slap on the butt.

*****
Silly me. I thought that I was safe—surely, if Sarah had recognized me, that was the perfect moment to “out” me and humiliate me publicly, making sure that every slave merchant on the ship knew that Slut 6627 was really Lindsay Williams, a wannabee slave studies professor at an inferior state school who enjoyed wearing a collar so much that she had pimped herself out for this cruise.

Three days later, when the cruise was approaching its end, Sarah—I mean, Mistress Sarah—had a slave wrangler bring me to her cabin with my wrists cuffed behind my back as usual. I immediately knelt and bowed, still trying to hide my face. To be honest, I felt bedraggled after days and nights of salt water and de-lousing dunkings, whips and clamps on all my most sensitive areas, having my brains pounded out and then immediately being sent to fetch something. I knew my hair was a mess, and in general, as I had heard people say in Texas, I had been “rode hard and put up wet.” On the rare occasions when I caught sight of my reflection, I didn’t recognize myself.

Without any hint of modesty, the professor shucked off her elegant pants and panties, pulled up the desk chair in front of me, sat down with her legs apart, and ordered “bring me.” I dutifully set to work, trying to use all the oral skills I had learned at Pearson and elsewhere in Texas. I even began to get a response from her in the form of a gentle moan and a soft “that’s a good pussy-licker; right there, bitch.”
Suddenly, my mistress-of-the-moment and long-time rival asked me, quite calmly and deliberately, “So, how do you like being a pleasure slave, Lindsay?” I tried not to
react, but licked a few times before saying, very politely, “Excuse me, Mistress?”

“Oh, come on, slut. I noticed you the first day on the cruise, so I looked up your Slave Identification Number in the National Data Base. I will assume you’re smart enough to know that the data base includes a digital copy of the power of attorney and self-indenture papers, both with your name on them. Not to mention your slave pink photos that show every inch of you in dripping, horny color. I checked the UMass website, and you’re on a “sabbatical” [her fingers made hooks in the air] this year. You’ve about half-way through a year-long enslavement, right?”

No sense arguing; I was caught. “Yes, Mistress.” Now what, I wondered?

“To be honest, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had the guts to put your body where your mouth is and actually enslave yourself. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself to sluts, but in this case I’ll make an exception, ‘How do you like being a pleasure slave?’”

“I dislike it, Mistress, but I’m learning a lot about slavery, which is why I did it.”

She considered that for a moment. “Well, that’s half an answer. You always had an exaggerated idea of your own worth, so I’m sure you don’t enjoy being spanked, and cuffed. I almost believe that you did this to understand slavery, which is to your credit. On the other hand, I’ve seen you have at least half a dozen climaxes just in my presence, so I imagine you’re having a lot of slutty fun on this cruise, aren’t you?”

Lying can get a slave girl whipped. Besides, I had to cooperate with her if I had any chance of surviving this encounter. “Yes, Mistress—it’s fun to just let go and enjoy myself.” She didn’t reply, but instead got a far-away look in her eyes and a little smile as if she were remembering something.

I don’t know how I got the courage, but that look made me ask, “Mistress, may I ask a question?”

“You may ask, Lindsay, but remember that slaves have questions and only masters have answers.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I told myself. “Mistress, you know so much about slavery. So, with all respect . . . have you ever been a slave?”

Sarah smirked. “What I hear you asking, slut, is whether I’ve ever been dumb enough to do what you have done, and deliberately enslave myself?”

Ooops. “I meant no disrespect, Mistress.” I mumbled, then resumed tonguing her, which seemed to conclude our “discussion.” Only later did I realize that she hadn’t denied being a slave, simply avoided the question.

