The Seasoning House: Part 4

[Danicali299]

If you've read anything I've written before you know the drill. My slavery universe is dark, and you've been warned.

If you would like to enjoy part 3: viewtopic.php?t=1156

As usual, I would like to thank Zee, Mr. Smith, EroticStorySpinner, and Avvy for all the input and editing that you guys give me while I write these things. Also an even bigger Thank you to Carl Bradford for letting me use him in a story. He deserves something for having to see my terrible grammar before you guys get the finished product.



The Seasoning House Part 4


Over the next couple weeks after that first assessment, my initial expectations of what it would be like to be a sex slave collided with the reality of what the next five years of my life would be. It was like the orgasms I had gotten that first week were just a tease in the back of my mind as I spent my month there training to be the "perfect" sex slave, and Mistress Khatri's constant denial of those orgasms I could get close to added insult to injury.

I understood that we were supposed to get used to the fact that what we were doing was considered actual work instead of a fun time for our own enjoyment, but I felt that we could've gotten better treatment to make our training a little easier. Just giving us better food than a public school lunch would've made a world of difference in our days. I would've even appreciated some coffee in the morning. It didn't have to be the Starbucks I was used to, but to my untrained eye, even the cheap Folgers instant coffee my parents bought our slave every week would've been an improvement.

Aside from that, it wasn't even an issue of desensitization when I thought about it. It was an issue stemming from the exhausting training routine Mistress Khatri put us through. She expected us to retain a relatively large amount of knowledge. At the same time, we were exhausted from the physical aspects of our training, and that didn't leave us too much mental energy to make ourselves feel good as often as we'd liked. Ultimately, she was getting us pre-conditioned to the fact that we would be expected to keep performing and making customers happy even when we were tired and not in the mood.

Luckily, I could still get an orgasm in here and there every day, so all was not lost. After the initial shock to my system that first week though, I had to work for those orgasms. I realized very quickly that I needed to focus on my technique and keeping Mistress Khatri happy more than I needed to focus on my personal needs and desires in those moments. It was that first realization that made me see the truth of what my life had turned into.

I was a sex slave, not an ordinary woman. I was hoping that in time, I would get used to it, find my workarounds, and learn to enjoy my work as best I could. While I was in that seasoning house, however, I was an object of pleasure first and a woman with her own needs second. My job was to make my trainer and the customers in the training brothel happy and act like I was their personal porn star. On those occasions when the customer got me off, it was simply a happy accident, according to Mistress Khatri.

What I didn't expect, however, was how used to the messiness of our daily training I got. Like the others, I wound up just using my ponytail as a towel in a pinch when Mistress Khatri got a little too liberal with the fake cum she squirted on our faces. All I had to do was wait till she was busy with another girl and wipe my face in the seconds she wasn't paying attention to me slacking off for a moment.

Like the others, I also got used to the constant presence of dried fluids running down the inside of my legs from the near-constant state of arousal we were kept in and the fake cum they loved to fill us with and squirt on our bodies. I couldn't complain about it too much in the end since all that dried filth did help us get used to how messy our jobs would be. By the time of my final assessment, I didn't even notice customers cumming in my mouth or on my face. It was just a reflex to swallow what went in my mouth and ignore whatever was stuck on my face as I thanked the customer for their time and asked them if there was anything else I could do for them before retreating to the dressing room to get cleaned up for the next one.

At the same time, training under Mistress Khatri was different, to say the least. The other trainers seemed to give their slaves much more leeway and "freedom" while their routines were much less intense. Mistress Khatri, for example, forbade us from speaking without permission. In contrast, the slaves in neighboring rooms could be heard encouraging each other and having a tiny amount of fun amongst the shittiness at that place. She was always annoyed at how lax the others were and would make known her opinion of how weak they were to her captive audience. She took her job too seriously, almost like she was working in a high-end courtesan academy instead of a cheap Mercer seasoning house.

Mistress Khatri saw herself as a drill instructor for slaves and always seemed to believe she was doing us a favor by treating us worse than the customers would. As my month went on, she broke us down and put us through all that stress and exhaustion so that she could mould us into the predator she was when she was a sex slave. I could respect "high standards," and a few episodes of perfectionism since that described my entire life under the thumb of my tiger mom until I graduated high school, but Mistress Khatri had an annoying habit of taking things too far sometimes.

We expected the light shocks from the collars we wore in some training rooms. We even expected to get zapped while exercising during the PT designed to keep us in shape while we were there. What we didn't expect was a fucking cattle prod being slid inside of us as some sort of motivation when she was in a nasty mood on those particular days. It wasn't even our fault 90% of the time, but being slaves, we were convenient targets for her when she wanted to be a sadist to make herself feel better about her shitty life.

We all knew she wasn't foolish enough to damage the "property" she was responsible for, but we didn't care about that reality in those moments. I knew what that thing felt like on the outside of my body, and I shuddered every time she slid it inside of me and felt those cold metal prongs touch my most sensitive flesh. She never activated the prod, but in those moments, it made us putty in her hands and turned us into highly motivated slaves willing to do anything for her to keep her happy.

