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Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

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Carl Bradford
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Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

Post by Carl Bradford »

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

(Note: Joe Doe, the master of public humiliation and sexual submission, again provided the situation and much of the dialogue and descriptions for this story, for which my thanks. He granted permission for another guest appearance by Professor Sarah Hollister, this time AKA “Flame.” All errors redound to me, not Mr. Doe.

(Steve Wilson’s perspective)

When the alarm went off I stared at the flashing lights for 7:00 a.m., and groaned. It was the first day of spring break, and as a college sophomore I should have been either sleeping in or sneaking off to Florida. Instead, I was locked into the Harvard Slave Kennels, wearing only a collar and a cock harness (which was definitely cramping my morning wood). I couldn’t even sleep in, but had to get up and join Professor Hollister, who had convinced/ordered me to give up my week off so as to avoid having to deal with my stepsister, Ellie May.

Last summer, my new [I almost said “wicked”] stepmother had pussy-whipped and (literally) cock-locked my Dad after which her daughter did the same thing to me. Long story short, she had reduced me to being a “subject” for her 4-H project in erection and ejaculation control. By the time I was shooting my jism over a three meter distance at the County Fair, Ellie May had me so cowed that she pressured me into surrendering myself to her as a slave under Texas law, at least for the next five years. My Dad had consulted with an attorney to try to get me out of it, but the only independent witness to her threats of de-balling me was unavailable. State Agriculture and Slave Inspector Sam Houston Sterling had since been enslaved himself on charges of abusing his office, and slave testimony was unlikely to get me freed.

After that, Ellie May allowed her “property” to return to Harvard for school but consigned me to the kennels (mandated by federal slave laws) when I wasn’t in class or studying. That meant semi-nudity with my junk locked up when I was surrounded by equally-horny (and sometimes very sexy) female slaves, most of whom were fellow students at Harvard or other nearby schools. A few were just the servants of students, and those were particularly bored and amorous. You can imagine what torture it was for me, to be surrounded by horny Pleasure Sluts rubbing their snatches while teasing me and begging me to fuck them, all the while knowing how painful it was for me to get erect inside my tiny cage. In the kennels, these girls lived without any power, except their power to tease me. It was a power they took delight in abusing.

Yet, my “owner’s” instructions to the kennel staff were that I was only allowed out of my belt for one hour once a week, a precious opportunity that I often spent with Libby, a well-endowed and over-sexed redhead who seemed to be constantly up for ANY form of intercourse—in fact, I worried that her frequent service in the slave bordello wing of the kennels meant I might pick up an STD from her, all precautions notwithstanding.

Only two women could release me from the kennels at night and on weekends, and both of them had agendas. Stephanie Cole had been my girlfriend in high school who, because she was admitted to MIT, wanted to continue that relationship in college. Stephanie was a good-looking girl, but I had wanted to play the field—there are over 60 colleges and universities in the Boston area! Now that I was a slave, though, Ellie May had given Steph permission to check me out of the kennels periodically. She was no longer interested in my making love with her—which considering how horny I was would have been fine—but rather to take me in cuffs to the nearest agricultural school to “continue my training” in controlling my come! Five times in as many months, Stephanie had gleefully carted me to a dairy model farm. Not only she but (by closed-circuit TV) Ellie May and my @#$%& stepmother watched while I was hooked up to the stallion milking machine, invaded with an electric exciter up my butt to trigger my prostate, and then mechanically jerked off until the high speed camera recorded my ejaculation. If that wasn’t sufficiently humiliating, Stephanie had the attendants install a special voice-controlling collar that converted any noise I made into melodious, almost amorous Moo-ing! I got off, but the embarrassment and emasculation were immeasurable as I heard three women jeering and giggling.

Stephanie had so many videos of my milking that I could never show my face in the State of Texas again even after I regained my freedom. Meanwhile, when she didn’t have time for the long trip to the model farm, she would come to the kennels in the evening, have me summoned to a private visitor’s room, and then make me kneel under her skirt until my tongue brought her to at least three climaxes.

By contrast, dealing with Sarah Hollister, Professor of Slave Science and also my work-study supervisor, was almost a relief. Yes, some of what the professor wanted was demeaning (more on that in a moment), but she seemed to really understand the combination of arousal and humiliation that a slave experienced when used as a naked, subjugated sexual object—especially when the people controlling me were all good-looking women. In fact, a lot of what Professor Hollister asked of me was simply a discussion of those psychological aspects. Given that she was a beautiful, arrogantly-confident, and sexy blonde herself, it was almost enjoyable to abase myself to her. I need to watch that attitude, though—I’m likely to fall into “slave mind” because of my crush on her.

I mentioned that Professor Hollister got more from me than just interviews. One Sunday last fall, she checked me out of the kennels and drove me down to the Boston branch of the famed Big D Slave Market (hint: this is NOT the Boston Market advertised on TV!) To promote tourism, there was an inter-state agreement to treat the Big D premises as if they were subject to the slave laws of Texas. Once inside the fenced parking lot, the professor parked, asked me to get out of her car, and then told me to strip down. It’s chilly in Boston even in October, but what really made me shiver was stripping naked in public in broad daylight, all while this aloof and distinguished female professor looked at me as if I were a moderately-cute lab animal. Once I had carefully folded my clothes and put them on the front seat of her car, she briskly ordered “back hands,” and “heel.” I ended up with my hands cuffed behind my neck and a beautiful woman leading me on a leash into the Big D market. The sight of that tight ass undulating in front of me inside a pencil skirt would have given me a terminal boner, except that the damned chastity belt gave me Peyronie’s disease instead.

