The Rivalry Pt. 02

[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. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This minimum age means that, on occasion, slaves must appear clothed in public where children might see then, although the general expectation is that, subject to severe weather, slaves are usually naked or nearly so. This is a pure fantasy, written to specifications and plot provided by Jay Hughes).

Our twisted story thus far: Leslie Scott and Janey Bowers were co-captains of a high school cheerleading squad in the suburbs of Houston, part of a city where slavery, as noted above, is all too common. For once, the blonde, stacked, tall girl (Leslie) really wasn’t a conceited b-word; to the contrary, she was kind and friendly even to the nerds in her school, never trying to hurt anyone she met. By contrast, raven-haired Janey was as pretty as Leslie but obsessed with social dominance and determined to bring Leslie down. Leslie was virginal and rather innocent, whereas Janey used boys as servants and sex toys.

On Leslie’s 18th birthday, a court found her carpenter father liable for a huge fire on a construction site. Ordinarily, in such a circumstance if the pecuniary liability exceeded the assets of the responsible party, that individual’s debt could be discharged by auctioning his body off for seven years of servitude. In this instance, however, Mr. Scott owed so much money that the judge invoked a new Texas statute, requiring that the spouse and dependent children, aged 18 to 21, were also considered part of the human assets to be enslaved. A tearful Leslie was graded Prime, sold at auction for $81,000 to—who else? her arch-rival. OK, the purchaser was actually Janey’s dad, but it should surprise you not at all that the parents still further spoiled their daughter by transferring ownership of Leslie to her.

That summer, the new slave owner and her overworked Latina maid, Rosa, inflicted considerable mental and physical torture, including having Mr. Bowers gently relieve her of her virginity (almost the only time that Leslie actually enjoyed being used sexually.) The previous episode concluded with Janey organizing a party to have her classmates gang-bang Leslie, although fortunately the head nerd, Jimmy Orbey, forced Janey to release the blonde slave after “only” half of the guests had mounted her.

(Janey Bowers’ perspective)
I can’t believe the nerve of that pasty-faced grind, Jimmy, threatening to call in the police just because MY slave, Leslie Fucking Scott, had to lick some cocks and pussies while taking some dicks up her other openings—I mean, what are slaves for? I spent the rest of summer vacation having her perform all her daily chores, including nude calisthenics in the back yard and oral service to my dad, me, and the maid. But, Leslie never seemed to mind doing that—in fact, she usually smiled a mile wide when I ordered her to go suck Daddy. I couldn’t wait for college to start, so I could take her along and show the skank off, humiliating her in front of some cute guys. The university insisted she had to wear clothing when she accompanied me to class—some nonsense about not wanting a distraction—but the rest of the time I could have her nekkid on campus. To ensure she got full attention on these trips, I had her nipples ringed (ouch!) and tiny bells attached that jingled every time she moved. I could tell she hated being sent on nude errands, such as fetching a book from the library or getting a coffee for me, but again—what else were slave sluts for?

Of course, I really enjoyed keeping her around my dorm room, dutifully kneeling with her thighs apart and her hands behind her neck—she turned deep red every time my roommate or—worse still for Leslie—some guy walked into the room.

One or my favorite games, especially on weekends, was to tie her spread-eagled, face up OR face down and nekkid, on my bed. Everyone who visited the room—and I encouraged LOTS of visitors—got to fondle and tease her, while she tried very hard NOT to display her arousal. When my roommate was gone, I liked to invite guys over and offer them the use of any of Leslie’s openings. I loved watching her get face-fucked on her knees and especially making her beg her “master” to f___ her “pussy” or “ass.” If the guy took me up on the offer, I got to watch her being ravaged and driven to climax; if (to further their standing with me) a boy declined to use her holes, then after he left I could brag about she couldn’t even get laid when spread out for everyone’s use. Either way, I won!

(Leslie Scott’s perspective)
Being the slave of a vindictive former peer would always be difficult; being the slave of this entitled b____ while she used me to enjoy her college years was excruciating. The only time I got to wear clothing was when she dragged me to classes to carry her books, take notes for her, etc. The moment that class was over, she would insist that I strip to the waist, then she reattached my “jiggle bells” to ensure that everyone on campus noticed my public progress. To add to my misery, during the last five minutes of class she would finger-fuck me (at her insistence, I always wore a mini-skirt with no panties, to ensure easy access.) This left me aroused and frustrated, sometimes dripping down my legs as she strutted across campus, leading me by a leash attached to my collar or (more commonly) my nipple rings. Damn, it hurt when she jerked on me there.