In my case, this usually happened when we were spending time practicing eating ass. I found it disgusting and gagged at the thought of eating another person's asshole the whole time I was down there. I would've eaten pussy if it meant I didn't have to put my tongue around another slave's sweaty taint. Once I felt that thing slide inside of me, however, that slave's ass was Christmas dinner, and I was a starving orphan from one of those sad documentaries they used to guilt my dad into giving money to Africa or wherever the third world country of the month was that we were supposed to care about.

The worst part of it all wasn't even the fact that it made me feel gross to do those things. It was the fact that after the first few times, I liked it in some fucked up way. The constant orgasm denial we were subjected to as part of Mistress Khatri's little games seemed to make me want to do anything to scratch that itch and cum from something, even if it was eating ass or some weird bondage shit we had to learn to do safely without accidentally hurting ourselves or the customer. There was even a training session where I came from the chain of those sharp metal nipple clamps being pulled until I was on the tips of my toes and almost in tears while I begged Mistress Khatri to let me down.
She obviously didn't since she was a fucking sociopath, and I was her model that day, but I was still on edge from the previous training period, and it showed as that woman teased me the whole time she used me for her demonstrations. All it took was her giving my clitty a hard smack while I was struggling to keep my balance to send me over the edge in front of the whole class, and her demonstration of a simple BDSM technique transformed into a new way for her to humiliate me in front of everyone.

After I accidentally interrupted her lesson, she forced me to kneel at her feet.

Gazing down on me with disgust she snarled, "Your little orgasm ruined my lesson, slave. Do you have anything you would like to say?"

I wanted to tell the sadistic bitch to go fuck herself, but in the interest of keeping my stomach somewhat full and my back free of any more cane marks, all I could do was kiss her boots and tearfully beg for forgiveness while giving her the fearful show of submission she desired from me. It was still humiliating, but by then, I only had a week to go and would be free of her cruel games. At least, I thought it was a week, considering our secret little marks on the wall weren't always the most accurate calendar to go by when our brains were clouded by sex and exhaustion.

It wasn't all bad by that point, though. I was able to do well on my subsequent assessments and enjoy my shitty pizza when we got back almost every time. I was even improving at taking advantage of those disappointing customers in the training brothel. Half of what I was doing was still an act designed to make insecure men feel like studs at the expense of my dignity, but there was more wiggle room working the floor than I had in the seasoning house.

In the classroom, I had to work for every orgasm. On the floor, I could masturbate while giving a lap dance, and these horny losers would ask for a taste. The same principle even applied to blowjobs and regular sex. All I had to do was ask, and 90% of the time, it just turned these guys on more when they heard me cum before them. It didn't even matter that they weren't the ones making me cum; they just took it as a challenge to go deeper and harder in some weird effort to win a race with my hand.

Mistress Khatri always seemed annoyed when we did that with our customers since to her, it seemed like we were making the customers’ needs secondary to our own when we did that. The reality was that climaxing around these pathetic losers’s cocks only stroked their egos, making them believe they had suddenly become God’s gift to women even though we were the ones doing most of the work anyway while these guys struggled to last more than a few minutes inside of me. It wasn’t even pathetic, just funny as I felt that warm latex inside of me for less time than the song playing over the brothel’s sound system most of the time.

Luckily for us, she couldn't do shit as long as our review scores were above a certain point, and she knew it. I didn't even see the problem she had with us taking care of ourselves. The customers had their fun, we got off, and if this were the brothel that owned us, we would be getting a nice tip out of it. Everyone was happy except for her, and we couldn't understand why she had this idea that we weren't allowed to take care of ourselves, too, if we had the chance to. All she could say in the end was that our behavior wasn't "professional", whatever that meant.

At the same time, I was finally getting accepted by the some of the other slaves and being invited to the communal activities in the dorm after we got cleaned up from our training. At first, they were still apprehensive about letting the spoiled scab into their group. Still, after a few days, I was able to prove that having a conversation with me wasn't going to be completely insufferable. I still annoyed the others with my ignorance of what it was like to grow up as a slave or in poverty like the others, though.

They would explain slavery-related concepts to me like I was a child and act like my life was pillow soft from the day I was born. That was until I got to tell them what it was like growing up under the thumb of a tiger mom and a dad who cared more about the Family's image than how his daughter felt about anything.

They didn't understand the price I paid for "getting whatever I wanted growing up," as Amanda put it. I wanted a shiny, white Mercedes for my sweet sixteen. I got it with a big red bow on top of it. I wanted the best clothes and makeup, and I got it. I even had my entire college education paid for by my Family. I was raised with a "silver spoon" in my mouth, and unbeknownst to those outside of my Family, that luxury was just a nice cover for a family just as fucked up as the ones that the slaves around me came from.