Shudder. I spent the next 24 hours naked, restrained, and chemically deprived of voice. I was regularly teased and belittled by a well-built female slave handler (“wrangler”) wearing s___t-kicker boots and an equipment belt studded with weapons (taser, electric cattle prod, rubber whip, etc.) and handcuffs. The whole time, my chastity belt was off, which meant that my huge hard-on seemed to say I was enjoying this! That just gave the wranglers a convenient handle to lead me around. At one point, this woman, whose nametag read “Billie,” took me aside into a chain-linked cage where she first made me suck on a strap-on dildo, then removed the dildo, dropped her jeans, and told me to service her (“Mouth”). The whole time that she held my head jammed into her crotch, I felt the toe of one of her boots nudging my cock and balls. I was almost grateful for my lessons from Steph, because I got “Billie” off three times in less than ten minutes. When she recovered her breath, she pulled up her pants, wiped my face, and gave me a long, sensuous, kiss and fondle. After which she marched me out to participate in block moves (aka slave yoga) while I had to repeat various submissive mantras such as “I live to serve you, Mistress,” and (horror of horrors) “Please buy me and fill all my holes with your huge Cock, Master.”

I was glad I didn’t have to make good on that coerced offer, but I DID have to suck a guy off on the night shift—double yeech. All of this made me so hyper-sensitive about sex that I gave a convincing act of being a terminally-horny, naked, slave. Every time a woman used me to get off, even when invading me with a plastic penis, I told myself it was far preferable to being sodomized further by males.

The next morning, more block moves were followed by my being strung up, helplessly, on display with hands above my head and ankles tethered widely apart. The 18-year-old guys averted their eyes at sight of another male striped and bound for female amusement, but half a dozen good-looking gals with Yankee accents felt me up thoroughly, including goosing my butt, rolling my balls around like marbles, and trying to jack me off, all while giggling in musical, sexy voices. One of these women had been in class with me last semester, but fortunately she didn’t seem to recognize me even though I blushed constantly. Being devoxed, I couldn’t even protest this experience, which was as erotic as it was humiliating—you can bet that Professor Hollister grilled me about my sensations at that moment! I guess this experience HAS taught me to get some enjoyment about being submissive to sexy women, but that just tells you have desperate I’ve become for relief. Long story short, I got a grade of Choice Plus (it’s very difficult for any guy to get Prime, and if I WERE graded Prime I would run to Canada for fear that Ellie May would sell my ass for money!)
Experiences like this, as well as more private service as a rented slave cock, earned a lot of money for Ellie May. They also convinced Professor Hollister that I was a useful experimental subject and THAT translated into three things: tips I got to keep for spending money, additional time with my dick unlocked so that I could play with Libby in the kennels, and even a few opportunities to have sex with free people. There was one time over the holidays where the “good professor” checked me out of the kennels, stripped, blindfolded, and bound me, and then left me on a bed for several women (including, I suspect but can’t prove, Sarah herself) to use my body for our mutual pleasure. THAT part of being a slave I could enjoy.

*****
There were other adventures in slavery that fall and winter, and my cooperation (plus the money I earned from various sources) enabled Professor Sarah to persuade Ellie May and her mother that I should stay at Harvard until the end of the spring semester in May. This spring break, as I said, the professor promised to get me laid and tipped while avoiding a trip to Texas—that was good enough for me, even though now, at the beginning of spring break, I began to worry about the details. But I scrambled into some clothes, took the precaution of putting lubricant up my butt, and signed out of the kennels as early as the professor had authorized.

(Sarah Hollister’s perspective)

Steve’s a nice, sexy toy—a well-muscled, cute guy who has to obey orders—so I try to give him some rewards for helping me out. He’s also well endowed, but after making him serve me, my sexuality has become so wrapped up with submitting to dominant men that I’d find it difficult to think of Steve as more than an occasional stress-relief fuck.

As I’ve told him several times, I’m shifting my research to focus on the psychological aspects of slavery. What I haven’t told him is that, in addition to my fascination with the sexual psychology of the subservient sex object, I’m also investigating how other people perceive slaves and specifically whether someone can “hide in plain sight” as a slave, unrecognized even by friends and colleagues. This may take a little explaining, but I believe it will help you understand the bizarre thing I’m doing today.

The story really begins with the event that was both the nadir of my existence and the peak of my sexual excitement—the day I foolishly agreed to “masquerade” as a slave and ended up with a Big D brand on my bottom and Judge Rufus Parker’s smelly dick discharging down my throat. I discovered—the HARD way—that the slave market processing system I had designed to control and motivate new slaves worked TOO well. Even though I knew what was happening, I myself was overcome with the desire to be a rutting slave skank, eagerly serving even obnoxious clods like Rufus. I blush to admit that I climaxed at the moment I was sold on the auction block.
I’m sure Rufus could smell the arousal I felt at becoming the perfect little slave slut, after only a few hours in a collar. Even today, every time I shift my behind on a seat, such as now in my car, I felt the ridges of that brand on my skin, a brand that both horrified and thrilled me at the time. Hence my interest in the psychology of being a slave and especially the probability that any acquaintances would recognize me when I was slave naked.

I was NOT a slave, of course, I was a respected intellectual, a successful professional woman, and an award winning academic. My slavegasms were not actual slave heat, but simply a byproduct of my explorations of slave girl psychology. But would the appearance of me acting as if I were a Pleasure Slut alter the perceptions that others had of me to the point where I would be unrecognizable? That was the hypothesis I felt the urge to explore. If that meant stripping to the skin and showing the buyers my well-lubricated cunt, well, it was all for the advancement of academic and business knowledge, wasn’t it?

What happened to me after that is a long story, involving various ignominious experiences such as being a slave whore in a brothel. OK, I have to admit that last part was kind of fun, and I used my observations (suitably altered for anonymity) as the basis for an article about maximizing profit per pussy in sex workers. Today, I was about to re-experience that sensation of being a piece of slave flesh for rent. This time, however, I could tell myself that my slutty behavior was in a good cause. But I told myself firmly that any enjoyment I felt -or seemed to feel – was incidental. It was all an act, part of what I needed to do for science. Think of it as method acting—telling myself that I enjoyed being a slave was simply part of my disguise, to ensure I appeared hot for the collar when no self-respecting woman would enjoy this.
A few years ago, I contracted to provide business consulting services to a consortium of slave industry leaders over the next ten years. In the process, of course, my findings could often be re-packaged into academic publications to advance my career.