*****
The endless week of sex, seawater, and subjugation finally came to an end as the Yo Ho Ho docked in Boston. I was relieved to have survived, even though the threat of Sarah identifying me as a slave still hung in the air. I was again kneeling cuffed on the deck, wondering how soon my fellow Texas sluts and I could get back to the airport, when Sarah, on her way off the ship, paused to nudge my bare shoulder with her elegant high heel. Not knowing what to do, I raised my head slightly but focused on her midriff, only seeing her face out of the corner of an eye—slaves are not to look free people in the eye unless, of course, they’re pleasuring those free people.
“I thought you should know that I’ve decided to help you with your research, 6627.” The fact that she didn’t call my Lindsay in public was encouraging, but I dreaded whatever “help” she had decided to give. “So, I’ve contacted your owner and arranged to extend your time in Massachusetts a little.” Crap! I thought—that can’t be good. “For the next three weeks, you’ll be housed at the Harvard Slave Kennels. If you have any questions when you get there, just ask Steve Wilson, a slave I control there. You can’t miss him—he’s the studious-looking fellow wearing nothing but a collar and a chastity belt. You’ll be fine, slut.”

The first step was for each of us to get ANOTHER brand—fortunately a small one, but it still hurt like a mother when they stamped my RIGHT buttock with an anchor to denote my cruise on the whore ship. After that I watched, wistfully, as a van trundled off with the other five women I had arrived with, while I got shipped, along with a large number of other slaves, to the Harvard Slave Kennels. I had once taken a tour of the place—because it met federal standards for slave restraint, a large number of schools in the area used the Harvard kennels to house their slaves, both students who had been repossessed for debt and the slave servants of students who hailed from the South.

I found Steve, and he told me how the place worked. He had a sad story about being threatened into enslavement in Texas; he was allowed to finish his college education but outside of class and studying he had to stay in the kennels, where his dick was only unlocked for one hour a week. Otherwise, only Professor Hollister and an ex-girlfriend were allowed to check him out of the building or authorize additional sex time. Given the overwhelming horniness that had blossomed inside me over the past six months, I could really sympathize with him.

The part that really worried me, as Steve confirmed, was that Harvard financed the operation of the Kennels by running a slave brothel. For $50, none of which went to the slaves or their owners, anyone could have an hour in a bedroom with any of the slaves on residence. (OK, the students could be excused from sex up to four nights a week for studying purposes, but that didn’t apply to me.) The sex was no problem—in fact, if Steve were any indication, there wasn’t enough cock available WITHIN the kennels to keep me entertained, let alone any of the other sluts.

The first day I was there, the staff took a color photograph of me in the “Present” position: full frontal nudity with my fingers interlocked behind my neck so that my arms pulled up my boobs, legs spread apart to expose my shaved cunt. That evening, Steve used one of the public access computers to show me how I was listed by the kennels: The photo was humiliating, but at least it identified me as “Slut 6627, graded Prime Minus.” My name, thank god, was not there, and Steve tried to reassure me that most people shopping for a slave whore would focus on my double Ds rather than my face.

He turned out to be right. Beginning the next evening, a steady stream of customers, mostly pimply-faced young adults (one had to prove age 18 or older to enter) rented me and a bedroom for an hour or two. It was disgusting to have to smile and accommodate these jerks, praising their (allegedly) big cocks while they mauled and gang-banged me.

For example: Three Caucasian guys, each about age 20, rented me for an hour—let’s call them Larry, Curly, and Moe. They were casually dressed and closely resembled any of the undergraduate louts I usually taught at U Mass, but at least they had clothes, while all I was wearing was a leather collar. When the wrangler released my wrists and pushed me into the bedroom, Larry immediately latched onto my boobs and French-kissed me, but the other guys, who had been stripping rapidly, told him not to waste time. Turns out they a very clear plan, which was to make me airtight—I had never expected to be thankful that I’d had to experience that several times in order to “graduate” from Pearsons! Curly, a six-foot something football type with a nicely-sized cock, led me over to the bed, lay on his back, and ordered me to straddle him and “swallow that with your cunt, sweetheart.” I couldn’t help smiling and even groaning a little bit—it was fun to get completely filled down there, and besides he was teasing my nipples as I sank down onto him. Then he pulled me forward into an embrace and a nice kiss with lots of tongue. While making out, I caught sight of Moe’s dick as he climbed on the bed behind me; I was relieved to see that it was relatively small, by which I mean about six inches long. Small was important because he was obviously intent on ramming it up my ass! At least he was a gentleman, in that he shoved two fingers coated with lube up my anus and played around for a minute. Then came the moment of truth; I asked the “Master” who had already pronged me to hold still for a moment while I struggled to accommodate Master Moe’s cock as he slowly worked it into my rectum.