That luxury hid the fact that they had been burning me out with their high standards since middle school. That luxury hid the fact that I wasn't allowed to have friends unless my mother vetted them and scheduled my time to hang out with them weeks in advance, like my social life was just another extracurricular activity to deal with. That luxury even covered up the fact that I had almost the same amount of freedom as our Family's slave until I graduated high school. They dressed it up as "ensuring my success" and "giving me the future I deserved," but I knew the truth that nobody else could see. I wasn't just a daughter; I was a decoration designed to make my Family look good.

My clothes were picked out for me until I was in high school, and even then, they had to be approved by my mother in case they made her look irresponsible. Every class I took, sport I played, and club I participated in was chosen for me with my mother and father’s need to network in mind, and by the time I was done with all my activities and studying every day, it was time for bed. I didn't even get to pick my major in college when I thought I would have my first taste of freedom and choice in my life. But it didn’t work out that way. It was still their money paying for it, so I didn't have a say in that either as I was forced to add another fucking lawyer to the family.

At the same time, they said they always loved me and were proud of me while they made my successes their own and took the credit for it all. I felt like nothing more than a trophy for my parents to show off to their friends in those moments. My opinions were not heard, my choices were never considered, and my entire image until I left for college seemed to be this artificial construct designed to make our Family look as good as possible so my dad could keep running for whatever office he decided on that election cycle.

I hated the control, but after a while, I just accepted it without much issue since there was very little I could do about it all. My very few attempts at rebellion weren't even effective. They only got me punished with the same cane they used on our slaves since there wasn't anything they could ground me from without affecting the image of the perfect Family they were projecting. It wasn't a slave-level beating, but the well-placed welts got the point across and usually kept me obedient and pacified for a while after the initial outburst of hatred and sadness following the incident.

Despite all of this, though, I still loved them. Even as they let me rot in jail and negotiated the terms of my indenture behind my back, I still loved them through my anger at their refusal to bail me out and leave me at the mercy of all those women who treated me like shit in there. It hurt, and I regretted all the missed opportunities to do what the other kids around me got to do growing up, but I still had to love them and respect them as I told these women about my life and cried whenever I thought about my Family at night when I couldn't sleep. I missed them and couldn't wait for those five years to be over.

Other than the basic conversations about our lives, most activities in the dorm were relatively tame. There was an unspoken agreement that there was to be no sex in the dorm, and all our activities would be what was somewhat appropriate behavior. There were little moments here and there between the girls, and often me and Amanda, but for the most part, we kept the dirty shit in the classroom or the corner of the shower room when the girls were done using it for the night. Instead, we mostly did our nails with our meager supplies, played with each other's hair, and did whatever we could to make the girl we were paired up with feel slightly better in that shitty place. One of the girls even "bribed" an overseer into bringing us a couple of boxes of playing cards that we thoroughly enjoyed until Mistress Khatri got her panties in a bunch and took them away. In the end, it was mostly the little things like someone holding you after a day that kept us going as we counted the days until we could get out of there.

There were even some nice things we did while training that broke up the monotony of day after day simulating 20 men fucking me in every orifice my body possessed. Most of our classroom lessons were based on studying the various fetishes out there, leading to us watching some very "entertaining" adult films every few days while our asses recovered from the pounding they had received less than an hour before. Usually, watching porn would be more gross than entertaining, but in a place that wouldn't let us have playing cards, a movie was a movie. More specifically, a movie day meant that we got to spend almost all of our classroom time without the possibility of Mistress Khatri using you as a model for some weird fetish or making you eat ass.

The funniest was watching the hilarity that was hentai and the acts from that we had to learn to make the weeaboos happy. The faces were ridiculous, the noises had us cracking up to the chagrin of Mistress Khatri, and the fact that grown men jerked off to this made it even funnier to watch. I didn't even care that she was being racist by making me demonstrate those stupid orgasm faces that those weebs loved so much; it just added to the hilarity of it all.

My favorite activity, however, was the erotic massage lessons we enjoyed twice a week. They brought in a special massage therapist to show us how to safely work our customer's muscles as part of the sexual experience, and everyone loved it. Mistress Khatri always made herself the model the guy used to demonstrate the techniques for us, and since it made her slightly less bitchy for the rest of the day, we welcomed this guy's strong hands attempting to rub all the evil out of that woman for a little while.

My massage class study partner was almost always Amanda, and we quickly got used to each other's "needs" when working with each other. This meant that for that 30 minutes, I was in heaven as all the fatigue and soreness just melted away while her hands worked my tired muscles until she made her way to my pussy and had me rolling my eyes back in ecstasy for the obligatory ”happy ending”. It was like she had magic fingers that made me not even mind how brief that moment of pleasure was until they were in my mouth, and I cleaned my juices off her hand.