The slave owners provided an expense account, but several of them joked that they had already invested in me by giving me an extensive education in being a slave. Therefore, in order to make this a business deduction, they insisted that I acknowledge their “research support” as I would any other grant, mentioning it in the first footnote of each publication. I guess it looks good for the corporate image.

(I’m blushing now because that little acknowledgement got me into an interesting situation. Two months after the first article I published that included this acknowledgement, I got a call from Martin Bormann, an overweight bureaucrat in the Harvard grants office. Most people don’t realize it, but all such grants are subject to a standard charge—often 30% of the face value—by the college in which you are employed. Colleges insist on this to recoup some of the expenses they incur by employing academics. So Martin wanted to know about this “grant” from the “National Human Resources Council.” Trouble was, most of the grant was in the form of my value as a trained, hot-for-the-collar slave; each council member’s share of my “training costs” was chicken feed to them but still a significant sum in total. I made an appointment with “Mr.” Bormann for late on a Friday afternoon, going to his office to explain what the value of the grant was. He had a good laugh at my expense, naturally, and then demanded a demonstration of what I had learned from this “grant.” So I got to play slave girl right there in his tiny, dirty, office in the basement of Sackler Hall. On his instructions, I stripped down and rotated very slowly so he could see every inch of my body. The proof of what I had told him was evident in the Big D cursive brand embossed [by slave bosses] for life into my rear end, but of course he wanted to run his hands over it and incidentally goose me. Having him fondle me brought back some of the thrill of being a Sandy Foot Girl. When I told him how much I was worth as auction, he was skeptical and demanded that I “prove” it. I have to admit I got a submissive thrill out of kneeling down slave naked in front of this obese guy, then performing a slow, sensuous blowjob. The whole time I gave him the adoring, thank-you-for-using-me stare that all slave girls learn to give to their masters.

When he unloaded down my throat, I licked my lips as sensuously as possible before gently restoring his dick inside his pants. I just waited for his response. He finally had to admit that he could understand the value of my “grant,” but (to ensure the University got its fair share) insisted that I had to provide him with a similar service every time I published and cited the grant! In fact, the next time he called me I had to service both Martin AND the head of the grants office, which at least prevented me having to explain my grant to my dean. It was disgusting and humiliating to strip and blow these clowns, but still gave me some of the buzz of being a Sandy Foot Girl, so why not?

That second time I “demonstrated what I had learned about slavery,” the two men kicked me out at the end of my performance, still collared, slave naked, and covered with jism on my face. I stumbled down the hallway, clutching the bag with my clothes, and went into the ladies’ room to clean up and dress. I was greeted by two bitchy coeds who feigned outrage at the idea of a slave using a free woman’s toilet. Cackling like hyenas they dragged me to the side of the building and ordered me to pee against a tree in the cement plaza. Talk about humiliation. Eventually, these two sluts released me, but warned me never to use a “free ladies” room again. I scrambled into my clothes and left, thankful that no one on the faculty had seen me.

It had been an interesting proof of my theory, as I knew several of the students who passed, if not by name, by sight. But none of them seemed to recognize me or take any special notice of me, other than the usual amusement of seeing a humiliated slave girl watering a tree.

*****

All that is by way of background. This day in March, Steve and I were headed towards a test market for one of my business recommendations—the idea that, even though the North officially disapproved of slavery, there was still a demand for slave services, discretely packaged, even in strait-laced venues such as Boston. Hence the idea for a floating brothel, a slave sex emporium that would operate off Cape Cod, outside the three-mile limit where the state had no jurisdiction to interfere and the Coast Guard would only be concerned with smuggling or safety violations. The first test of this plan was a modest one. The Yo Ho Ho was a relatively small vessel, no more than 200 feet long and outfitted with 35 guest cabins, various dining rooms and musical venues, and two role-playing dungeons for the kinkier patrons. There was also a crew that included the usual services and entertainers found on cruise ships plus 20 experienced slave wranglers and 40 sex slaves of various genders and sexual proclivities.

Jake Henry, the owner of both the Big D in Dallas and its clone in Boston, had reason to trust my business recommendations, so he was chair of a board of seven investors—most of them major slave merchants like Jake—who had put up the money for the Yo Ho Ho as a test. They all wanted to see how its first few cruises went before investing the much larger amounts necessary to put a full-fledged cruise ship into the same services. That meant that Jake and a majority of the board were “on board” the ship for its next cruise, when Steve and I would be on the menu.

Which leads me to the second part of my recommendation, and the reason I was so nervous that spring day. Just as there was an unrequited demand for slave services in the North, so there was also an under-utilized supply—in fact, two supplies—of nubile female slave meat to satisfy that demand. The problem was putting supply and demand together effectively without ruffling any Abolitionist feathers in the process—a few demonstrations outside the slave market in Boston were good advertising for the Texas version of “human resources,” but we didn’t want to shock any powerful Yankees when they encountered former acquaintances serving on their knees aboard a whore ship.

I mentioned two supplies of such slaves: one was the huge pool of young people who defaulted on their educational, car, and credit-card loans. They had all signed away control over their bodies if they defaulted, but in the North it was difficult to foreclose on their cute deadbeat asses without arousing public concern. The second supply, just as in the South, consisted of young people who, without being in debt, were fascinated by the idea of having themselves enslaved, sold, and “forced” to provide sex to strangers. In Texas, such people just signed personal services contracts, known as Texas Free In Name Only (FINO), that required them to behave AS IF they were slaves or suffer various consequences. Down South, people could use this mechanism for something as simple as giving their bodies to their loved ones as a kinky present or as serious as avoiding prosecution for prostitution—because as a slave, even temporarily, you had no choice but to surrender your body for sex and let your “owner” collect money as rent for your openings.