The only relief I got from this humiliation, and it was minimal relief, at that, was when she decided to send me to the university slave kennels for the night. In theory, all slaves were expected to live, eat, and sleep there except when their owners summoned them to duty. At the entrance to the kennels were two locker rooms where we kept our clothes, since of course slaves wore only collars—and occasionally flip-flops—inside the facility. Although our mandatory service (I’ll get to it) was a further restriction on our already-subjugated existence, most of the time being in the kennels was relaxing, and we acted as friends to support each other. Of course, being the B-word that she was, Janey would only give me permission to have sex two nights a week, and one of those nights was dedicated to mandatory service. Still, I decided that if my mistress expected me to be a slut, I might as well enjoy my servitude as much as possible. You’ll forgive my arrogance when I tell you that a blond, blue-eyed, well-built young woman could ALWAYS find another slave with either a stiff prick or a juicy pussy, allowing me to release some of the frustrations I experienced the rest of the week.

The ”mandatory service” also sometimes helped me. One evening (or two days) per week, each slave was on call to serve in a slave brothel that was part of the kennels. For $50 an hour (which helped pay for kennel operations), anyone who could prove to be age 18 got his (or her) choice of the available slaves to play with in one of the tiny bedrooms. (The owner could override this and require his/her slave to be free that night, but only by paying $100 per evening to the kennels, which for all her complaining Janey would not pay for. Whatever she might call me, my Mistress couldn’t really describe me as a “cheap” whore!) In the meantime, though, my services as a kennel slut varied widely—sometimes, a nice student or even a professor would just rent my company, and we’d have a normal conversation mixed with heavy petting. The best of these visitors was the guy who had saved me at Janey’s pool party—Jimmy Orbey. He was majoring in computer science, and he came just to keep me company. The first several times, all he would do physically was to kiss my cheek. Eventually, I insisted that I owed him a voluntary f___ because he had saved me from so many involuntary ones. Imagine my surprise when Jimmy turned out to have one of the longest and thickest schlongs I had ever accommodated—and after eight months as a sex slave, believe me I’d seen all lengths and calibers! Jimmy was, understandably, very inexperienced (I think I may have taken HIS virginity), but he was so gentle and concerned about my pleasure that it was probably the best coupling I had ever experienced. For the rest of the hour, we cuddled gently while I day-dreamed about being his wife, or at least his permanent bed warmer. (Who would have imagined the cheerleader co-captain wanting to shack up with the class nerd? For that matter, I would never before have imagined being a sex slave of ANYbody, but with my life ruined by enslavement, my horizons had been narrowed.)
Most of the time when I worked in the kennel’s brothel, however, the “John” wanted his money’s worth, usually including sexual service that he couldn’t obtain from his free wife or girlfriend. I became quite an expert at sucking dicks and taking them up my rear end, although sometimes the guys liked to spank my butt and mash my breasts painfully. It was humiliating to be used like a blow-up (or blow job?) toy, but at least I knew that I was more likely to get off at the kennels than when Janey decided to pimp me out to her suitors. If I can brag for a moment, several of those suitors, who had wisely declined my services when offered by my owner, paid to use my body at the kennels; these guys usually treated me like a human being even as they were banging me, because they knew me as a person and had to apologize for how they treated me in her dorm room!

Sometimes, of course, three horny college guys (redundancy!) would rent me for an hour to make me airtight, repeatedly unloading their sploog into all my openings as well as onto my face and hair. This left me so disheveled that I had to spend precious sleep time showering in a vain effort to feel clean again. The next day I found it even more difficult than usual to docilely follow my Mistress’ domination games.

I made it through Janey’s freshman year, which seemed to consists of equal parts “let’s party” and “let’s all humiliate Leslie.” I was actually looking forward to a (relatively) “easy” summer of naked calisthenics and helping the maid Rosa clean toilets, until Mistress dropped the next bombshell: I wasn’t going home, but would instead spend the summer training with the university’s pony girl team.

