First of all, do not apologize for rambling or disseminating, as you are discussing a topic that is of great personal interest to me. Are slave girls born, or made?
I think we agree that most women who end up in a collar are destined for it, and have a “compulsion” to be enslaved. Why else, in a country of so much opportunity, would they fall into debt?
My father did not believe in debt, and as he paid for my education at both Harvard and Stanford I’m proud to say that debt simply isn’t a part of my financial history. Do thrift and frugality have no place in our society, and should creditors bear the brunt, over-and-over, when a girl hungry for the collar, repeatedly slides into bankruptcy. Such outrages do not occur in my court.
Of course, I’ve been informed by other that this opinion is self-serving, as it releases me from any moral obligation when I sentence a young woman to slavery. True enough, but I do pity them, for their natures if not their enslavement, which is the just punishment for their (or their family’s) misbehavior.
Of course, from time-to-time there are persons who challenge my “cream-rises-to-the-top” theory. A few months ago, I had a young woman of quality in my court who, like me, had gone to Harvard, and knew all the right people. Her father had been deeply involved in an accounting fraud, and the heartless creditors had hounded her family into bankruptcy, to the point where they were actually attempting to enslave her.
Needless to say, such attempts proved futile in my court. Like me, she was on the “Hottest Power Players in Denver” list, and I wasn’t about to disgrace myself by allowing one of my fellow power players to be collared. Crossing these sorts of lines brings the entire power structure into question, and people start to wonder if there is really that much difference between well educated, decent free women and the juicy wet gash they sell out of horse bars like the infamous Big D in Dallas.
After inviting the unfortunate woman into my chamber for a bit of lunch, I was able to work out a deal where she kept her father’s mansion and a few million dollars to get things restarted. However, your letter makes me wonder if Judge Younger might have handled her case differently. Thank goodness she found herself standing in front of a member of her social set, a female judge that understood the importance of breeding.
Which brings us back to the story of Doctor Lacy. I am going to suppose that, given that she went to the bother of going to medical school, that she might be a bit of a climber, rather than our sort of people, if you catch my drift? You can put a white coat and a stethoscope on a pig slut, and they are still a pig slut. The only part of your story that I find unbelievable is that she was able to pass herself off as a free woman, and a professional at that, for so long.
Again, I feel sorry for her, not because she was enslaved, but because she is (I hope) back in the brothel, feet in the air, earning coin for her owners. After experiencing what she had, and having her inner Pleasure Slut released, would any other life truly satisfy her?
It is question I’ve been constantly brooding over as of late. As I mentioned, I’m vacationing in the Mediterranean, on my father’s large, private estate. In order to work on my overall tan, I’m outside and naked most of the day. It’s not a problem, as we have a private beach, and it’s entirely private.
There’s no one to gawk at me, except the various servants who tend the gardens and grounds and such, who don’t really count. I have noticed that when I sunbathe by the pool, the swarthy, dirty carpenters who are rebuilding the east wing always go up on the roof for a lunch break. It’s an odd place to have lunch, under the blazing sun, but they don’t seem to mind the heat, and sit there peering down on me until I go inside. They actually have taken to passing around binoculars! When I challenged the foreman as to what they were looking at, he insisted they were bird watching.
I know they are talking about me, and I find myself dying to know what they are saying. I know it’s a bit naughty of me, but they are so deliciously dirty, that the thought of them looking at me, is wonderfully fun, like playing in the mud. I’m at a safe distance, so I know they must be viewing me as an untouchable work of art, like a statue of Venus in the museum. Even if you know you are not good enough to possess something, you may still admire its beauty.
As my father isn’t here, I actually replaced the butler and housekeeper with two naked male slaves, fresh to the collar, that I bought on the island market shortly after my arrival. The larger one, who I have named “Stud” is a muscular fisherman who was enslaved for 2 years after getting into a barfight. The smaller one, whom I have named “Noodle”, because of his small penis, is a studious college boy enslaved for 6 months after drugs were found in his politically connected roommate’s desk. (Guess who took the fall? Noodle, of course!)
I keep Noodle and Stud naked, and they fetch and carry for me and give me foot massages and oil my back when I don’t keep them locked in their kennels. Boys being boys, they sometimes get erections, particularly during my massages. When this happens, I order Noodles and Stud to 69 each other, on the floor, with me watching, laughing, and cheering them on. They aren’t homosexuals, and REALL, REALLY don’t want to do it, but when they resist I simply take them over my knee and paddle their tight little buns until they agree to perform with one another to amuse me.