The presence of the satellite Big D Market in Boston went a long way towards liquidating these two pools of under-used slave flesh. Already, 18-year-old Yankee girls were voluntarily undergoing slave grading for bragging rights on their hotness; the national network of cheerleaders spread the word of this “Southern tradition” imported to the North. These slave gradings made it easier to identify and process wannabee slaves who might be interested in a sort of fantasy enslavement that involved working on our cruise ship. Defaulting Northern debtors also could be processed at the new Big D, and being able to use them in a floating whorehouse would greatly reduce the cost of transport to the South. (Sixty-some colleges and universities in the Boston area translated into a LOT of young pussy that signed their behinds away when they got “a little behind” on their loans. Now I wanted to let their owners get “a little behind” from those debtors.) Before the late fall, when weather in the North Atlantic would be challenging, we could use the cruise ship to haul a large number of these debtors, especially the ones who owed five or more years in a collar, down to South Carolina or even Texas for long-term disposition (read, sale and training). Alternatively, these Northern cunts could earn their freedom on the installment plan—at vacation times such as spring break, the young things could put in (or put out) ten days or longer of their slave sentence, taking in all “cumers” on the ship. At the same time, we could discretely offer a “slave experience” where hot young (but still free) adults signed FINO contracts and became temporary sluts on the Yo Ho Ho, again especially during school vacations.

The problem that the investment board saw in both cases was how to avoid a patron recognizing one of these recruits, either a local person enslaved for debt or someone pretending to be a slave—neither type of whore wanted to endanger his/her job or reputation.

As I did with every intellectual challenge, I considered each facet of the problem carefully and from every angle. My hypothesis was simple: in becoming a slave, a person can transform so completely that even close friends and work colleagues won't recognize them. Everyone I had talked to, including Jake, had laughed at me and rejected the idea out of hand. As an experienced researcher, I knew that it was always the unpopular and counterintuitive ideas that made your reputation. Besides, Jake and his fellow investors had never been on the other end of a slave leash, as I had, so they had only a partial understanding of the psychological dynamics of enslavement. They knew how to induce slave mind and obedience in a naked, collared slut, but didn’t realize how that process of enslavement made the subjects unrecognizable as anything other than fuck-bait. I was living proof of that.

The problem was that my hypothesis was nearly impossible to prove. The Big D was the obvious testbed, as I could control its computer systems and had conducted countless experiments there before. Still, for my experiment in whore recognition I couldn't use a real slave girl, as the point was to use a free woman who was pretending. I needed to find someone who wasn't a slave girl, but was skilled enough in slave psychology to portray a slave girl convincingly so as to fool her colleagues at The Big D. For that matter, it would help to have a “slave girl” who already had a SIN inside her mouth and a brand on her ass. That was common in the South but still rare in New England.

This was no time for amateurs. I considered asking Rebecca, the accountant at the original Big D, to portray a slave, as I suspected the little bitch had slave fires smoldering deep inside her. Besides, Rebecca was untrained, and if she entered The Big D as a "newbee" slave, she might expose her "free" persona, which would make her easy to spot. If I picked the wrong person and blew it, I wouldn't get a second chance with Jake, and the story of my failed experiment might make me a laughingstock among both my academic colleagues and within the industry in general.

It was an intractable problem and seemed quite unsolvable. How could a free woman -- even one with Pleasure Slut training -- act like an experienced slave, when she was not? It wasn't until Friday night, when I was naked and doing my slave yoga, that I realized the answer was looking me in the mirror.

Spreading my legs wide, I began to gently stroke my sex as I recalled the terrible, dreadful, horrible thrilling mistake that had led to my shocking misclassification as a Pleasure Slut. It was a time I preferred to forget, except when I was alone at night, free to stroke my hot, wet pussy.

I tried to evaluate my risky idea objectively. The situation I had imagined was deliciously tempting, an opportunity to re-live my slavery in the name of research. I tried thinking of the situation with myself in the third person, as if it were a research report—a really RACY research report: Professor Sarah Hollister was a free woman, an accomplished academic and intellectual, and a well-known consultant and businesswoman. She was a highly respected professional, particularly by her friend Jake. Jake knew that it was Sarah's insights into slaves-as-livestock that made Jake rich and propelled The Big D to the top tier of slavers. Sarah enjoyed Jake's respect and esteem, and the admiration of the investors who would be on the ship, many of whom she had known or worked with for years. She liked the way they deferred to her, and valued her opinions, thoughts and ideas. They knew her well, which meant if she could fool them, she could fool anyone. Conveniently, this respected academic (me) was already equipped with the SIN tattoo, butt brand, and training to simulate a real sex slave. (She also had access to a genuine male slave—Steve—who could also be inserted into the coffle on board the Yo Ho Ho and who probably knew some of the bigwigs on board. That made him a lesser test of the same idea.)

In order for this to work, she'd have to blend in seamlessly with the other sluts. She wouldn't be there as a business advisor or investor. Her naked body would be available to the guests as a shipboard amenity, like an open bar or free internet or a drink package at the bar. Her SIN number would actually be tied into the ship’s onboard inventory - she would be the “ass” in asset management. She could expect to be thoroughly used as a sex toy—which was what both thrilled and frightened me.

When this sex toy lined up on the deck and knelt, naked and collared, in front of Jake and her colleagues, many of whom she had known for years, they would have to look at her and see nothing but slave snatch, inventory, profit-per-pussy. She would be livestock and animal, nothing but tits, pussy, mouth, and ass for use.

That night, I had a dream. Sarah was kneeing for inspection with the other girls, legs spread, as Jake, Rebecca, and her doctoral advisor, Dr. Alan Morgan, casually walked the line. Professor Morgan had been her faculty advisor when she had done her thesis and had mentored her for years, and they had built up a deep and lasting mutual respect. She had invited him on the maiden cruise both for his professional advice and so that he might write an endorsement of the venture. Stopping to gape at Sarah's hot, open pussy (but not her face!), he decided to do precisely that.

Sarah gasped as her longtime friend, colleague, and mentor grabbed her by the pussy in the approved Trump manner. "This is first rate coochie, Jake," he observed, "hot, wet, and snappy. I bet I can bring her to slavegasm with this hand faster than I can unzip my pants."

I woke up to a shattering slavegasm as Professor Morgan won his bet.

*****

In spite, or perhaps because, of the sexual thrill involved in this plan, I needed an iron-clad insurance plan to be able to escape pseudo-slavery at the end of a week. Playing slave for a few days was thrilling, made even better if I had to submit to people I knew professionally, but finding myself permanently trapped as a naked, collared, sex object was too risky.

