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Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Proud, educated, professional women who secretly long for humiliation, discipline, or slavery have their fantasies fulfilled.
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imreadonly2
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Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

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After a long pause, I wrote a tiny bit more of the next chapter of Slave Yoga. Rather than wait forever, and inspired by the other great contributions to the group, I decided to publish what I had.

The auctioneer cracked the whip. Using my countless hours of slave yoga training, I gracefully rolled forward, snapping my feet onto the ground and using only my legs to lift myself into a standing position, as I undulated my arms with the grace of a championship belly dancer. I did a perfect pirouette, spinning to show my perfect, round ass to the bidders.

I glanced over at the college girls, who were naked, and having their hands cinched behind their backs. A slave monger was tying off a bit between Betty Jean’s teeth, silencing her foolish protests. Bound and gagged was not the optimal way to sell slave pussy, as it indicated they were untrained. However, they were young, and cute, and naked, and it was obvious that the people running this shoddy little fish market were more interested in selling than training. Besides, certain buyers liked to whip new girls into shape themselves.

What caught my eye was that there didn’t seem to be any paperwork involved. I assumed the girls has Slave Identification Numbers tatted on the inside of their lips, for it would be foolish to take a trip to a place like this without a SIN. But no one seemed to be checking for one.

Nor was anyone checking their passports or recording information. They simply took the money and anything of immediate use out of the bag, and burned the rest, along with the girl’s clothes.

Betty Jean was staring into the fire, even as they pushed her gums back into a forced smiled and tightened the bit. Her clothes and purse were being used to heat the branding heads. I remembered she said that she hoped they’d brand me, so she could watch me squeal like a pig. Now that she was naked, tied, and facing the iron, she didn’t seem nearly so enthusiastic about branding slave girl’s asses.

No one was using a laptop, or any paper at all, save the paper money that was being taken in and out of the iron box. Clearly this was a cash business.

My understanding of the primitive nature of their bookkeeping was confirmed as an older black man wearing a sports jacket, sunglasses, and an expensive looking watch walked over to the freshly bound Ellie May and stuck his hand between her legs, giving her pussy a good feel. The blonde tried to pull away, but the slave mongers held her in place, allowing him to thoroughly check her pussy, and verify that her tits were real.

Satisfied, he went to the cash table and pulled out a wad of bills, counting them out as he talked. The haggling only took a few seconds, as I sensed he was purposefully paying top dollar to avoid the nuisance of having to bother with bidding on the freshly collared Ellie May when she was placed on the block.

The transaction, as momentous and life changing as it was for Ellie May, happened very quickly, as she was sold as nonchalantly as a lamp at a garage sale. I didn’t even think the poor little dear, still sobbing at the way the black man had handled her smooth, white, Southern redneck flesh, even realized the deal was struck. It wasn’t until the slave mongers bent her over the table, and took the brand out of the fire, that Ellie May, Billy Jean, and the other Southern white trash who had taunted me about my branding realized what was going to happen.

The auctioneer tapped the side of my face with the whip, signaling me to keep my smiling eyes on the buyer as he vended me. I didn’t see Ellie May’s branding, but I certainly heard it. I felt a rush of satisfaction as she let out her piercing, animalistic scream, signaling her transformation from college girl to Pleasure Slut. I hoped our little Southern girl liked black guys, because I suspected that soon she’d be sucking a lot of black ding-dongs.

While listening to Betty Jean and the other alpha girls scream as their friend’s ass was branded was certainly fun, as an academic the most interesting part of the sale was the exchange of cash. A portion of the cash proceeds was handed directly to one of the two armed police officers standing behind the table. The two officers both had Uzis, and looked like they meant busines,

Suddenly I was fully dressed in front of my students, describing the nature of the market I was being vending in. I had decided to dress up a bit that day, and was wearing a smart ensemble with khaki pants and checkered jacket. My hair was pulled back, and I wore my black rimmed glasses. I didn’t really need them, but they made a good prop, and I could take them off when I wanted to appear extra thoughtful, a trick I had learned from my mentor, Agatha Crush.

My voice was clear, calm, and professional, as the class eagerly took notes, hanging on my every word.

In a grey market, goods not authorized for distribution in a certain country are sold their anyway. You might argue that the little slut being sold off the block right now is in a gray market. She is a Ph.D. student participating in a research project, who was sent on a slave-cation by her Professor to study and explore the slave experience. Selling her in a fish market on a forsaken island to a group of peasants far exceeds the original parameters of her shipping agreement, at least as she understood it, and thus could be considered a gray market transaction.

However, you’ll notice that in this particular market, there is no paperwork. No paperwork means no taxes, and no government sanction, beyond the obvious bribes that are being paid directly to the police and soldiers who are guarding the place. No paperwork means no audit trail, and no incriminating evidence or way to trace the sale.