Once my ass adjusted, I couldn’t help giving out a happy “humm,” which Moe immediately pointed out as proof that I was “a natural-born slut who can’t get enough dick in her.” I blush to admit it now, but the guy was correct. Almost before he finished speaking, Larry, who had finally undressed, straddled Curly’s head and presented me with a full sized boner that I happily tongued and swallowed. I don’t know what Curly thought about having those balls dangling in his face, but I certainly enjoyed getting another jism injection. My arousal at getting those three healthy young pricks inside me at the same time was increased by my silent sense of humiliation, being casually used and ravaged by three of the same type of hormonal illiterates that I often had to waste my time trying to teach at U. Mass. But then I realized that I was now playing the role of an hormonal illiterate slut myself, so perhaps we were suited to each other. For me, at least, the sexual thrill of submitting contains a large component of having to bend to the will of humans who were normally inferior to me. Anyway, all three of those guys immensely enjoyed using me, and actually rented me again on the following Friday—only this time I had to accommodate Curly’s much larger member up my butt! What was even worse was that I enjoyed being reamed like that while overwhelmed by the sensation of getting pounded in my other two openings as well.

*****
The best I can say is that all that young dick helped satisfy my submissive addiction to cock and cum. Still, I preferred being violated by gross young adults to being rented out to members of the faculty, most of whom claimed to be above such urges. About a week after I got there, I had to service Lawrence Canning, a professor at Harvard Business School whom I had met several times in academic conferences. He had always given the appearance of a kindly, older guy who was respectful of women and would never dream of even looking at my chest—who knew he was such a dominant, horny old goat? For a guy in his fifties, his Viagra-fueled stamina was remarkable—if it were not for my terror at being identified, I might have totally enjoyed him stuffing his dick into all three openings. (I begged him to ream me doggy-style because that way I could turn my face away from him. All right, to be honest, it was fun to be butt-fucked by the old fart, but you know what I mean.)
Screwing a Harvard professor had been kind of fun, but the very next night my luck ran out, when Alistair Buchanan, Professor of Philosophy and chair of the frakin’ tenure committee at U Mass Amherst, rented my ass! I was dumbfounded when I first entered the bedroom and saw who it was.

“So it WAS you, Lindsay!” He exclaimed in a jovial way as I knelt in front of him, blushing furiously and feeling sick to my stomach. “I’m in Boston for a conference and was perusing the Harvard brothel web site to pick out an evening’s entertainment. Imagine my surprise when I saw a pretty young brunette who looked remarkably like Lindsay Williams, only this slut had tits that were far larger than I remember Professor Williams possessing.” So saying, he reached out to fondle my breasts—the nipples were already erect at the prospect of another dicking, but I became painfully aroused to have such a powerful colleague toying with my helpless body.
“This poses an interesting ethical dilemma.” Alistair murmured. “I’ve rented a beautiful colleague for the evening, but if I have intercourse with her, it might be construed as accepting a bribe the next time you applied for tenure.”

I tried desperately to escape this situation in a way that would reduce the likelihood of my being exposed professionally (I was already exposed physically.) “But, Master, don’t you recall advising me that I needed more understanding of slave psychology? Clearly, you’re so thorough that you’ve decided to check up on how I’m doing about learning to think like a slave!”