The first step in my plan was to create a file in the Big D data base for a fictitious slave girl named Flame, tied to the Slave Identification Number (SIN) inside my mouth and matching my description—including the coveted “D” brand indicating she was genuine Prime pussy—but with red hair. Flame was the property of Professor Sarah Hollister, who had authorized renting out her slut to the Yo Ho Ho for a nine-day period, matching the dates of Harvard’s spring break. The file clearly stated that “Any further transfer or sale of slave requires prior personal approval of owner”—who would be difficult to contact since she was masquerading in a collar! A similar warning went into the national data base.

Secondly, I made a deal with a disreputable slave wrangler named Rango who worked at the Boston branch of the Big D. I told him enough of my plan so that he would be able to take charge of this random slave girl and deliver her, suitably restrained, to the Yo Ho Ho. If he returned Flame in the same condition that he received her, nine days later, he would receive $20,000 (all my book royalties to date) which I put in escrow—far more than he would get as a finder’s fee (since he couldn’t prove title) for selling Flame. He also made and sent me a video confirming this deal, which I had deposited with my lawyer, with instructions to turn the video and accompanying letter over to the federal Human Trafficking Agency if I did not contact him by 12 noon on the Monday after spring break. That was not perfect, but the best I could do, and the thought of being at the mercy of that low-life Rango until that time only increased the moisture between my thighs.

Meanwhile, my love of being humiliated and abased really kicked in. Of course, I didn’t want any of my peers, let alone either the National Human Resources Council or the investors in this project, to recognize me. Still, the thought of Jake using me as a slave, and perhaps even knowing whose pussy or mouth he was fucking, was delicious. Even the thought of his salty semen in my mouth was delicious—literally (and I hate how my students overwork that word!)

*****

(Steve Wilson’s perspective)
The professor picked me up in her Tesla, wordlessly reminding me again that she held all the cards—beauty, wealth, academic authority, and control over my slavery—while I had to settle for crumbs of sexual contact and tips. When I asked where her glasses had gone, she told me that she had recently had corrective surgery for her astigmatism. Still, although she had every reason to feel in charge of the situation, she looked very uncomfortable, uneasy; when we paused at a stoplight, she turned to me and said,

“Look, Steve; I need to warn you about something before we get to the Big D. I’m running an experiment in the power of class and role, to see if men will recognize a woman of status and position, their superior, when that accomplished professional is playing a slave role."

I must have looked perplexed, as I didn’t see what that had to do with me. She rushed into an explanation: “In order to do this, I’m going along with you on this ship, only I’m going to masquerade as a slave myself, which means you’re going to see me slave naked. I expect you not to say anything about me either now or after we’re back at school. If anything happens to me, you’ll go back to the much stricter life you had in the kennels without me.”

She resumed driving while I wrestled with the image of this beautiful, in-charge woman naked and on her knees. Not surprisingly, that idea gave me another pain in the chastity belt. I was still trying to absorb the idea as we drove into the parking lot of the Boston branch of the Big D. In addition to two Texas Highway Patrolmen in full uniform, the gate was adorned by large metal signs, citing both Massachusetts and federal laws that declared the premises to be subject to the sovereign laws of Texas. As a slave in the eyes of Texas, I had just lost any residual independence. I felt a shiver down my back.

The professor pulled over and parked. As we got out of her car, she waved to a distant slave wrangler who began walking briskly towards us. Turning to me, she ordered me to strip. While I did so, she continued her explanation, but I remained as confused as before:

"It's quite simple, actually. I've linked this collar to a fictional girl I've entered into The Big D's system, who I've tied to my SIN number. As this is a cruise, it's not likely anyone is going to be checking SIN numbers against the national registry, especially since I'm already ‘inventory’ in their system. The rest is a simple matter of changing my appearance so Jake Henry and the other investors in this enterprise will look at me as simply another piece of slave tail. Collar."

The sudden command prompted me to drop to my knees, one hand on hip, the other raised to my head to hold my (non-existent) long hair up while she replaced my daily collar with a heavy shock collar with two prongs. I shuddered, remembering how vulnerable I had felt when I wore such a device while being slave-graded. At least, thank heavens, she removed that damn chastity belt.

As she finished collaring and yet releasing me, the wrangler, a huge, overly-muscled guy with an ugly face, arrived beside us. Both he and I watched as Sarah removed her carefully-coiffed wig to reveal that her actual hair was now a short buzz cut, and what was left of her blonde hair had been died flaming red. "I'm Flame," she explained, putting in her silver nose ring.

"Impressive," Rango said dryly. "But that ayn't all ya' gonna have to take off, Professor," he drawled.

Fingering her top button, she looked at her co-conspirator nervously. "What are you going to with my clothes? Are your going to keep them nearby?"

"Nope. No need. I'm gonna lock yer' shit in the trunk of yer fancy little Tesla, where it will remain all snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug till I decide to unlock it. Now strip.”

Sarah clearly thought Rango was enjoying this too much, but he didn't matter. He was literally just the driver. The board was going to be on this cruise, as well as Jake. It was a big risk, but if she could pull it off, she'd prove her theory in an entirely incontrovertible way, a proof that would be good for both business and academic publications.

Sarah turned and took off her wool jacket and silk blouse, revealing a FLAME tattoo tramp stamp on her lower back. It was temporary, of course, but they wouldn't know that.

"Nice tattoo,” Rango observed. "Does the flame go all the way down to your butt crack?"

It looked as if it did, but Sarah didn't answer, just looked over her shoulder and glared at Ringo with a look that could kill.

"Ooooh, don't we look all UPPITY," Ringo drawled. "Fine. Don't answer. I can wait 10 seconds to find out. Take off the flopper stopper next. I wanna see those titties."

(Sarah Hollister’s perspective)

I considered firing him on the spot. I’d fired people for a whole lot less, but Rango was my co-conspirator, and I didn't want to take either the time or the risk of enlisting someone else. Yes, Rango was a lecherous, uncouth, horny idiot, but his very simplicity is why he was useful. He was too stupid to double-cross me or think of something I hadn't.