Needless to say, they really try hard NOT to get erections, which always makes it that much more fun to tease them. The other day I showed them my block moves, and you should have seen them try to think of something else even as I ordered them to keep their eyes fixed on me. It was SO funny. I warned them that if got hard I was going to make them each take the other’s cherry. You should have seen the look on their faces! Noodle could barely walk by the time Stud had his way with him.
I’m thinking I might brand them. It’s against the rules, since they are temporary slaves, but the fine isn’t really a problem, and I love the thought of my family logo on their tight round bottoms. What do you think I should do?
Speaking of block moves, I have kept up with my slave yoga while on vacation. I signed up for a class at a local club frequented by rich trophy wives and the daughters of the well to do. I didn’t quite fit in, which confused me at first, as a number of them were American, British, and French. I knew that they were all a bit jealous of how well I did my block moves, but it wasn’t until I overheard them discovering my “American slave genes” that I realized they thought the source of my expertise was my “blackness.”
My trainer, Apollo, is devilishly handsome, with long, curly golden hair. He is an actual slave trainer, and is quite strict, although since we are all free women, he only cracks the whip in the air. He seemed quite annoyed with me, and viewed me with open contempt, for reasons that I could not fathom, as my performance was much better than the other girls, IMHO.
At first, I thought it was racism, but when I confronted him about it, Apollo told me that I “disgusted” him, as I was “wasting your natural, God given beauty and talents.”
I was both flattered and insulted, but let another week go by, pondering what he meant. The next week, I pressed for an explanation.
“You are too beautiful and too skilled to play at being a rich girl pretending to be a slave girl. It is like watching a swan pretending to be a duck pretending to be a swan. It is painful to watch, and disruptive to my class, and insulting to everyone present. You need to be in a different class.”
Confused, I asked him what section I belonged in.
“I teach a class for actual slave girls, at the same time, but on Tuesday, Thursdays, and Saturdays instead of Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays. We go through much of the same material, although at a much more advance level, in the way you might study mythology in both 5th grade and college but in a way appropriate for your abilities.”
“So I’m college level?” I said, pleased at the handsome slave trainer’s compliment.
“Perhaps. I’ll know for sure when you’re in the class, and I get to see more of you.”
The possibilities of the phrase “seeing more of me” gave me a little quiver. “I’ll be wearing my leotard during class, of course?” I said hopefully.
“No, you will be slave naked,” he said, as if the suggestion of my wearing clothes was utterly ridiculous. “Do not worry. I’ll give you a real but unregistered slave collar to wear, so you’ll fit in with the other girls.”
“Having a slave collar to wear was hardly my point,” I said dryly. “Will the class be held in the private room, at least? I mean… for decency’s sake?”
Again, his voice dripped contempt for my stupidity. “Slave girls have no decency. It will be held in front of the bleachers at the edge of the soccer field. The bleachers give any male guests who wish to watch an excellent and uninhibited view of the girl’s moves.”
“You want me to strip naked and spread my legs and squat and jump around in front of a bunch of horny men who think I’m a slave girl?” I said, scarcely believing what he was suggestion.
“The question isn’t what I want. What do you want, my little brown slave girl?”
He took his face slap well. He actually laughed as I stormed away.
I showed up the next day, and sat in the bleachers. Master Apollo said nothing, but smiled when he saw me.
The men around me were an assortment of beef cakes who had just finished their workouts and wanted to amuse themselves before their shower, and horny fat guys who looked like they couldn’t do a pushup to save their lives. Why buy a gym club membership and not use it?
The answer presented itself to me as a dozen naked slave girls appeared and exquisitely executed the block routines that I and the other women in my class had merely been toying with. The girls moved with precision, snapping into their next position like marines twirling their rifles. I was amazed, and flattered that Master Apollo thought I was that good, or could be that good, with the right training.
As with our class, Master Apollo used the crack of the whip to command the girls to assume the next position. However, unlike our class, he also used the whip to flick the bottoms of girls who were, in his estimation, not giving it their all. In truth, I thought all of the girl’s performances were exquisite. I briefly wondered if he wasn’t doing it simply to amuse the spectators, who laughed and applauded whenever one of the girls HOWLED as the whip flicked her little round slave girl bottom. Really, the whip barely barely touched them, and just gave them these adorable little red stripes, like a mischievous child had dragged a magic marker along their naughty bottoms. I laughed too, because it was quite funny. However, even as I laughed, I also clenched my bottom cheeks together, for reasons I’m still at a loss to explain.