*****
This requires some explanation: with the re-introduction of slavery and especially pony girl racing, first universities and then the Olympics had introduced pony girl teams as an advanced form of cheerleading and team athletics. Most universities, such as Janey’s, recruited the best-looking sophomore women, giving them huge scholarships in return for signing a contract to be on the pony girl team, where eight young women, all bound and bitted as if they were horses, pulled a cart carrying the college or university mascot. The young women agreed to enslave themselves (on a Free In Name Only contract) and train as ponies until their graduation, two years later. Why enslavement? Because slaves did not have control over their own bodies, and could neither sell nor withhold those bodies from sex, a court-created legal loophole allowed them to circumvent the nudity and prostitution laws. Pony girls could therefore prance virtually naked in public at the football stadium and (unwritten but widely understood) reward star players and generous donors sexually, all without legal or social consequences. At the end of two years in harness, listing “pony girl team” as a college extracurricular activity was a popular entry on any woman’s resumé when applying to graduate school or for a white-collar job; it was code for physical attractiveness and sensuality, much sought after by employers who would otherwise deny ever thinking of women in such demeaning terms. (To satisfy academic prudery, the pony girl contracts guaranteed that the young woman would have ample time for studying during the school year.)

In short, for the summer between sophomore and junior years, scholarship recipients signed up to be self-indentured and trained as competitive pony racing girls, then served on their teams for the next two years. Small schools sent their women to famous pony girl ranches for training, but each large university like UT had its own department of skilled slave wranglers who trained them on campus. (If you’re wondering, the universities recruiting rising juniors because those women, unlike new freshmen, were over the age of 18 and had almost certainly lost their virginity.)

The one drawback with all this was that these pony girls were in constant demand for (nearly naked) public appearances and sexual rewards to favored athletes, alumni, and fat cat donors. Yet few women, however needy financially, wanted to be what amounted to prostitutes on demand—screwing a few hunky young players could be considered as a naughty game, but constantly “putting out” for older (and sometimes obnoxious) men/women was repugnant. Enter the brilliant (sarcasm mode engaged) idea at UT to invite the student owners of Prime- or Choice-graded slaves to “volunteer” their slaves for a “junior varsity (JV) pony girl team” that would undergo the same training as scholarship recipients, occasionally act as substitutes for ill or injured team members, and service the people who thought they were sufficiently important to warrant the attentions of pony girl team members. Along with the male students and faculty, these entitled people might lust after the pony team on display at the games, but in practice a Prime-rated slave slut like me, trained and restrained like a pony and habituated to being a sex toy, was more than adequate for their base demands, meanwhile freeing the actual scholarship women to maintain some minimal dignity and study for their courses.

This was even more true for the slave wranglers who trained the women. Scholarship pony team members got what amounted to a two-month summer camp version of being slave graded—they were (nearly) naked, collared, fondled, and toyed with by wranglers who worked to arouse their sensuality so they would display magnificently, giving them the thrilling sense of being at the mercy of their trainers. BUT those wranglers were generally forbidden to have penetrative sex with the trainees of the varsity team. That way, the University could maintain deniability, insisting that its scholarship ponies were not being hired for sexual use (without mentioning—wink, wink—when key football team members might be rewarded by actual team members!) No such limitations existed for the training of the “JV” slave ponies, who were teased & aroused like the actual team members but also expected to suck and fuck their trainers/wranglers on a regular basis. Moreover, when the wranglers administered enemas to slaves who were bound bent over for that purpose, the wranglers often took the opportunity to butt-fuck those curvy, muscular, branded Prime- and Choice rear ends; the staff joked that they were simply providing sperm lubrication before re-installing our pony girl tail plugs. Talk about a literal pain in the ass!

The owners got free room and board for their slaves in the summers, plus a set fee for each day those slaves served in harness during the school year. Just great—Janey got to inflict yet more humiliation on me, turning me into a slave prostitute, while I got all the hard work, most of the shafting, and none of the academic or status benefits of being on the pony girl team. Plus, she added one final refined form of humiliation. Once I was trained as a pony girl, she giggled, in a future summer she could send me to an actual pony ranch for racing. There was an informal tradition in Texas pony girl racing, whereby right there at the finish line, the sweating, exhausted young women who lost the race were tied over a low wooden fence, their ankles spread wide on one side and their arms either still restrained behind them or spread equally wide on the other. Then the winning team—owner, jockey, stable hands, and sometimes even slave stallions—had their nasty way with the poor girls, using any orifice they preferred.