On the other hand, I did not have that particular gift and struggled to get my partner to the level of pleasure she expected from me most of the time. I tried to replicate what she did, but according to her, I didn't have "good hands" yet. In her case, this had less to do with being a whore, and more to do with having to take care of men doing backbreaking labor every day once their broken bodies returned to the mining camp. It was just expected that the girls there cared for the men and ensured they could come "home" to a hot meal and a nice shoulder rub as soon as they got out of the shower. I couldn't imagine how bad their pain was, but if a back or shoulder rub from her could make me melt before she even got to the fun part, I figured a bunch of coal miners would be happy with her work as well when they got back home at the end of their shift.

Luckily Amanda was never mad at me for these shortcomings, but on our class's massage days, that disappointment usually meant that I had to make it up to her when we got back to the dorm. Sometimes it was half of my chicken patty. Sometimes it was bathing her like I was her slave as she stood there feeling like a queen in that shitty shower stall. For some reason, she liked that one the most, and since she made me feel so good, I didn't even mind the looks the other slaves gave us.

Sometimes it was even one of those gross foot massages where I had to suck on her toes while I rubbed her feet until she somehow got her pleasure from that instead. She was never abusive about it like Mistress Khatri or the others, but I always felt obligated to reciprocate in some way, shape, or form. It was just how slave culture worked, and it became another rule to add to the million-item list of faux pas that I had to remember if I wanted these women to look out for me while I was there.

Ultimately, I took my quest for self-pleasure a little too far. I had given in to my temptation while running some empty drinks back to the dish room at the brothel, and there it was. A single shot of liquor was right there on the tray among all the empties, and as I looked around, I could see that no cameras were pointing to where I was standing in the dish room.

I stared at it and thought, "One drink won't kill me. I've earned that shot a million times since I got here by taking everything these people put inside of me."

Then I looked behind me and thought, "Then again, if Mistress Khatri catches me, I'm fucked. And not in a fun way."

To this day, I still have no idea why I did this, but my cravings took over, and as my hands were shaking, I grabbed that shot and downed the vodka inside as fast as I could. Briefly savoring the burning taste, luxuriating in the first alcohol I had consumed in months. There was no camera in there, but I had to be careful to avoid Mistress Khatri or any of the others smelling it on my breath as I returned to the dressing room to get some mouthwash to cover it up. Then as soon as I took a swig of mouthwash, I felt a presence behind me and turned around. It was Mistress Khatri, and I was sure that I was fucked.

Then she just stared at me and quipped, "Nobody likes a waitress with blowjob breath. Next time use your mouthwash and then start working tables."

The whole time she was lecturing me, I tried to hold it together and not give away that I had done something wrong. Luckily, I fooled her and was left alone a moment later.

After that, I spent the rest of that assessment session paranoid that Mistress Khatri would drag me away any moment and punish me for taking that shot. Even worse, I wanted more, and as I ran more and more drinks back to the dish room there was no more alcohol to scavenge from those trays unless I wanted to lick the inside of shot glasses and give myself away like an idiot. I wasn’t shaking like I was my first few days in jail, but my mind was screaming at me to get anything inside me that would make me feel as good as I did when I “treated myself” to that vodka. It was hell, and all I could do was keep telling myself I was a moron for doing that the rest of the shift.

Then, to my surprise, my assessment was over, and not a word was said to me about it as we were driven back to the seasoning house. We were all given our usual reward for getting good reviews, and to my surprise Mistress Khatri left us alone without issue. It was an unnecessary risk, but at that moment, I realized that I could get away with treating myself a little if the opportunity presented itself. At least, I thought that was the truth.

Mistress Khatri had seen me eyeing all the booze around me and connected the dots. This led her to put shots on random trays for the following assessment too, and like an idiot I took all three over the course of that 12 hour shift. The desire for more distracted me from my customers, and I was too deep in my desire for more to realize that every drink I stole was just Mistress Khatri giving me more rope to hang myself with.
I ultimately failed my assessment that week, and I realized something was wrong as soon as another trainer separated me from the group. He then zip-tied my hands behind my back when he picked me out of the group and wouldn't even respond when I asked for permission to speak.

Then when I spoke out of turn to ask where I was being taken, all I got was a firm, “Shut up and keep moving, slave”. Something had to be wrong.

This feeling was confirmed when I was led to a small room only containing a large Sybian featuring a thick dildo attached to it and a single folding chair in front of it. I remembered witnessing what that poor girl looked like on my first day there and realized then that I would be fucked in a way I had never felt before.

The trainer supervising me said gruffly, "Mount it and hold still."

It was on a raised platform, so mounting it without the aid of my hands was an awkward process as I struggled to balance myself while lowering myself onto the unlubricated device. Then as I felt the dildo that was supposed to be inside me enter my pussy, all I could do was wince in pain and breathed heavily as the shaft stretched me while I attempted to work my way down to the cold metal of the machine.

I still hadn't fully mounted it comfortably, but the trainer didn't care as he pressed me down the rest of the way and strapped me into position so I couldn't escape what was about to happen to me. I could feel the tip almost touching my cervix, and I was shaking from the pain of being forced to quickly mount dry silicone as Mistress Khatri walked in and laughed at the sight of me struggling with the dildo inside me.