Still, this was the part of the game which I found most humiliating. Masquerading as a Pleasure Slut and having to simulate the appropriate slave heat to sell my performance, while was degrading, was a necessary part of my research. To be a convincing slave whore I had to act and think like one, even if the resulting arousal was embarrassing. Having this blue collar troll relish my fall from grace was another matter altogether.

Deciding that fearlessness was my best tactic, I turned to face Rango head on. Defiantly, I unclasped my bra, and shrugged it over first one shoulder, then the other. My nipples were pierced with rings that matched the one in my nose, trying to distract attention away from my face.

"Nice titties," he said appreciatively. "Make 'em bounce."

"Fuck you, " I replied. "You're still just my delivery boy, stud. Don't start thinking you're in charge."

Rango laughed, but looked away, and stopped ogling my breasts. I was about to add my silk bra to the discard pile but thought better of it. Reaching into my purse for the key fob, I opened up the trunk of my $200,000 Tesla Roadster, and, deciding to show off a little, popped open the top of the trunk compartment to reveal the hidden storage space underneath.

"Fancy!" Rango drawled. It was the reaction I was hoping for, as I chose this car to impress, but the little smile on his lips still irritated me. Irritated that Rango was enjoying my little striptease-to-order. I quickly took off my shoes, skirt, and... trying not to look at the smiling Ringo as I did it, my panties. I put my expensive clothes into the compartment, folding them neatly.

"Nice red landing strip," Rango noticed. "Drapes match the rug, huh?"

I had shaved the landing strip, then dyed it, deciding that the red snatch would help "sell" my status as a redhead to anyone who might otherwise recognize me. As a pretend slave girl, I knew that Jake would spend a lot more time looking at my pussy than my face. Actually, I wasn't totally sure Jake would look at me at all, as he would be more interested in impressing the investors and chatting up the board than in one more naked slave girl. Blending in with the others was a huge part of my strategy. Still, both the researcher and the slut inside me were thrilled by the chance to serve Jake as one more anonymous “cunt.”

I took the Tesla key fob off the ring. Smiling, Rango took it, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Be careful with that." I scolded, knowing that Rango now literally held the electronic key to my freedom. Ignoring me, Rango roughly grabbed the purse out of my hands and dropped it into the trunk. I barely had time to step back as Rango quickly dropped the rear "floor" back into place, hiding all my clothes, money, and identification from view. "Lookee there," Rango chuckled. "Can't even see 'em no more. Like they anyn't even there."

I shuddered as Rango slammed the trunk lid down, locking my freedom in the trunk of a car for which I no longer had the key. I’d forgotten how it felt to be totally at the mercy of a slave handler.

"Collar," he said, smiling as he held up the shock collar in front of my face, and waggled it back and forth.

"I can put it on," I protested.

"Collar," he repeated, more loudly and firmly. I decided it wasn't worth the fight—I actually enjoyed having Rango dominate me, although I didn’t want to give up control over him. Kneeling down on the asphalt parking lot pavement, I presented my neck for the collar, wincing as he CLICKED the lock shut and locked it into place. The two electrical contacts dug into my neck. After that, I knelt before him, legs spread, hands on top of my short red curls, giving him and Steve a full view of the newest slave slut.

"Not bad," he said. "You'd fetch a good price on the block, Flame. Wanna suck my dick?"

"Don't get any bright ideas, delivery boy," I said through clenched teeth. "You still work for me."

He smiled, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him shake his head negatively. "I'm Professor Sarah Hollister's deliver boy. She left 5 minutes ago, in her fancy ass sportscar. She left behind a Pleasure Slut with a hot red snatch and a slave stud with a gigantic boner."

I had become so entranced fighting the power game with Rango that I’d forgotten all about Steve. I glanced over to see him standing submissively, legs spread, with a VERY erect penis. The slut inside me was pleased that Slave Steve was turned on by my naked body.

Tucking his fingers under my chin, Rango grinned down at me. "Not so uppity, without yer' fancy clothes, are ya' college girl? Delivery boy, huh? Well, I'm going to deliver you, slave naked, right to the Yo Ho Ho so you can be a slave Ho."

After a pause, he continued "On your feet, slut. Slave spread. Hands flat on the pavement."

I glared at him but, noticing that his right hand was already toying with the slave whip hanging from his belt, I decided to play along. I didn't like Rango thinking that he mattered in some way, for as far as I was concerned, he was my minion, not my master. But for this to work I would have to play along.

"I'm in control of this," I thought. "He works for me. We'll settle up when I get my clothes back."

My clothes! As I rose and turned, I stared at the trunk of her Tesla, the link to my real identity. If I could get some my key fob back, or some tools... No, no, no. I was getting slave brain and had to fight it off. This was all part of my research, blending in as a pretend slave. Biting my lip, I spread my legs and bent over, very conscious that I was revealing all I had to Rango's—and Steve's—beady eyes.

"Hot damn, girl. That is PRIME pussy and it looks nice and juicy. Whatcha' trying to do, make our slave stud here spurt all over the pavement?” Rango bent over to scan my collar into inventory with the Big D mobile app I had designed.

PING! The high pitched squeak seemed to express pleasure at Flame’s arrival. I was now in the system, just one more slave cunt at the Big D. Rango used the closeness of the scan as an opportunity to grab his new acquisition by the pussy. "Wetter and hotter than an otter in a sauna," he snickered, causing me to groan with humiliation and pleasure as he casually finger fucked me. "Ayn't nobody gonna question that yer' PRIME."

Rango's voice betrayed his surprise as he noticed "The Big D" logo branded between my butt cheeks. "What the fuck, girl. You BADGED?"

"It's temporary," I lied. "It's in my faux file. Flame was graded and sold at The Big D, and they badged me. All part of the routine, right? Just playing the part," I said, struggling to sound casual even as his fingers made me grunt, closer to orgasm.