By now, you have a rough mental image of how I spent that summer between Janey’s freshman and sophomore years, when (if I were still free) I might have found an internship in some business or even a job at a children’s camp. There was some enjoyment in pony camp, of course—I made friends with other slaves and even a few varsity members, and my high school track training enabled me to get a true runner’s high from the strenuous exercise. Paradoxically, running flat out which fully bound (forearms tied parallel to each other behind my back, tight bustier pushing up my exposed breasts, nipple bells once again jingling mockingly, a tail tickling my rear end while a bit and reins controlled my mouth) actually gave me the illusion of freedom after more than a year of servitude. On the other hand, I had plenty of opportunity to refine my slut skills, whether on my knees licking or bent over/lying flat while accepting rampant cocks up my lower openings. It was bad enough to be everybody’s convenient “relief valve,” but it was even more humiliating, while bent over next to another slave, to listen to the two wranglers who were pounding our brains out describe the varsity student pony girl whose un-fuckable body had aroused the erections they were burying in us.

Overall, however, that summer actually forced me to adjust to my situation, and my sense of indecent exposure and forcible penetration ebbed away. I accepted that I was a slave—perhaps it was slave mind, but I became content to wait patiently and to have my mouth, boobs, vagina, and any other part of my body casually punished or played with. It no longer troubled me when free people described me as a “cock-sucking slut” who was “greedy for more dick in her butt or cunt,” etc.—it was the truth, so why be offended? Deep inside, I still longed for my freedom, for the life I had expected, but I knew that life was on hold for another six years. Of course, my silent acceptance of demeaning treatment and labels really frustrated Janey, because she soon realized that the humiliations she had inflicted on me during freshman year no longer bothered me much.

Not that I saw her as frequently that fall, for two reasons. First, I spent lots of time working as a JV pony girl, including once when I actually filled in for a real student pony girl helping to pull the cart at a football game. It was fun to prance in front of 90,000 cheering fans, my breasts, hips, and butt-plugged tail swinging in rhythm, knowing how many of the spectators lusted after my body but couldn’t have it. Less fun were the half-dozen times I acted as a surrogate team member to fulfill the prurient desires of wealthy and influential fans. By now, I was so habituated to oral and anal sodomy, often committed by inconsiderate strangers, that the actual acts barely phased me, although some of those guys could really have used a shower and some mouthwash! Less enjoyable was the thought of Janey getting paid for my services—she missed no opportunity to remind me that she was pimping out her “slave whore” for what amounted to $20 per cock, a figure she arrived at by dividing the daily rental she received for me by the number of times dicks entered my body that day. She enjoyed jeering “I’m renting your cunt out to the fat pigs, dumb jocks, and other losers who could never get the attention of a real woman like me.” That particular statement bugged me sufficiently that I did repeat it to Jimmy Orbey, but I spent so much time staring into space that she got frustrated for lack of a reaction.

*****
The second reason why Janey spent less time tormenting me was her own academic worries. During her freshman year, I had been too miserable to notice that she was neglecting her studies, having too much fun as a popular woman on campus while using me as another toy to tease the boys. I was away at “JV pony girl camp” during the summer after freshman year, but I gather that her second-semester grades averaged well below the “B” average she was expected to maintain in order to keep her academic scholarship. (This was not really that uncommon, because students who had excelled easily in high school often failed to develop the study skills and determination to work effectively in the more challenging studies of college.)

Janey’s parents must have read her the riot act, because she began her sophomore year in a flurry of good intentions, determined to attend and take copious notes at every class while studying assiduously and completing assignments well ahead of schedule. That determination lasted for about three weeks out of fifteen in the fall semester, after which she was repeatedly tempted to neglect academic studies for her real preference, which was young man studies. On half a dozen occasions during that second year, a bad grade would remotivate her; at that point, she would abruptly push away her current suitors and rededicate herself to study, up until the next time some hot guy asked her out for a date. Somehow, she scraped an overall “B” at the end of the third semester, but even I could tell that her grasp of the subjects was spotty and slipping.