His brow cleared. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? I’m glad to see you’re working so diligently to master your subject. Can I help you with some in-depth research?” Alistair asked, leering at me.

“Judging by that bulge in your trousers, the depth must be at least nine inches,” I replied, winking at him.

“You flatter me, professor, but let’s test it out, shall we?” he responded. In seconds I was happily hoovering his cock while smiling around it and looking adoring up at his face. If his dick wasn’t nine inches, it was certainly more than the usual five or six. In fact, he managed to check the depth in all three of my openings, leaving deposits in my mouth and butt in case I was low on fluids. When we finished, he agreed that I had indeed learned a great deal about the life of a slave!

Another memorable pair of users/abusers were the doctors Charles and Emily Harrison, married economics professors whom I had also met professionally; I had even collaborated on a paper with Charles. The two were roughly my age (late 20s or early 30s) and had always seemed like the model of political correctness—Emily had politely but firmly disapproved of my involvement in slave studies, professing to be disgusted with the slavery system that deprived human beings of their rights and objectified and exploited women.

When I realized who had rented my body I was again very concerned that they would learn my identity, but they were so fixated on dominating a helpless female that I don’t think it ever occurred to them to regard me as human, let alone someone they might have known previously. Indeed, the way they used me was completely at odds with their professed beliefs, not to mention that I immediately saw that Emily had a slave quirt in her hand while a large strap-on, sheathed in a condom, was already buckled around her waist. With my hands still cuffed behind my back, Charles grabbed my right tit and practically threw me face down and crosswise onto the bed, while his wife announced, ominously,

“You’ve been a bad slut, 6627, haven’t you?”

With my face temporarily hidden on the bed, I recognized this treatment as a prelude to a BDSM session, and answered accordingly, trying to change my voice and be as meek as possible, “Yes, Mistress, I’m a horrible, needy cunt who needs to be punished.”

I felt sharp but not too serious swats on first my left and then my right buttocks. “That’s right, you’re a brainless little bimbo who is so promiscuous that she disgraces real women.” (Even when acting out a BDSM scene, she STILL sounded like a feminist academic!)

I didn’t want to be whipped, of course, but I wanted even less for them to recognize me, so I played along. “Yes, Mistress, I’m a horny little whore who needs to be whipped. Please give me the correction I deserve!”

She immediately whacked me several more times, growling “Take that, you skanky bitch.” Meanwhile her husband had walked around to the other side of the bed, unzipping his pants and presenting a rather sizeable cock to my lips. “You love to suck cock, don’t you, cunt? Well suck THIS, and remember—no teeth!”

“Yes, Master bleeth.” I didn’t even finish responding before he stuffed my mouth and the top of my throat. To make sure, he grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head forward, practically choking me but fortunately obscuring my face in his crotch.

I felt several more, stronger strikes on my upturned ass, but then Emily used both hands to pry my cheeks apart so she could drive the strap-on into me. I felt the harness pressing against my rear end after only 3 hard thrusts—she had reached the equivalent of “balls deep” in my intestines. As she rapidly slammed in and out, over and over, she coldly observed that “You’re such a cock-hungry whore that you probably ENJOY being ass-fucked, don’t you, slut?” Truth to tell, I HAD learned to enjoy this kind of treatment, but all I could do was nod and mumble around her husband’s invader.

For an unimaginable time the two of them gave me the rotisserie treatment; with each forward thrust of cock and strap-on I felt as if the two would meet somewhere in my intestines. Charles rammed his two cold hands underneath my chest and began to maul my tits (which honesty requires that I admit were much larger than his wife’s) like they were 2 bags of mashed potatoes. In the back of my slave mind, I remember feeling humiliated to be abused so casually by my colleagues, but the FRONT of my mind was reveling in all the fondling and especially all the cock (real and imitation) I was getting. All I had to do was lie there, thoroughly cuffed and cocked, and remember not to clamp down with my teeth. They may have thought they were ravishing a bimbo slave, but to be honest I was enjoying myself. Eventually, though, I felt that large dildo come completely out of my anus, followed by a snap that sounded like a rubber band—Emily had apparently removed the condom from her plastic pseudo-penis, which two seconds later brushed past my labia to fill me all the way to my cervix. Damn—if I’d realized this woman knew how to drive a dildo like that, I would have propositioned her years ago. I had never felt any lesbian attraction, but she was GOOD.