I smile as a bright-eyed young woman in the front row raises her hand. It is Emma, a cute blonde with a British accent. She was always taking notes, always asking questions. She is easily my brightest student.

“But if there are no records, and this is a remote island in the middle of nowhere, how can her sale be traced?

Seizing the moment to look professorial, I took off my glasses and waved them at her as I answered. “Excellent question, Emma. If the little slut bending over and spreading her butt cheeks and winking her asshole at the fisherman had your foresight, she wouldn’t be in the – shall we say position? – that she is in.”

The students chuckled at my rude “position” joke, even as the auctioneer tapped her asshole with the whip, encouraging the little slut to keep “winking”.

The position she was in, ha-ha! I was a riot.

Emma furrowed her brow. “But Tracy thinks she’s on a slave-cation, and she’s going to be rescued. Are you saying she won’t be?”

I always enjoyed talking to Emma. Some young women are a pleasure to educate.

“How could such a rescue be actuated, Emma? Yes, the little slut thinks she is something special, but I assure she is not. She thinks she is smarter, and more sophisticated than the ignorant fisherman who are bidding on her. If she is so clever, why is she naked on a stone block, winking her asshole? Whomever she might have once been, she is now simply a piece of untraceable slave tail, no different than the goats or pigs or the countless other animals who have been sold off this stone block in centuries past.”

“Remember, Emma, this market is thousands of years old, and for all intents and purposes she has stepped into a time machine. She will soon vanish into history, as forgettable as the little lamb sold off this block, and served up as last week’s dinner.”

“What about her SIN number, Professor?” Emma asked.

I smiled indulgently as I put my glasses back on. “Again, excellent question Emma. Tell me, do you have your SIN number?”

“Um…no. I didn’t need a student loan, and I told daddy…”

“Quite so,” I said, cutting my precocious student’s nervous defense short. “Our haughty little college girl didn’t want to get a SIN number tattooed inside of her lip, either,” I said with a smirk. “Oh, no, that would have been too degrading, to be marked, and properly registered as if she were actually a SLAVE GIRL. Perish the thought!”

“Nor is she branded. Having her Professor’s brand on her cute little butt sure would be handy now, and would give Professor Crush some small chance of locating her. But no, Tracy refused her Professor’s generous offer, even after her Professor repeatedly offered to personally hand brand her. Instead, the little ditz went through her Slave Yoga, and even went on an overseas slave-cation, without ever getting registered, as if her golden ass was untouchable.

Looking back at the slave meat on the block, I shook my head in disgust as I pointed out the particulars of her humiliating auction.

“Look at her, with the auctioneer’s fingers up inside of her, as she grunts for the crowd. She truly is a vlákas, a fool, just like Professor Bakas said. How many times did Professor Bakas offer to take her to the campus slave market, and offer to have her fingerprinted and photographed, and registered, like a proper slave girl should be? But Tracy was too proud for that. Tracy wouldn’t bend and spread while Professor Bakas watched them photograph her. Now she must bend and spread in a real slave market. Now her gamy pussy will be sold along with the other smelly little fishes dragged in from the ocean.

“She’s just another fish in the ocean now,” a boy in the back row said. It was Jimmy, a football player who was taking my class because he liked slave pussy. Not very bright, but when he was right, he was right.

“That’s correct, Jimmy,” I intoned. “Tracy is just another fish in the net, a drop of water in the ocean, lost and untraceable. Even now, she imagines that Professor Crush will rescue her, or her rich lawyer friend Suzy. She imagines there are secret agents in the audience, an army of confederates, waiting to save her.”

“How foolish slave girls are. What tiny little brains they have are in their tits. Tell me, why is such a sweet piece of slave pussy being sold in such a shitty island market?

Emma, always the ‘A’ student, raised her hand. I called on her.

“I think she was misprocessed at the port, then sold to a bulk reseller, who sold her to someone else, who sold her again, until she was finally sent her for disposal. Sort of like a stray dog, sent to a store front puppy mill.”

“Very good, Emma. But is it possible Professor Crush had her sent here, as some sort of lesson?” I said, challenging her.

Emma took a moment to weigh the possibility. “It’s technically possible,” Emma allowed, “but unlikely. In her work, Agatha Crush always stresses randomness in the experiment, to allow the results to unfold naturally. Plus, Professor Crush is a big believer in the invisible hand of capitalism.”

“Which is right now fingering her pussy for the buyers,” Jimmy said. The class laughed appreciatively.

He was right. I was facing the buyers, with the auctioneer’s left arm around my throat, and his right hand up between my legs, choking me as the final bids poured in. The bidders were laughing, and the class was laughing, as I bounced up and down like a rag doll on his fingers, as he fingered me towards orgasm. I couldn’t see the invisible hand, but it was selling my hot, wet, slave pussy.