Then she started stroking my hair and stated in a sickeningly sweet voice, "If you admit that you took those drinks, I'll be nice and only leave you there for a little while to think about what you've done. I will make you a very sad girl if you lie to me. Are we understood?"

I nodded in agreement, and as I placed my gaze back on the floor, I still thought that the dish room had no cameras and that I could lie my way out of this. I was going to get out of this, and I was going to use all those mock trials I had to do in law school to convince this woman that she was wrong so I could eat my cold pizza and get some sleep. I had this.

Mistress Khatri asked in a fake, empathetic voice reminiscent of one of my professors, "Now tell me the truth, slave. Did you take any drinks off of those trays you were bringing back tonight? This is your last chance to avoid ending up like that girl you saw that day."

Still confident in that room's lack of cameras, I responded, "I didn't steal anything, mistress, I promise. You can check the cameras if you want, and you'll see that I just put the glasses in the sink like I was supposed to and went back to work."

She looked at me quizzically and pulled out her phone, saying, "You know what, slave? That is a great idea. Let me log in to the bar's surveillance app and see what you did there before I accuse little miss law school of doing something wrong."

As soon as I heard that, I realized that she knew something that I didn't, and I had just fucked up big time. Then she put her phone in my face, and I found out that there was a camera in that room that saw me take those shots. It was hidden in a smoke detector, and I was in big trouble.

As I watched the highlight reel of me taking shots the last few assessments, she sneered, "If your alcoholic ass told me the truth, I would've understood and only left you here for an hour or two and called it a day. Now because you lied to me, I'm gonna leave you there all night begging for mercy that you won't get."

Once the realization hit me, all I could do was start crying and begging for her to do anything else. I offered to spend every day for the rest of my time there, being her personal sex slave. I begged her to beat and starve me instead. I begged her to do anything but put me through what I saw that girl experience as I stared at her limp body through that window.

Ultimately, all that begging was pointless as Mistress Khatri turned on the machine and kissed me on the cheek before snickering, "Goodnight, slave. Hopefully, you remember this night whenever you think about stealing a drink from the brothel that sent you here."
As she walked out of the room, she flipped the light switch, and the room went dark except for the dim light from the hallway that didn't make it too far past the door. In the darkness, I could feel the vibrations coursing through my body, and even though this was a punishment, I tried to enjoy the beginning of this punishment as much as possible. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes to bring me to my first orgasm, and as the successive explosions of pleasure took over my body, all I could do was spasm over and over again as my juices soaked the machine. Then things got shitty fast.

At first, it was just the interval between orgasms getting longer by a few minutes, but then my successive waves of pleasure gave way to pain from all the overstimulation every time I came. Then the headache that I was getting from it all turned into a migraine that made every "orgasm" pure torture that I couldn't make stop. In the end, my only relief from it all was the machine cycling to a much lower setting for a few hours at a time that left me a limp, crying mess begging the dark and empty room for mercy as the closest thing to rest I could achieve was my exhausted brain ignoring the low vibrations keeping me constantly aroused. This "mercy" that Mistress Khatri programmed into the cycle would only last for so long until the machine returned to high power and pulled me out of my haze with more painful orgasms and more headaches that made it impossible to even sleep during the lulls.

Mistress Khatri was impressed with how well her punishment kicked my ass when she found me the following day. My body was covered in sweat. During some of the worst orgasms, I had lost control of my bladder and peed all over the Sybian, and I was too dehydrated and hungry for my brain to function after all that. Combined with an all-night migraine and sex haze fucking with my vision, I could barely even see that smug look on her face as she just stood there eating her Cliff Bar watching the final stages of the cycle she programmed before she left the night before.

As the machine was extracting its final, painful orgasms out of my exhausted body, all I could do was go limp and rest my head on my shoulder to the best of my ability.

As this was happening, Mistress Khatri stroked my sweat-soaked hair while asking in that same “sweet” voice from the night before, "Did you learn your lesson, slave? Are you going to lie to me like that again?"

I was exhausted, but the "yes, Mistress" and "no, Mistress" were nearly automatic as I answered her questions through what little tears I could still make.
Then a minute or two later, the machine finally stopped, and I hoped the worst part was over. My head was killing me, my pussy felt like it was on fire from all the stimulation, and all I wanted to do was get off that thing and shower so the mess I had made of myself wouldn't be seen by the others.

Before she unhooked me from the Sybian, however, she took a moment to work some lube around the bottom of the small bulge that the dildo made with her gloved finger. I was too mentally gone to understand what she was mumbling to herself as she squirted some inside of me, but once the straps came loose, I immediately understood what she was doing.

The lube felt surprisingly good as she helped me lift my body off the machine, and I felt my feet hit the cold concrete floor. My legs were shaky, and I struggled to stand up straight as Mistress Khatri looked me up and down. Then, for some unknown reason, she had me kneel in front of her as she sat in the cheap folding chair.