After another 10 or 20 invasions at each end, Charles told his wife, almost as if he were announcing the exact time, “Time to switch, honey.” A scant second later my 2 openings were empty. I was just realizing that I had been cheated out of a submissive orgasm when the strap-on, coated in my own juices, invaded my mouth and I felt a warm, real-life penis occupy my lower intestine. “That’s what a brainless whore like you wants,” Emily murmured quietly, “to get both face- and ass-fucked by a big, hard cock. Isn’t that nice, bitch?” Heaven help me, I was such a slut that I was sincere when I nodded and mumbled “yes,” still trying to conceal my face from her gaze.

Having done his best to drill his way from my anus to my mouth, Charles again took the time to fondle my boobs and nipples, muttering “That’s a GOOOD little ass-whore. Nice tits!” And then I felt a warm flood inside my lower intestine—he had just discharged, bareback, up my ass. (Good thing the kennels gave us STD tests every week.) One more flurry of frantic fucking and the two ravishers withdrew, leaving me well-used and exhausted while still trying to conceal my face from them.

“Thank you for correcting this humble slave, Mistress,” I half-whispered.

“You’re welcome, slut. Just remember, your purpose as a slave is to be a cum-dumpster and a whipping girl, not to compete with free women for the attention of real men.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I again whispered. “Is there any further service I may perform for you?”

“No, get your skanky ass out of here and leave your betters in peace.” So spoke Charles as he grabbed me by an arm and my collar, spun me around off the bed, and shoved me towards the door, adding a resounding slap on top of my branded buttock. “Thank you again, Master and Mistress,” I said. Since my hands remained cuffed, I was fortunate that the wrangler must have heard this last passage as he opened the door and took me back into the Kennels, not forgetting to feel me up thoroughly. Once we reached my locking cage, he demanded a blow job which I was happy to give on my knees, this time according him the full smiling worship with my mouth full of cock. Somehow, I had managed to be well-used and spanked by 2 colleagues who knew me, without their looking closely at the face they had both fucked!

(In case you’re wondering, a year later when I had regained my freedom I gingerly asked Emily whether she thought slaves had any value. She responded, dismissively, that they were good for only two things: absorbing the vulgar lusts of men and serving as whipping girls for the frustrations of “real people.” I agreed easily, surprised that she had changed her “moral” stand! She even agreed with me that “slave whores” relieved “real women” of having to do repulsive things for men.)

*****
For 3 weeks, I had counted the days while I serviced all cumers in the Harvard Slave Brothel, while making what few friendships I could among the other slaves. Steve Wilson became my closest acquaintance, perhaps because his chastity belt made him even more frustrated and depressed than I was. He still had to go to school and do his homework, but on the other hand he was rarely in demand at the brothel. I was happy to proofread his essays and other written work, and we had some interesting academic discussions on those weekend days when I wasn’t serving as a slave whore. All I could do was put up, put out, and pray that Sarah would indeed send me “home” to Texas. I found myself thinking fondly of the most humiliating experiences I had, including street walking, tub slutting, and sucking dick in a glory hole—at least, doing that, I got more dick and less risk of exposure than I encountered at the kennels outside Boston.

Then one evening, to our mutual surprise, Steve and I were both booked for service in the same bedroom of the brothel. The wranglers wouldn’t even say who had reserved us, just deposited us at the appointed time and place, unhooking our cuffs and pushing us gently through the door.