Paradoxically, her intermittent academic habits actually worked to my advantage. (Remember that, based on my pony camp training, I had become addicted to cock and no longer resented being a “second choice” to free women like my owner.) Several times that second year, I got her cast-off men, who couldn’t help noticing the buxom blonde slut who waited upon the object of their affection. Only the most valuable players got access to the genuine student pony girls. By contrast, coaches could and did give out “JV ass passes” to football players or other athletes who performed well; a well-timed block or fortunate interception was rewarded with the free use of a pony girl slave for an hour. Moreover, the slave kennels where I spent much of my time listed my JV status, including an alluring photo of me tacked up and bit-gagged, on the web-site of available slaves to be rented by the hour. By October of that academic year, my one night a week at the kennel’s brothel was in such demand that people had to reserve me up to three weeks ahead of time. (I know, it sounds odd to brag about being in demand as a slave whore, but it still was surprising and somewhat flattering.)

Not only did I get (most of) the dick I had learned to crave, but I developed a number of acquaintances among the male student population. Some of the guys who rented me at the kennel brothel did so because they were so tongue-tied with free women that they had no chance of even getting a date, let alone a romantic partner. Imagine the picture: a fully clothed but awkward guy, aged 18 to 22, having a prolonged talk with a naked, collared young woman—most of them were such gentlemen that they insisted I cover myself with the sheet on the unused bed in the room, which not only protected my long-lost modesty but also kept me warm in the otherwise chilly, airconditioned room. I began to feel like some kind of courtesan or relationship counselor, talking gently and patiently with them while drawing out their interests—and no, I don’t mean what kind of sex they wanted. More than one of them came back later to say that they had finally overcome their anxieties and made friends with female students.

Whenever he could get on my calendar, the guy who had rescued me from Janey’s planned nerd gangbang, Jimmy Orbey, also rented an hour. (At first, he came only intermittently, explaining that he had to earn enough money at his student job. The second year, Jimmy visited every time I was “on offer.”) He always insisted that I cover up, and for several months wouldn’t do more than kiss my cheek before departing. Finally, as I said before, I insisted that his hard-earned money should get some recompense besides conversation; In fact, I convinced him of the truth that my slave training had made me perpetually horny and addicted to dick, so we needed to help each other out. (I eventually adopted the same policy with my other heretofore platonic visitors, most of whom were visibly suffering from a case of permanent erection.) Not only was Jimmy well endowed, but the more time I spent with him, the more I found him handsome as well as smart and considerate. I began to develop a real crush on him, and dreamed of locating him again when my collar came off.

*****
Half way through her fourth semester (spring term of sophomore year), my owner, tormentor, and former rival in high school panicked. On the relatively rare occasions when I was available to serve her and not my many “Johns,” I saw her waste a lot of study time frantically trying to find an easy way to beat her exams. Then I noticed her writing information in extremely tiny letters and diagrams, covering pieces of paper that (red flag!) were cut to fit inside her stylish shoes. (In retrospect her idea was so obvious and amateurish that it almost seemed like she WANTED to be caught.) When Janey noticed my staring at her, she began to gag, blindfold, and hogtie me inside the small slave cage she kept in her dorm room. When spring finals came along, this treatment meant I suffered cramps, hunger, and thirst for hours while she was absent taking tests. The third time this happened, she returned early, crying violently and shaking so hard she could barely undo my bonds. Having been her slave and the object of her scorn for the past three years, I at first felt little sympathy for her, but my natural compassion for anyone in trouble caused me to hug her, rubbing her back and trying to find out what the problem was.

She finally sobbed that she had been caught cheating in a final exam for economics, and was expelled from the test site and told to wait for a decision about her case. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, Leslie.” (Her degree of distress was evident from the fact that she called me by my actual name for the first time in two years.) “So, I’m going to put you in the slave kennels where you may get pimped out but at least you’ll be fed and cared for.”

Now I began to worry about what would happen to ME; would I be condemned to stay in the kennels and/or JV pony girl stables until someone remembered that the disgraced student had owned a slave?

That evening it was my turn (again) to be a slave prostitute in the brothel run by the kennel. I tried my best to be a happy, docile slut for half a dozen guys (mostly one at a time, thank heavens). My regulars were happy to see me, talk with me, and play with my body, but I was distracted worrying about both Janey’s future and mine. Fortunately for me, Jimmy had reserved me for 10:00 p.m. When I told him what I thought had happened at Janey’s final exam, he looked very grave, sucking in his breath at the prospect of her being caught cheating.