I was still in a daze but wasn't out of it enough to mishear her as she commanded, "Alright, slave, time to make all this up to me. You know what to do."

I figured that burning out my pussy and my brain was a fair price, but as usual, I was wrong and had a job to do. In all reality, it was automatic, and I didn't even notice that I was eating her out that time and gave her an orgasm without realizing it. It was like I was a sex zombie, for lack of a better way to say it.

Once Mistress Khatri was satisfied, she pulled my head back by my rough ponytail, placed a set of pills in my mouth, and forced me to swallow them while saying, "This earned you some pills and a day to recover. Now swallow your medicine like a good little whore and follow me back to your bed before I change my mind."

As the pills kicked in, I didn't know what was happening for the most part. All I could remember was Mistress Khatri locking that worn-out cable around my ankle, leaving me to enjoy my painkiller-induced sleep.

As I drifted off into a well-deserved slumber, a question was nagging me in the back of my head. Slaves didn't get the good painkillers that Mistress Khatri gave me, and slaves didn't get days off after a punishment. Did she fuck something up when she punished me? Were those pills and the time to sleep an unspoken bribe meant to keep my mouth shut and cover up something she did wrong? I didn't know, but my short time as a slave taught me never to look a gift horse in the mouth and take what good I was given without too many questions. It was simpler that way.

After the previous night’s punishment, all I could do was rest and recover from what felt like a hammer hitting my head multiple times. Luckily it was quiet in the dorm until the girls got back, and once they saw how I looked, Amanda took care of me. She knew how to treat an awful migraine from when she was a child in the mining camp and took the opportunity to teach the other girls her method as well.

I didn’t even realize that I had an audience. It hurt to open my eyes and through my haze all I could feel was Amanda putting my head in her lap as she sat cross-legged behind me.

Then she softly whispered to me, “Mei, this is gonna hurt a little bit at first. Once I get into the rhythm of it though, It’s gonna make you feel a lot better and help you sleep the rest of it off.”
At first, it felt like I was Mistress Khatri's model while Amanda was softly explaining to the interested slaves what to do, but after a minute, I realized that it was different. She was massaging these seemingly random spots around my head and neck, and to my surprise, it was helping as I could feel a good amount of the pain and pressure in my head melt away. That woman had magic hands, and I couldn't thank her enough as she forced me to eat what little of my dinner I could handle before it was time to pass out again.

The next morning brought me two pleasant surprises that made my day as soon as I opened my eyes. The first one was the absence of the migraine that had tortured me the day before. Amanda's hands were apparently even more magical than I thought, and even she was surprised with the results once I told her. The second surprise was more sad and pathetic to look at than happy in retrospect. It was a naked Mistress Khatri locked into a sleeping stall, just like the rest of us.

At first, she was too busy crying and trying to hide under her blanket after we were all unlocked to notice Amanda and me staring at her under the divider between our stalls. Once she peeked her head out and caught us, however, we got to see how rough she was then.
Her shiny black hair, which was usually in a tight bun, was turned into a messy mass of thick hair that was in desperate need of a brush. Her face looked like her makeup came off against her will, and the darkened skin on her body bore the signs of slave-grade defoliant being used on her to clear the hair off her usually well-groomed body. This woman went through some slave processing after she dropped the girls off at the dorm, and we still had no idea why she was there.

As Amanda and I were gawking at our trainer's condition, "Mistress" Khatri gave me a death stare through her tears and snapped, "Stop looking at me like that slave. I'm not one of you, and I’ll never be like one of you ever again."

Amanda heard how Khatri was talking to me and declared, "Well 'Mistress,' It looks like you are one of us at the moment. So, I would appreciate it if you talked to your fellow slave with a little respect before you end up like Mei did when she got all snippy with us."

Amanda cleared her throat and continued, "Now that we have that out of the way, you need to answer this question honestly. Why are you here?"

Khatri looked at us with apprehension in her eyes and admitted in a shaky voice, "Our new boss doesn't like my methods. I was given a choice to spend a month as one of the slaves or get fired. I need this job, and I have too many bills to spend time unemployed. I'm sorry; I just want to be left alone and get this over with."

She was too late, and already had an audience as the others announced her presence in the dorm as a slave.

By this point, the kitchen slaves had finally brought us breakfast, and our morning entertainment was watching this woman cry while eating slave food for the first time in almost 15 years while getting berated and made fun of by a dozen slaves surrounding her. It wasn't even entertaining, to be honest, just pathetic as we watched a grown woman break down into a crying mess that could only retreat back to her sleeping stall like a coward.

At the same time, though, I had to secretly empathize with her. I was that free woman reduced to slavery to avoid a shittier situation. I knew what she was feeling, and I knew that all the slaves around me from the moment I arrived at that Mercer warehouse took joy in seeing their "betters" brought down to their level as some fucked up form of revenge for a system that we didn’t create.

It honestly sucked, and as much as she deserved the hatred she got from the girls for how she treated us, she deserved better treatment than what we were giving her at that moment. She had earned some hazing, though, and the girls made sure of that before any stray overseers or trainers ended their fun.