"Feels real to me," he said, running his thumb along the crest of my brand. "I heard Jake telling Rebecca he was thinking of adding an anchor badge to all the girls on the maiden voyage. Not sure if he got around to doin' it, though."

"On your feet, slut. Slave spread. Hands and feet flat on the pavement."

*****

(Steve Wilson’s perspective)

"Don't forget who's in charge, Rango," Sarah said sternly.

"You anyn't in charge of shit, Pleasure Slut," Ringo sneered contemptuously. "You ayn't Sarah Hollister no more, you're Flame, and yer' gonna suck cock and lick snatch and offer that hot, sweet twat of yer's to anyone who says how-dee-doo. How do you know Professor Hollister, stud?"

"Are you speaking to me, Master?" I said, startled that anyone noticed me when they could be staring at the sexy woman bent over in front of me.

"Ayn't speaking to your pecker, which looks pretty damn hard, by the way."

"I got enslaved through my sister's 4-H project," I explained, my voice betraying my misery. "My sister gave control over me to the professor and another woman. About the only time I get off is when my ex-girfriend takes me to the animal husbandry barn off campus and ties me to the milking machine. It's really humiliating, because they strap me in and hook the nozzle to my pizzle, like I'm an animal."

"You are an animal," Sarah said, resuming her Professorial tone. It sounded really snotty, but I suspected she was struggling with the same sense of helplessness that had plagued me for months.

"Open your mouth one more time without permission and I'm putting my dick in it, slave girl," Rosco said.

"Why is she... naked? Like a slave girl?" I asked nervously.

"Cuz she is a slave girl, or at least she's playin' one, this afternoon. Part of an experiment to see if my boss or anybody at The Big D will recognize her. So fer' the rest of the week she's Flame, and she's jist another slave girl, got it?"

"Yes, Master," I said, bowing his head. "I won't reveal the secret."

"You'd better not," Sarah said. "Or I'm going to use your ball sack as my new coin purse."

"Ya ayn't in a position to threaten anyone, slave girl," Rango snapped. "And I'm thinking maybe it's you who needs a little lesson about what yer' new relationship is with Steve here, now that yer a slave girl. Tell me how you know the good Professor here."

"She booked me on the cruise. Professor Hollister is a big deal at the school, so she can do anything she wants. They'll hook my pizzle up to the machine and milk me. Sometimes there are other animals in there, like dogs or bulls and goats, and sometimes there's a class. They don't care. They just milk me. Professor Hollister showed my ex how to program it so it can edge me for hours. Once, she hooked me up and then took Stephanie out for drinks, and she got Stephanie so drunk she didn't come back to let me come until the next afternoon. I thought I was going to go insane."

"Well, that weren't very nice," Rango drawled. "Of course, Flame here can edge ya', only we ayn't got no machine. Just her tongue. Think ya' can do that, Flame? Edge his pecker without havin' it burst in yer' mouth? Wanna keep him nice and hard for his little boat ride, ha-ha. Slave Fours, Flame."

Just like a real slave, the naked, collared woman who had controlled me as Professor Hollister dropped from her arched position to her hands and knees on the cold parking lot pavement. Her knees were far enough apart that I could see every inch of her pussy, her anus, and those magnificent ass cheeks with the D brand between them.

“So, what do you think, guy? How about a little retribution on the woman who’s helped make you miserable this year? Pick one end, I’ll take the other, and we’ll spit-roast the little cock-tease.”

“Well,” I said with a laugh. “I’m a slave, so if you tell me to fuck her, then I have to fuck her, right?”

He nodded, still grinning.

“Then, on your instructions, I really want to try out that dripping pussy; I’ll leave her smart mouth to you, Master.” I knelt down between her legs, eagerly spreading her hips and then labia as I brought my over-stressed prick up to the charge. I slammed into her with three thrusts. DAMN, that woman felt as good as I had imagined—so warm, firm, juicy, and thrilling. Despite her obvious excitement, I got enough friction from the Professor’s cunt to really enjoy myself. Judging by the brand, Sarah Hollister was a genuine, prime piece of ass, and I suddenly realized just how valuable that was. I couldn’t help moaning slightly—but then, neither could she.

*****

(Sarah Hollister’s perspective)

It’s difficult to stay angry at someone when they’re giving you so much pleasure. I tried not to show it but having Rango dominate me was REALLY turning me on. Still, this was the part of the game which I found most humiliating. Masquerading as a Pleasure Slut and having to provide the appropriate slave heat to sell my performance was degrading but still a necessary part of my research. Having this blue collar troll relish my fall from grace was another matter altogether. It’s not like I REALLY enjoyed being a slave, right?

As for Stephen, I had played with his cock when he was blindfolded, and now that he occupied my birth canal of his own free will I recalled how much fun that had been. Youthful cock, especially cock long denied the chance to screw, was a real feast. I heard him moan, which was entirely appropriate since few men and even fewer slaves get a chance to fuck a Prime Sandy Foot Girl. Trouble was, I moaned just as much—or at least my disguise as slave slut Flame moaned. What a little whore she was!

Rango laughed. “I thought that would remind you of your place, slut. If you think her twat feels good, guy, you otta try that little starfish of hers. I can see it winking at you right now, inviting you in. Maybe when we come back next weekend. Meanwhile, slut, I have only one word for you: mouth.”

As I said, I was still trying to glare at him, but Flame was enjoying herself too much. So I dutifully licked, kissed, and then engulfed his respectable-sized penis. I couldn’t help moaning again; except for the clowns in the University Grants Office, it had been too long since I got to lick on a manly dick, and even longer since I’d taken it at both ends. I’d worry about the threat to have Steve cornhole me later. For now, consider this the try-outs for my starring role as undercover (or perhaps uncovered?) shipboard slut. I ordered my face to smile and look longingly, lovingly, upwards at the grinning buffoon who had control over me. Just when I thought I had myself under control, Steve’s frantic banging at my other end would cause me to lunge forward, swallowing an extra-large helping of flunky sausage. All three of us were audibly climbing towards climaxes. The things I do for research!