“She will almost certainly have to appear before an honor court to investigation the allegation,” he said. “At the very least, she’ll flunk that course, but it may get much worse.”

I asked what he meant. “It’s because of the academic honor code,” he replied, which meant nothing to me.

“Well, the good news is that if she is found guilty of violating that code, she may get a chance to retry college two years from now.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I replied, a questioning tone in my voice.

“Yeah, but it’s what happens between now and then that will be the real kick in the teeth, especially for an entitled witch (I grinned at his choice of words) like her.”

Jimmy explained that the reintroduction of slavery had radically changed academic honesty provisions in many colleges, especially in the south, where Texas and other states regarded cheating as a theft of services. In this university, all faculty, academic staff, and students had to sign an acknowledgement of the honor code, which acknowledgement includes giving conditional power of attorney to the university provost. In the event the university honor committee determined that an individual student, faculty or staff member had violated provisions of the honor code, that individual had agreed IN ADVANCE, as a condition of being on campus, that violation of the honor code meant that she/he might be indentured (enslaved) for any time period up to 24 months, depending on the determination of the committee. During that term of indenture, the individual would become the property of the university to be assigned, used, or sold (with a non-export restriction) as the administration sees fit. The university was obligated only to protect the violating individual’s health and prevent export or resale abroad. (I had already learned, painfully, how little the university cared about a slave’s health!) At the end of that indenture, the freed offender could petition to have his/her records sealed and be permitted to return to the course of study previously undertaken, but having to retake all courses.

“I can’t get my head around what you just said,” I finally mumbled. “Do you mean that Mistress Janey—my owner—will become a slave if she’s found guilty of cheating?”

“You got it,” he nodded.

“Oh, well—her Daddy is a rich professional slave merchant; I’m sure he’ll buy her and keep her at home until the two years are up.”

He shook his head. “Nope—even slave merchants have professional requirements. If anyone in her family ended up owning her, her Daddy would lose his license and get fined.”

“So, what happens to me?” I worried.

“Obviously, a slave can’t own another slave, so she’s no longer your owner. Because the university will also try to collect the scholarship money she wasted this semester, I assume you’ll become property of the university and be sold at auction.” He tried to give me a reassuring hug. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he said. But now I was REALLY worried—no matter how badly Janey had treated me, I knew that whoever purchased me might do much worse.

*****
That conversation occurred on a Thursday night, during what became my final stint in the university kennel’s brothel. Janey must have been convicted by the honor court on the following day, because the next afternoon the kennel wranglers zip-tied my wrists behind my back and gagged me, then frog-marched me to the loading dock. They had come to like me, but all they would say was that I was now the property of the university and would be sold at auction. Before I knew it, I was again kneeling in a poodle cage with ankles and wrists zip-tied to the back of that cage, to be loaded onto a SlaveEx shipping truck. While waiting uncomfortably for that shipment, I became aware of a commotion—another woman who looked like Janey but was slave naked, gagged, zip-tied, and blindfolded, struggled hard but ended up bound in another dog cage next to mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that she was in tears, but neither of us could talk or do anything except wait for the free people to dispose of us.

We finally arrived at our destination which, unsurprisingly, was the shipping department of the Longhorn Slave Market. After some unidentified wranglers scanned our shipments into the market’s data base, we were cut loose from the zip ties and ordered to knee-walk forward, out of the cages and onto the hard concrete floor, until we reached a painted yellow line, and then don’t move again. I involuntarily looked to my right, confirming my suspicion that my erstwhile owner was now my fellow naked slave—but that movement earned me a blazing shock that (I realized) must have come from a wrangler’s cattle prod (or I guess that should be “slave prod”?)

“What part of the words ‘don’t move’ didn’t you understand, bimbo? I know your IQ must be smaller than your bust size, but try not to be so clueless,” said a male voice in an unpleasant but not particularly angry tone of voice. I immediately struggled back up onto my knees (not easy to do with your hands restrained behind you) and stared straight ahead of me. He must have been satisfied, because a moment later I felt him replacing my simple leather collar with a heavier one that included two prongs digging into my neck—a clear indication that the next BZZZT! I received might come at any moment from that new shock collar.