Luckily for Khatri, she was literally saved by the bell. In this case, it was the bell that signaled that we needed to get lined up for morning inspection by our trainer. For us, it was automatic to take our place, but for Khatri, it took two slaves dragging her out of her stall as she resisted the whole way over to her place in line. It was like she was asking to be punished on her first day.

Then as our new trainer, Master Bradford, entered and began appraising his new class, this idiot had to mess it up again. She had the bright idea while being in the role of a slave, to try and greet Master Bradford like they were still coworkers.

He wasn't as cruel as Mistress Khatri would've been, but he was firm in bringing Khatri to her knees and pushing her gaze to the floor while saying, "You will not speak out of turn, and you will address me as Master Bradford. Is this understood, slave?"

I could tell that Khatri wanted to say something, but she finally seemed to get that this was real. All she could really do was give her "Master” a fearful nod and apologize before he let go of her head and allowed her to get back on her feet. Before she could do that, however, she had to pay the price every new girl paid for not knowing their place.

Returning his hand to Khatri’s head, Master Bradford unzipped his pants and guided his cock into her mouth. I could see the panic in her eyes as this was happening, and seeing the woman who used me like a human vibrator react like that satisfied me for some dark reason. Even if I felt bad for her an hour before that moment, this was perfect revenge for all those days she pressed my head into the dildo until I almost puked.

Khatri could not move her head, nor could she do more than just stay there on her knees, taking the dick in her mouth as Master Bradford rhythmically face fucked her in front of the rest of us like she was a common whore.

Master Bradford sneered, “Look up at me slave. Convince me there is nowhere else you’d rather be right now than servicing me.” He then pulled out his cock and slapped her in the face with it a few times, coating her face with saliva as we giggled watching our hated Mistress humbled and in a state of complete shock in front of us.

He taunted her in front of the rest of us, “I heard you begged to be a slave for a month to keep your job. How pathetic. You can quit any time, and go back to working for minimum wage at that gas station you were at before you came here. Now I want to hear you beg. Tell me how much you want me to fill your mouth, slave. Show me how much you need this job, so you’re willing to pretend to be a sex slave to keep it, all in front of the other slaves you tormented.”

Looking up at him she groveled while stroking his cock in her hand, “Please, I want your cock sir. I want you to fill my mouth will cum.”

He must have been in a hurry,and buried his cock down her throat while she continued massaging his balls with her hand. She was barely able to handle it, but luckily for her she held her ground as we could see and hear every impact on the back of her throat. This man had no mercy with his former colleague, and she could tell that he did not like her one bit.

With a hint of aloofness he ordered, “I’m about to blow my wad in your mouth. I want you to hold it in your mouth and then show your fellow slaves my gift to you by displaying my cum on your tongue until I tell you to swallow.”

Master Bradford grunted and unloaded in the new slave’s mouth, pulling out to shoot a strand of cum into her left eye and down her cheek before sticking it back in her mouth. When he was done the slave displayed his slimy gift on her tongue as he introduced himself to us and laid out his expectations for us. The whole time Khatri exhibited the cum on her tongue as a few tears ran down her cheek. When he was done, he commanded, “Swallow,” and she swallowed every drop he had deposited inside of her mouth.

Unbeknownst to her, Mistress Khatri had more than her former students as an audience. The very boss who put her in her current position decided to pay our new trainer a visit as he was making Khatri see the error of her ways.

He looked like a nice enough guy from the few times our class had seen him, and seemed to coldly observe Khatri’s treatment while sipping his coffee out of his beat up old coffee mug with what looked like half a picture of Mickey left on it. Like a lot of what went on there outside of Mistress Khatri’s “issues”, it wasn’t personal. They had a job to do, and we had a job to learn in the four weeks we were there.

Khatri was still on her knees feeling disgusted with herself, and you could hear her shudder as her boss bellowed, “Carl, it’s been too long since I’ve had the chance to see you for more than a few minutes. Maybe after work we can grab a couple of beers and some steaks to welcome you back.”

The middle aged man then got closer to Khatri and gently pulled her head back by her hair until he could clearly see the mess on her face.

While he was doing this he asked Master Bradford, “Any issues with this class Carl? I know this one is gonna be a bit on fun to work with.”

Master Bradford responded, “Just the standard issues that the new girls come with. Can’t be that hard to teach an old whore a few new tricks while she’s busy groveling for her job”

Khatri didn’t take that one too well, and started crying a bit while she was still being puppeteered by her boss.
He didn’t let go of her hair, but he did use his leverage to push her gaze to the floor as her kneeled down in front of her and said, “You got this Khatri. Just remember that this little paid vacation is your last chance to keep a good job and your slave handler’s license. You don’t want all that credit card debt to catch up to you and get you indentured again.”

She let out a quiet, “no master Pearson. I wanna keep my job and stay free. I’m sorry for making this seasoning house look bad.”