You’ll probably be less surprised than I was when I tell you that the only other person in that bedroom was Professor Sarah Hollister. Dressed stylishly in a business suit and Givenchy high heels, with perfect hair and makeup, Mistress Sarah made an unspoken but humiliating contrast to me, slave naked, bedraggled, and wearing nothing but a collar, flip-flops, and a garish brand on my ass.

“Good evening, guys,” she remarked with a slight smirk. “Before we get to the main business of the night, I’ve decided that you both have worked so hard that you deserve a reward.” So saying, she casually unlocked Steve’s chastity belt, pointed at the bed, and told us to “Breed, animals.” Then she picked up a glass of champagne and sat down to watch.

Our surprise must have been evident in our faces, as the professor deigned to explain herself. "Slaves don't have friends, or relatives, or boundaries. We're going to demonstrate that right now. Go ahead and fuck. While I watch."

The thought of providing a pornographic floor show for this hateful woman was beyond humiliating. Still, although I had been getting shafted by insensitive louts for weeks, I was almost as horny as poor Steve who, as I said, normally got only 1 chance a week to get his rocks off. We were at least friendly, and had seen every inch of each other naked, so it didn’t take much for us to put a lip-lock on each other. Grinning, I knelt down in front of him and gave him the best blow-job I had ever delivered. His long-restrained prick swelled until it almost filled my mouth; I knew he was close to unloading when I heard a little click. Looking sideways, I saw a smiling Sarah taking my photograph with her phone. Think about the humiliation later, I thought, and focus on giving poor Steve a good time. Less than 20 seconds later he blasted into my mouth. By now, I was so practiced as a slave whore that I saved some of his cum and displayed it to him after he withdrew. At least Sarah didn’t take a photo of that!

I thought Steve deserved more than just that, so I went back to licking and sucking to help him retain most of his erection. I knew he wouldn’t want to smell my cum-breath, but I stood up, embraced him, and laid back onto the bed, encouraging him to climb on top of me. He was still sufficiently erect to mount me, but the fact that he had just climaxed meant that he gave me a VERY long, sensuous, almost loving ride (not to mention sucking on my breasts) before he finally discharged into me. I’d been fucked dozens, probably hundreds of times in the past seven months, but that coupling was, for once, more like lovemaking than sex. We ended up breathing heavily, smiling at each other, still connected by our genitals.

That sweet moment was interrupted by the sound of 1 pair of hands clapping—I’d almost forgotten that Sarah was in the room. “Well done, kids,” she commended us. “And don’t worry about that photo of Lindsay sucking dick. I’m keeping that just as a memory for myself, and maybe a little insurance. Neither of you want the world to know you were pleasure slaves, do you?” We shook our heads.

“Good, neither do I. So, we pretend this never happened. Steve, I can’t control your future but you know I’ll help you as much as I can. As for Sarah, you told me you self-indentured to understand slavery, right?” I nodded as she continued. “So, your time in Massachusetts should have really helped your ‘research.’” Once again, her hooked fingers indicated quotation marks around the last word. “Tomorrow, the kennel staff has instructions and a shipping invoice to send you back to Texas in a poodle cage. Not as comfortable as a ULD-40, but at least you’ll get home, and your owner has been notified to pick you up. Have a nice time!” My heart surged inside of me—finally!

“Not as comfortable as a ULD-40” turned out to be a massive understatement. I spent 8 chilly hours gagged, bound, and kneeling on the hard tray of a poodle cage. Yes, I’d traveled that way before, but this was longer, lonelier, and colder than my previous truck-mounted movements between slave establishments. I was therefore doubly exhilarated to finally get to a shipping warehouse, where Master Paul met me and insisted that I be released immediately. I could barely stand after all that time on my knees, but he was such a sweetheart that he got my cuffs removed and then CARRIED me out of the warehouse and over to his Mercedes. Seeing I was shivering (it was, after all December, which even in Texas is wintertime), he wrapped me in a warm blanket and turned up the car’s heater full blast. If I didn’t know that Paul was hopelessly in love with Nikki, I would have thought he loved me; instead, he was just a caring guy who wanted no slave to ever suffer unnecessarily.