In rapid succession, he installed leather cuffs on my forearms, cut loose the zip-tie that had bound my wrists, and ungagged me. When I caught sight of my jailor, he didn’t look much older nor taller than I, but after two years in a collar I would never have challenged him even if I were not naked and bound on my knees, looking up at a guy wearing jeans, combat boots, and an equipment belt studded with an electric prod, cuffs, and other instruments of subjugation. The nametag on his chest read “Ken.” He wordlessly clipped a leash to my new collar, then rather patiently led me (crawling on my knees) over to a podium where he ordered me to kneel again while he clipped the leash handle to the podium. Next, he scanned the slave ID number (SIN) on my lower lip and evidently looked me up in some data base. Then he snickered and walked over to the next podium, where out of the corner of my eye I could see two familiar figures—the plus-sized, statuesque wrangler Willow, who had in-processed me two years ago, and a kneeling, naked, despondent figure that was all that remained of Janey.

“Can I see the record of this girl?” he asked. After a moment’s silence, he chuckled. “I was right. The Nnn Ess Rrr [National Slave Registry] says that, up until today, the Prime-rated blonde over there [he waived in my direction] was the slave of this one, only now they’re both property of the University, up for sale. Talk about coincidences.”

“Oh, I remember her,” said the contralto voice I vaguely recalled as belonging to Willow. “If you look in her records, you should find that we processed and auctioned that blonde about two or three years ago. And now they’re back here as a miss-matched set!” She giggled, but I could see Janey was sobbing silently. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” said Mistress Willow to her. “I’m sure you’re in shock right now, but you’ll get through it; a pretty thing like you should have no trouble finding a kind buyer.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, becoming a sex toy,” burst out of Janey’s mouth, but then she realized that she had spoken without permission, and began babbling apologies.

“I’m afraid that comes with the territory,” Willow replied in what she intended to be a compassionate tone. “You’re a slave for the next two years, and as a pretty female the only question is whether you service a few or many free people.” I could see by Janey’s face that the full horror had set in. I couldn’t help wondering what she thought slavery had meant for me, whom she had lent and pimped out, often on a whim or with intent to humiliate, to dozens of guys and a few girls. I guess Janey had no empathy, whereas I was beginning to think I had too much.

After that brief conversation, the two wranglers took us in different directions, and I didn’t see her again for several hours. Because we clearly knew each other, Master Ken pointed out the obvious difference—I had already been processed as a slave, and my two-year-old “pink” photos were still considered current, so beyond a brief medical check I was almost ready to auction. By contrast, my ex-owner had to go through all the irritating and debasing steps I had experienced on the day my Dad lost his court case. (One night in her freshman year, a giggling-drunk Janey had bragged about how her father, as a senior slave merchant, had arranged a special walk-through to get her evaluated during a slow time at the slave market. Apparently, she got to keep her clothes on while her SIN was tattooed on her inside lip; she was only naked and collared for less than an hour, while they took a single full-frontal photograph of her nude body for the record and three other slave merchants examined her to award the grade of Choice Plus.) I guess I’m a soft touch, because NOW I felt sorry for her being forced to bend over and expose her entire body for a full set of slave photographs—although they were nominally intended for identification, in fact such photos were part of the process of psychologically subordinating new slaves.

The next time I saw Janey was when we were both part of a crowd of slaves being walked through block positions, otherwise known as “Slave Yoga.” The same cute but very short female wrangler was drilling a dozen slaves, including the two of us, and although that woman smiled and encouraged us, she was insistent on perfection in the positions. As a cheerleader over the age of 18, Janey had practiced these positions as a form of erotic calisthenics, but this time she was “slave nekkid” and forced to repeat all the obscene begging for masters to penetrate her. I was relieved to see, out of the corner of my eye, that she seemed to be getting into it, smiling and even giving the wranglers flirtatious looks.

Now that we were all as aroused as we were likely to get, our wranglers hurried us into line for auction. I was near the head of the line, so I didn’t have time to worry. Before I knew it, I was once again sold, this time for $45,000 (Granted I was a Prime Minus, I had only five years left on my indenture.)

Once again, I had no idea who my new owner was, but I was left to worry in a wire cage for what seemed like hours before I heard footsteps approaching, at which point I knelt in slave spread to await my fate.