Before he got back on his feet, however, he randomly grabbed a handful of her right breast and squeezed it for some reason.

He then muttered, “Huh, I always thought these were fakes put in when you were a slave. Guess I was wrong, and you were gifted with magic tits.”

It was a mild abuse compared to the Master Bradford turning the back of her throat into a bruise, but even this callback to her past as a slave seemed to fuck with her.

After she was done being humiliated by her former coworkers, a look of defeat on her face took over as she wallowed in self-pity the whole way to our classes. We knew she was a committed lesbian, but seeing a free lesbian used by a man like that in front of her boss was a different level of humiliation that we had never seen before. Apart from that incident though, Master Bradford was fun compared to Mistress Khatri.

He didn't use the shock collars in the oral room, we got twice as much cleaning and rest time during our anal practice, and he actually let us talk quietly during our training sessions as long as we didn't interrupt him.

He even taught us the team-building that Mistress Kahtri dismissed as a "weakness" in the classroom.

The difference between him and Khatri was night and day, and apart from a few blowjobs here and there, my last week there was like they lowered the difficulty setting on life itself. My only problem was the complications introduced when our former trainer was put into our class and dorm.

We could tolerate her being terrible and not being able to keep up with the training, since that was expected out of someone her age. We couldn't accept being forced to help her "succeed", however.Master Bradford saw us as a herd that only survived as a group, not a room full of solitary predators like we were trained to be by Khatri’s now crying ass. This meant that when Khatri couldn't deepthroat the dildo enough or stop freaking out when the anal dildo went inside her, it was our responsibility as her classmates to help her do better and comfort her through some of the more demanding parts of our training so she could see us as actual human beings or something along those lines. We were honestly disappointed in her once we realized that she was all talk and no show after telling us how good she was at her job when she was our age. Luckily we didn't have to help her too much in the dorm once she realized how things really worked when out main supervision was a few shitty old cameras with no audio.

A few of the girls would steal her dinner the first few days, and she would naively go around asking for scraps once the hunger got too much to tolerate. Then a bunch of the girls would do what they did with me and make her work herself to the bone for every scrap they gave her to replace her stolen meal. I was even generous and gave her a good-sized ball of rice for a relatively half-assed foot massage one night. She could tell that I did it out of pity, and the look of self-hatred on her face said it all every time she forced herself to feel gratitude for a little bit of rice or the crusty part of the chicken patty we didn't like.

By the time I left there, the novelty of tormenting her had worn off, and Khatri mostly settled into the routine that we all lived. She woke up in the morning, trained all day, and cleaned all the mess off of her with the rest of us when she returned to the dorm from our daily chores. She wasn't invited into our groups, but she was left alone to wallow in her self-pity wherever she could find a place to hide from us and be sad somewhere we couldn't judge her. It was only in the training brothel last week that I got to see her in her natural environment.

She was a predator, and her mood changed from depressed "slave" to seductress as soon as she wore that uniform. She was still a little rusty compared to the girls she was previously training when it came to the actual sex, but the remnants of her past skills could be seen as she worked the older men that picked her like putty in her hands. I even got to see her talk three old guys into splitting the cost of a gangbang when all they came in for was blowjobs and a beer.
When we got back, however, I could see that working in a brothel for the first time in years took a toll on her, and I tried to comfort her as she cried into her pillow.

Unfortunately she was still a bitch and angrily snippedd, “Go fuck yourself. I don’t need a slave’s help, and I don’t need to be treated like I’m gonna one of you forever when I’ll be back to training you whores in less than a month. I just want to be left alone until I can get back to my normal life.”

I was confused and whispered back, “You were a slave. You know firsthand how bad it is to lose everything and be treated like shit by people who think they’re better than you. Maybe you should talk to these girls and realize that they’re no different than you were, when you were their age. Learn the fucking lesson you signed up to learn or else you will just waste a month getting fucked before you just get yourself fired again.”

She didn’t respond, nor did she even acknowledge that I said anything to her. That was my last night there, and I wasn't even mad at her. Just like me before I got arrested, you can't help those who don't want to accept that help in the first place.

The next morning Khatri was still miserable, the girls were their normal selves, and the breakfast sucked as usual. I didn't even pay it any mind, though. The Mercer van was picking me, Amanda, and Caitlin up in a few hours, and we were finally moving onto our new "home." I did have to confront one thing that was making me sad, however.

Amanda was the first and only friend I made since I was enslaved, and we were separated after a month of spending every day together and getting close. We were left alone in the dorm to wait for our ride, and all the two of us could do was hold each other one last time before we were loaded into the van and went our separate ways.

[Fixitman8267]

Since she is leaving the Seasoning House I can see this as the end of that story. I hope you continue her story, though. She still has 59 months to go.

[JustBob]

Great inside her head story. I would love to know how she handles working and what happens when she gets freed. Will her family accept her back? Will she be ostracized and have to figure out a new life? Will her alcoholism consume her? So many possibilities. Excellent writing too!