(To be continued)
Last edited by Carl Bradford on Sun Nov 07, 2021 3:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

Post by jeepster »

Awesome Carl! Can't wait to see how her time on ship goes!
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

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Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 amThe whole time, my chastity belt was off, which meant that my huge hard-on seemed to say I was enjoying this! That just gave the wranglers a convenient handle to lead me around.
I honestly love the idea of some guy (sum yung guy?) being led around by his cock.

Happened to me lots of time. Not literally, of course... oh wait, yeah, once it did. Never mind. None of your business, shut up! Yes, she was hot! When I was 19 I had a thing for MILFs, okay?
Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 amLong story short, I got a grade of Choice Plus (it’s very difficult for any guy to get Prime, and if I WERE graded Prime I would run to Canada for fear that Ellie May would sell my ass for money!)
I feel like we need a ruling on this. Carl, I know you worked with Joe on this, so I'm going to assume that he approved this, so I'm not doubting you. I don't think we've sufficiently developed this aspect of the legal-slavery-universe canon. What are the criteria for grading male slaves?

I think that it's entirely reasonable to grade female slaves primarily on physical sex appeal and sensuality. After all, the highest and best use for a woman is as a sex slave, so it all makes sense.

But it appears to me that the primary use for male slaves is heavy labor. So wouldn't the basis for male slave grading generally be their physical robustness and endurance? Since modern slavery was first initiated as a means to empty the (90% male) prison system, then this male heavy-labor grading should have been the original slave-grading system.

On the other hand, male sex slaves must exist, so wouldn't there be a parallel grading scale for sexual desirability? In this context, it makes sense to me that Steve would grade highly because he is both physically desirable and the bearer of good genes - intelligent, big-dicked, etc.
Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 amMy slavegasms were not actual slave heat, but simply a byproduct of my explorations of slave girl psychology.
I believe you, Sarah. Naw, I'm lying and so are you. Carry on (while I watch).
Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 amAs a slave in the eyes of Texas, I had just lost any residual independence. I felt a shiver down my back.
I love this tiny little snippet. He crossed the line and his legal position suddenly became more precarious... shivver...
Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 amI shuddered as Rango slammed the trunk lid down, locking my freedom in the trunk of a car for which I no longer had the key.
Hehheh, I love that part. In real life, I put on my electronic keycard on a lanyard every day. I do that even though we switched from electronic maglocks to physical mechanical locks over a year ago. Why? Symbolism. "I have a keycard, therefore I'm official and I belong here."

It just is.
Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 amRango bent over to scan my collar into inventory with the Big D mobile app I had designed.
The mobile app that she designed. Please, allow me to design this trap... oh no, I'm trapped! What ever shall I do! Oh no! Stop touching me... oh, yeah, right there, more...
Carl Bradford wrote: Sun Nov 07, 2021 12:28 am"You'd better not," Sarah said. "Or I'm going to use your ball sack as my new coin purse."
Ow. Ew. Ouch. Ow.
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

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I really like the image of keys, and locks, and losing access to things you used to have, and the power they represent.

How many times had I strode through this area? More times than I could count. It was close to Rebecca's office, and Jake's. Of course, as Professor Sarah Hollister, I never bothered to look down at the girls in the cages, but I know they could see me, strutting by in my tightly tailored Armani business suit, my Gucci shoes clicking on the cement. "It's a hot market, Jake, so let's sell some hot pussy, and make some real money," I'd say, chuckling as I thought of the naked girls I had just passed. "Keep the brazier hot, because it's going to be a busy day on Broadway."

It excited me, to parade myself in front of the naked Pleasure Sluts, feeling there helpless, pleading, eyes looking up at me, envying my power and control. I'd give them a chance to "parade" soon enough, naked on the auction block. Yes, I'd turn a tidy little profit on their hot little pussies.

Turning my head sideways I grabbed onto the bar of my crate and began chewing on it. It might have made more sense to use my hands, but they were busy in my pussy, keeping my snatch hot in preparation for the block. Chewing on the steel bars of my crate was a futile gesture, quite stupid really, but the tooth scrapes of the countless bimbos who had used this cage before me was strangely comforting. If I was not better than them, at least I was no worse.

A few feet in front of me, a dumpy wrangler wearing coveralls with The Big D logo stood in front of me, checking inventory - inventory like me - on his iPad. He was balding, and overweight, and was wearing worn sneakers, but the bulging keyring dangling from his belt made him seem like the most powerful man in the world. Oh, I would have sucked him all day, just to touch one of those precious keys.

I'd never used keys at The Big D. My phone opened the doors, and two factor authentication let me access all the systems. As for keys to the cages, I could always call some flunky over to do that, if I ever cared to unlock a particular cage, which I never did. I wondered where my phone was. Probably 200 miles away, back in Austin, sitting in box in storage, if the janitor hadn't thrown it away by now.

I knew I was being foolish. Even if I somehow chewed through steel, there would be more locks, more doors, men with guns, and slave hounds that would run me down. Even if I escaped The Big D, how far could a naked girl running down the road with a tracking collar around her neck really go? Chewing on the bars was slave stupid. But I did it anyway.

Oh, Sarah Hollister had all the keys, and the clothes, and the smarts to get out of here. Professor Hollister was a VIP, the woman in charge. But me, the bimbo Pleasure Slut chewing on the bars of her cage, had none. It was strangely exciting, knowing that the countless doors I had effortlessly bounded through were now locked and bolted. I wouldn't get out of this room - or even out of my cage - until the fat flunky took me to the face the shame and humiliation of the auction block. The minimum wage dufus was in charge. I rubbed my pussy faster as I chewed on the steel, looking longingly up at the fat wrangler's all powerful keys.
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

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As in so many other aspects of the Texas slave universe, Joe is the master of locks and physical security over slaves. On another occasion, I recall him writing about how a former slave wrangler, accustomed to having keys to all the locks in a slave market, became a slave herself and reflected upon being controlled by a fifty-cent padlock. Great image of losing power, which I believe I borrowed in "Going Around to Cum Around."
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 02: Slave Whoring With Flame

Post by jeepster »

Am interested in her time as a "consultant" for these slave executives! Where they gave her an education in being a slave!
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