Was Master Apollo whipping them for the fun of it? Well, it was great sport, but I dismissed the thought, as I knew Master Apollo was far too professional to whip a girl who didn’t truly deserve it. As a free woman, watching the men drool as they stared at the little sluts pleasuring themselves to slave-gasms, with their legs spread and pussies arched in the air, a big part of me would have liked to see all of them whipped.
By the time it was all over, the girls were sweating like the slut pigs they were, and the scent of the heard caused me wrinkle my nose. The showers were against the wall by the pool, and so I joined the men and watched the naked, panting bitches scamper over to the showers for a quick scrub down.
“Get your filthy slave holes clean, you disgusting sows!” Master Apollo said. “Your masters want you fuckable, and they don’t want you stinking up the trunk of their fancy new cars.” It was a hot day, and the showers looked cool and relaxing. For a moment, I found myself wishing I could join them, but remembering the leering men, dismissed the thought.
As I continued to watch, and listen to the men openly appraise their naked bodies, I felt an odd pang of jealous resentment. Why were the slave girls showering, when I could not? Also, why were all the men looking at them, and none at me? I was quite attractive in my short yellow summer dress. As it was a hot day, I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I had certainly gotten plenty of appreciative looks before the Pleasure Sluts arrived. But all the men were staring at the disgusting, horny sows in the showers, watching them soap up and rinse off, watching them scrub out the stink between their legs, while ignoring me entirely.
Most of the girls had their master’s waiting for them, but the few that were left were crowded together into a kennel. You can imagine what the little sluts did when they were all pressed together. Disgusting. The men watched and whistled. Master Apollo was right to whip them! I wish I could skin all of their fat little backsides.
I was surprised when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and heard my name. “Katherine?” a familiar voice said.
It took me a moment to place the face of Brad Butler, and old friend of the family. Our families had actually vacationed together, and I’d had a bit of a crush on him when I was a little girl, as he had been older, and a handsome young college student.
I told Brad it was wonderful to see him, and we hugged. He explained that he wasn’t sure that it was me, as my skin had turned so dark.
“You look… African,” he explained.
“You look fat and old,” I snapped back. In truth, he wasn’t fat, but a bit gray, but that only made him look sexier. “I’m sorry…but I’m NOT African,” I explained.
Recovering, we chatted a bit about our families. He explained that he always came on Tuesdays, and rather pointedly asked me what I was doing, watching the slave girl’s shower.
Desperately searching for an explanation, I stammered that I’d had something in my shoe, so sat on the bench, and then the slave girls came out, and I didn’t want to leave as I felt that might seem impolite. I had followed them to the showers because I was looking for the restroom, because the sun was in my eyes at the bleachers, but I really had to go. Brad seemed a bit confused by my explanation, so I hastily bid him adieu.
I felt quite frustrated by the whole experience, so Bull and Noodle got quite the paddling when I got home. Men! Do you think I should geld them both, and pay whatever fine there is? I wasn’t angry at them, but I’m not African, and I really didn’t appreciate the way the men at the club kept their eyes glued to the Pleasure Sluts!
Speaking of race, I looked up your friend, and sent him a picture of myself, asking how I might modify the “slave girl” in the photo to make her look a bit “darker”. The image he sent back was quite shocking, and included and explanation of the procedure he would use to widen the nostrils and flatten the nose, the contacts he’d used to turn the girl’s eyes from blue to black, and the procedure to turn her straight hair into a kinky afro. In the photo, my hair was quite short (“short and nappy - better for field work”, he explained) and my ears seemed to stick out from my head. He also made my breasts much bigger, “for more milk.”
The most shocking feature was the girl’s large, plump lips, which seemed almost cartoonish. I wrote back and asked him if he could try again, as he had clearly “overdone it”, and that I had sent him a phot of “a woman of breeding”, he responded that he knew his business, and what sold on the marketplace.
“She’ll be a breeder all right, with those nice wide hips. They’ll mate her with a group of big black studs, one after the other, and get the best of both worlds, popping a little slave girl out of her belly every 9 months. Barefoot and pregnant, that’s how we keep wenches like this one.”
Needless to say, I was horrified at the misunderstanding, and our correspondence ended.
Pablo doesn’t say much about his ‘business” online, and his website is just a shell. Curious, I scoured the earth and found an old catalogue from Pablo’s for sale on e-bay. At first, I didn’t see blacks at all, until I found a section labeled “Plantation Monkeys”. Apparently, there are a number of islands in the Caribbean and off the coast of South America that have been setup as old-time slave plantation, where rich, white racists can relive the good old days. They seemed like odious places, where the blacks are treated quite badly, so I was shocked to discover a photo of you on Charleston Island, at a reception for the Governor. I know as your firm deals with slave traders; you are doubtlessly forced to socialize with all sorts. But I was shocked that you would go to such a terrible place.