A week at their home followed, with both Nikki and Paul pampering me and allowing me plenty of time to rest and write up my “research.” You’ve already read the humiliating conclusions I arrived at concerning the reality of modern slavery, so I won’t repeat them. I took the opportunity to submit 2 papers for publication. Then I went back to Master Paul’s club for the holidays. It was almost fun to see friends and acquaintances, and even being a submissive was a lot more fun (with more safety measures) than being whipped by Emily Harrison. I still managed to get used in my various openings and enjoy myself at the holiday parties.

Then it was on to a second lease/leash to SlutsRUs, with all the familiar humiliations of sucking smelly dicks, getting screwed by pimply-faced young men in flophouses, and even—you guessed it—another week being publicly fucked in that pillory as a tub slut. I don’t think I learned much that was new in the process, only reinforcing my determination NEVER to wear a collar again, not to mention wishing to alleviate the suffering of other slaves. In a final break at the Sheldon-Sousa household, I finished additional writings on the psychology and business of slavery. I also polished most of the memoir/diary you’re reading, then went back to the club for another largely-enjoyable round of ass-paddling and pounding.

The anniversary of my self-indenture finally arrived. After a final, fun threesome in their bedroom, Mistress Nicola and Master Paul both took me to the Agriculture Office for my manumission. Once Mr. Shively issued the manumission certificate, Nikki handed me the bag containing the clothes I had surrendered a year earlier. With two exceptions: Nikki had told me in advance that she had purchased a stylish new bra and blouse to accommodate my expanded “breastworks.”

*****
Paul bought me lunch and a plane ticket, allowing me to return to the same airport that I had departed as a caged animal five months earlier. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Sarah Hollister to destroy my career by announcing my slavery and illustrating it with that picture of slave-naked slut Lindsay sucking the cock of another, much younger slave. I even met her at several conferences, but she said little beyond smiling enigmatically and asking me how I was doing. With a wicked gleam in her eye, Sarah even complimented me for the “exceptional research” of my latest publications on slave psychology!

The following spring, on my final try, I was granted tenure and promoted full professor. In that sense, I had gambled with my body and my freedom, and won! (AFTER the decision, I played slave girl for Alistair on two occasions, but that was just satisfying our mutual lust, not a quid pro quo.) To be honest, I had even gotten a LOT of unexpected fun out of surrendering my body to unlimited sexual use by dominant males like Alistair. My sex life and my mental happiness were transformed by becoming a slave whore! Who knew?

Still, there’s one nagging issue in the back of my mind. Paul Sousa had been correct—I built my academic career on the loathsome institution of slavery and had even tried to make money by advising slave merchants. I had regarded slaves and especially female slaves as brainless bimbos who almost DESERVED to be punished and used. Now, I want to do something to expose their sufferings. I find myself expanding and polishing my memoirs, of which this is only the short, factual version. I might change the names and schools involved, but the industry would figure out who I was. Besides, I might as well include that Harvard Kennels photo of me in Present, which I downloaded and saved once I got home. I wonder whether I have the courage to “out” myself as a slave slut by publishing these memoirs so that the public can see both the good and the evil of slavery. Publishing would be more than professional suicide; if I angered the slaving industry sufficiently, they might haul me into federal court and present the book as evidence that I was a natural slave who should be put back in a collar.

To be honest, the thought of being enslaved again, taking all that dick into all my openings, is part of what makes the temptation to publish so great. “Oh, Master, I’ve been such a BAAD girl. Please use your monster cock to teach me the error of my ways. Slurp, slurp.” I’m planning to entitle my story Slave Slut Like Me.
Dare I do it? Do you think it would sell?