Emma raised her dry, manicured hand again. “Professor, do you think this might be a good example of DPDR?”

I asked her to explain. Pleased at her chance in the spotlight, she stood up and faced the class.

“Depersonalization-Derealization Order is a mental disorder in which one feels disconnected from reality and the sense of self. Depersonalization is when the subject feels they are an outsider observer rather than a participant, and derealization involves the detachments from one’s surroundings.”

Emma turned to me and smiled. “For example, the little slut on the block might retreat into a fantasy where she is teaching a class. Her fragile psyche can’t accept that she is untraceable anonymous slave gash, being sold off an auction block, seconds away from having her cute little ass branded.”

Whether it was Emma’s cruel, disdainful smile or Billy Jean’s scream as her ass was branded, I was suddenly jolted back to the awful reality of what was happening to me.

Emma was right, Professor Crush loved randomness. As part of an experiment in the psychological effects of branding, she had selected four psych students, promising each of them 4 hours of seminar credit and a letter of recommendation if they agreed to participate in an experiment. All four girls were strapped into branding racks. Buyers were allowed to come in and inspect them, and the girl who got the highest bid was branded.

It had been my job to strap the girls down. I will never forget the terror in their eyes as Professor Crush teased out the results for nearly a full half hour, discussing their various attributes as she showed them each the red-hot branding heads with her distinctive “AC” brand. She even made me stamp each girl’s ass with a magic marker pre-brand, so mark where the actual brand was going to go, and so they’d know precisely where their ass was going to burn. I could tell she was really getting off on her power over them.

Which one was branded? It didn’t matter to her, really. She was playing with their heads, giving them that slave girl experience, breaking them, molding them to her will. Interestingly, the girl with the branded ass ended up selling herself into slavery within the year. I wasn’t surprised, as the purpose of branding is to transform free women into slave meat. What did surprise me was that within the next 18 months two of other three girls who had escaped branding had themselves graded and sold, too.

I told Professor Crush that I didn’t understand how getting bid on, and having a stamping a fake magic marker brand on a girl’s butt could transform a girl into a slave.

“I know you don’t, Tracy,” she said, flashing her trademark enigmatic smile. “But you will.”
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Hooked6
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Re: Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Post by Hooked6 »

What an amazing and pleasant surprise - one of my all-time favorite slave stories has been continued!! Thank you so much for not giving up on this.
imreadonly2 wrote: Thu Apr 28, 2022 7:49 am I didn’t see Ellie May’s branding, but I certainly heard it.

While listening to Betty Jean and the other alpha girls scream as their friend’s ass was branded was certainly fun, as an academic the most interesting part of the sale was the exchange of cash. A portion of the cash proceeds was handed directly to one of the two armed police officers standing behind the table. The two officers both had Uzis, and looked like they meant business.


Intense. I found this interesting on so many levels. As weird as it sounds, as an academic, I can actually understand how one can find the pain of another "fun" yet at the same time having the presence of mind to take the time to be fascinated by the surreal day-to-day business transactions of the slave trade and the myriad of human reactions of the other girls as Ellie May was branded. As I said - very intense.

That is what I like about Joe Doe's writing. There is a lot of thought that goes into the telling of the story. The plots don't go directly from point A to B. There is just enough of a pause to reflect on things that others wouldn't consider including in a story.

Marvelous addition, Joe.

Hooked6
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Re: Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Post by Belinda »

I so love this story. I love the academic analysis of such a diabolical transformation of ones life. This is the best part you have written to date of slave yoga and I love and reread it often. You make the submissive reader feel as if she is Tracy. Keep up the great work and thank you.
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Re: Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Post by Darrenwhipsthesluts »

As both Hooked6 and Belinda noted, this is another wonderful edition to your erotic body of work. I immediately saw the title and felt like a kid on Christmas Day and it did not disappoint! Looking forward to the next installment Joe!

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Re: Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Post by Mr. Smith »

Why do parents let their college aged daughters leave the country without a proper chaperone? One minute the are free entitled young women thriving in their privilege taunting the naked slaves. In the blink of an eye their status changes to a naked collared slave girl about to be sold like the lamb in the stall next to them. The transition from slave market to classroom and back was fantastic.
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Re: Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Post by SteveBurke »

Mr. Smith wrote: Sun May 08, 2022 8:18 pm Why do parents let their college aged daughters leave the country without a proper chaperone? One minute the are free entitled young women thriving in their privilege taunting the naked slaves. In the blink of an eye their status changes to a naked collared slave girl about to be sold like the lamb in the stall next to them.
Maybe they think their daughters are smart enough to stay out of trouble.

Or maybe, they want their entitled princess to learn the hard way...
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Re: Slave Yoga, Chapter 8A by Joe Doe

Post by tegan111 »

This is the story that made me sign up for this site. Genuinely the hottest story I've read in the 34th Amendment/New Slavery type of setting.

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