I had thought that the “breeding” sessions your friend referred to were part of some old trashy novel, but discovered that they do in fact put bags over the slave’s heads and then have three or four black studs “seed” the girl, one after another, with the white folks watching and laughing. I couldn’t stop thinking about what that must be like, to lay in straw with a bag over your head, listening to well-dressed people laugh at you while some big black man impregnated you like you were a sow or a horse.
Have you really been to these places? What are they really like?
Truth be told, I used to dress up like Scarlett O’Hare when I was a little girl, and pretend that I lived on a plantation. I confess I am quite curious, and would like to see the place, if I didn’t morally disapprove of the very concept.
If the skin changer works the way you are suggesting, I’m thinking it’s really too much. Please tell Hanna that my thought was to go to Pablo’s as a state auditor, with credentials from the Texas Department of Agriculture that Judge Younger could help us secure. If I could see their accounting records, I could easily compare the sales prices we were given to the actual block price. A temporary slave id might be a good way of tracking and retrieving any girl that’s sold, as we could claim to be trying to rectify a flaw in title. I have a lot of cute little farm girls flowing through my court, so if Hanna tells me how I might arrange this, I can see what I can do.
Which brings us to the subject of whether slave girls are born, or made. As you can see from this letter, I am, in preparation of my daring undercover assignment, going naked most of the day, like a real slave girl. I am practicing my Slave Yoga, both at home and at the club, constantly.
Am I a slave girl? Certainly not! I am federal judge, about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, bringing criminals to justice. The publicity such a story could bring me could get me out of bankruptcy court, and onto an appellate court. Or perhaps, dare I say, even farther?
I hope you don’t think I’m too ambitious, but the possibilities leave me breathless. As for “Doctor” Lacey, while there is nothing wrong with a respected professional woman playing slave girl, it’s clear to me from your description that she was a slave girl from the start. Even if the injections work, why did she continue to exhibit slave heat after the injections stopped, in front of the lawyer who could save her?
To put it another way, can you imagine me kneeling in front of you, slave naked, rubbing myself and begging to give you a slave kiss, knowing that such behavior would earn me a lifetime of servitude. As exciting as such a fantasy might be for the both of us, can you imagine me actually humbling myself that way?
I think we agree that it was inherent to her character. Our minor disagreement is over whether she was ever REALLY a respected professional woman to begin with. At a distance, one might think a wolf or a coyote are a dog. But mistaking something for what it is not does not make it that thing. Mistaking “Doctor” Lacy for a free woman does not make her so, which is why women’s professional degrees are summarily removed when they are enslaved, to correct the error.
The fact that no gentleman attempted to save her is proof of Dr. Lacy’s inherent slave girl nature. If my friend Brad saw me “performing” in the class, with Master Apollo cracking my defenseless bottom with the whip, doubtlessly he would be alarmed, and stop the proceedings, and offer me his coat. Or would he even recognize me, in such reduced circumstances? A fascinating question, but impossible to know.
If you saw me squatting and rolling and preening on the block, you would stop the auction, not smile and join the bidders!
I actually got a stamp in the form of Pablo’s logo, and placed it on the inside of my bottom cheek. It did not look like a brand, as it did not have a raised ridge or scar. Nor did it feel like a brand, or “change” me, or “reveal” me, as your letter suggested. Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing to see here, I’m afraid.
But much to see, still. In response to your rather rude insinuation that my status as one of the “hottest power players” might have been purchased, I submit the “photographic evidence” you asked for. I feel comfortable sending you these photos, as I know you judge female beauty for a living, although as a free woman I am in entirely different class than a slave girl, whatever the idiots in the bleachers may think.
As for Judge Younger, I’d very much like to see him in court, as it would be my pleasure to teach him the basics of the law. He is a disgrace to the legal profession, and although he might be a useful idiot to us now, when this is over, I’d very much like to get him into MY court, so I could put the gelding sheers to good use, and “retire” him from his favorite pastime whether he liked it or not.
I am sorry for the length of this letter. Your amusing comments do inspire me so!
Thank you once again for your help. It’s a pleasure to have you working for me.
Katherine
PS: I was actually “stamped” when these photos were taken, but alas, no whip marks, ha-ha. I ask you, does that look like a slave girl’s bottom?