(The End)

[jeepster]

Wow! That was a lot of scenes! Didn't expect to see Lindsey on the Yo Ho Ho! So the key driver for her is the same as for Sarah, humiliation!

[mikey22]

Hope Lindsey writes that book. Even if she ends up back in the collar. She’ll be a best selling author. Lol.

[imreadonly2]

Thank you for the story, and the wonderful Christmas treat. Favorite bits included:

The homage to Southwest Shipping, my new favorite story!

The two professors who morally condemn slavery while enjoying slave girls. How true-to-life this is!!

I think her not being recognized by most people was realistic. Science says we use context to place faces, and your simply not expecting to see your doctor or dentist in a porn movie. The girl who starred in DEBBIE DOES DALLAS had disappeared into obscurity. She's probably running a company or serving in the Mississippi state senate, thundering on about the decline in young people's morality.

I liked that Sarah knew here, but of course, as there is honor among thieves, she'll take the secret to her grave. In fact, seeing her rival actually ACCOMPLISH something, has doubtlessly won Sarah's respect, which is no mean trick. What a delicious humiliation for Lindsay!

That's a very nice outfit, Lindsay. Although I much prefer the outfit you wore during the cruise.



I wanted to let you know that I recommended your article for inclusion in The SLAVING QUARTERLY. Your insights into slave psychology always seems so heartfelt, and deliciously authentic.



I enjoyed your presentation, Lindsay, particularly when you blushed when you talked about the poses the girls make on the auction block. Strange reaction, but very cute.


I don't see the ethical dilemma with Alister, as when Lindsay is enslaved, she no longer exists as a person, and her old identity is irrelevant. Fucking her after she is freed, however, is another matter.

Yes, I'd wait in line for her to sign her book, and so would her old friend Sarah.

No need to sign your name, Lindsay, bless your heart. Your lot number will do.

[jeepster]

I would love to see Lindsey and Sarah bidding on the next project Jake or the board is planning! Using everything at their disposition to get the job!

[mikey22]

[quote =imreadonly2 post_id=4641 time=1640442668 user_id=86]
Thank you for the story, and the wonderful Christmas treat. Favorite bits included:

The homage to Southwest Shipping, my new favorite story!

The two professors who morally condemn slavery while enjoying slave girls. How true-to-life this is!!

I think her not being recognized by most people was realistic. Science says we use context to place faces, and your simply not expecting to see your doctor or dentist in a porn movie. The girl who starred in DEBBIE DOES DALLAS had disappeared into obscurity. She's probably running a company or serving in the Mississippi state senate, thundering on about the decline in young people's morality.

I liked that Sarah knew here, but of course, as there is honor among thieves, she'll take the secret to her grave. In fact, seeing her rival actually ACCOMPLISH something, has doubtlessly won Sarah's respect, which is no mean trick. What a delicious humiliation for Lindsay!

That's a very nice outfit, Lindsay. Although I much prefer the outfit you wore during the cruise.



I wanted to let you know that I recommended your article for inclusion in The SLAVING QUARTERLY. Your insights into slave psychology always seems so heartfelt, and deliciously authentic.



I enjoyed your presentation, Lindsay, particularly when you blushed when you talked about the poses the girls make on the auction block. Strange reaction, but very cute.


I don't see the ethical dilemma with Alister, as when Lindsay is enslaved, she no longer exists as a person, and her old identity is irrelevant. Fucking her after she is freed, however, is another matter.

Yes, I'd wait in line for her to sign her book, and so would her old friend Sarah.

No need to sign your name, Lindsay, bless your heart. Your lot number will do.
[/quote]
Love the Debbie does Dallas part. That’s how she is.

[eroticstoryspinner]

As always, an excellent story. Lindsay gets her comeuppance while still learning a great life lesson and achieving her goals. Liked the way you incorporated Nikki into the story along with other characters. Perhaps Lindsay and Sarah could continue to indulge themselves together to satisfy their urgings.