To my astonishment, Master Ken admitted Jimmy Orbey into my cage. Although he had seen me nude on many occasions, I still blushed at the thought of my spread-open pose, showing him everything my mom had taught me to conceal. Even more surprising, he was leading Janey, her hands cuffed behind her and her face blushing a deep scarlet, on a leash!

“Sorry I took so long, Sweetheart,” said Jimmy in an apologetic tone while looking at me. “I had to wait until I could buy Janey, and then pay for both of you.” WTF?

(Janey Bowers’ perspective)
The journey from the honor board, where my cheating earned me both a whopping fine and two years of enslavement, to my current humiliation was quick and surprisingly painless. The first time a slave wrangler goosed my rear end and squeezed my left breast he shocked me into silence. I absolutely hated being naked in front of those hunky guys—I had always promised or (usually) withheld my body to get young men to cater to me, and now, I realized with a shock, they could just TAKE me any time they wanted. That was the ultimate sense of powerlessness, and yet in a weird way it was titillating (and by that I mean my tits suddenly stood out!) I really disliked being so uncomfortable while bound inside a dog cage, but the rest of it was like an R-rated dream, right through my auction ($23,000 for my two years of service) with juice running down my inner thighs.

The wet dream ended abruptly when that damn nerd Jimmy walked into my cage and told me that HE was my new owner. Where did a college sophomore get that kind of money? Hell, I hated having geeks like him even LOOK at me in school, and now he owned me? My face must have betrayed my disgust at this news, but he seemed amused at my reaction.

“Don’t worry, girl—now that you’re a slave, you’ll find that the body you’ve been using to tease guys is only good for one thing—If you behave yourself, it’ll earn you eight inches of prick inside you.”

I involuntarily reacted as I would have when I was still free, “Euuuww!” But he just chuckled, hooked a damn dog leash onto my collar, and walked out of the cage I had been in. I had no choice but to follow.

And then he repeated the scene in another cage where that bitch—MY slave!—Leslie was kneeling with her hands behind her neck, proudly showing off her oversized slave tits. When he announced that he had bought both of us, she smiled eagerly as if she LIKED that idea, although her face looked as doubtful as mine.

“But where did you get enough money to buy even one of us?” She asked, as he motioned for her to stand up in front of him.

“Don’t worry, last summer while you were training as a pony I was beta-testing my new AI algorithm—I just sold it to Yangtze on-line sales. Two days from now, I have to fly out to Redmond for a few weeks helping integrate my work into theirs, but when I come back we’ll work on manumitting you, Leslie. Until then, I’m sorry but the easiest thing is to turn you over to the JV Pony Girl people for the summer.”

It was bad enough being his slave, but why was this loser ignoring me and apologizing to Leslie Fucking Scott? I burst out, “And what about freeing ME?” I demanded. Two seconds later, a strong shock at my neck dropped me to the floor. That damn wrangler leaned over, put his face less than three inches from me and said, quietly but with menace in his voice, “It’s about time you learned your place around here, bitch. Don’t speak unless you’re answering a question or begging to get fucked, got it?”

“Thanks, Ken,” said Jimmy calmly. “Actually, I’ve thought of a better use for her loud mouth. Leslie, honey, would you please sit on that bench and spread your legs?” I smirked at her exposing herself yet further, but then Jimmy ordered me to kneel between those legs, saying, “I remember plenty of times when you demanded that Leslie lick your pussy; time for you to repay the favor, slut.” I was frozen immobile, but the wrangler dragged me over, forcing my nose straight into her sticky, smelly cunt.

A sharp whack on my exposed rear end and I found myself giving rather than receiving cunnilingus for the first time in my life! I don’t know which of us—Leslie or me—was more shocked by the turn of events, but only one of us had her mouth free to speak, and it wasn’t me.

I heard her say, in a loving tone, “Thanks very much, Master Jimmy. There’s only one thing I’d rather have between my legs right now, and that’s your monster dick!”

“That will have to wait until I get back, Baby girl, but you know I would never force you to do something like that, slave or not.”
Leslie must have been determined to get on the nerd’s good side by buttering him up, because the next thing I heard her say was, “I belong to you, Master, and you can fuck me any time in any hole and any way you wish. Besides, I really like the idea of being your sex slave and bed warmer!”

“If you had any idea how long I’ve admired you,” he replied in a husky voice, “You’d know that right now I would much rather take you home instead of flying to Seattle. I want to be your guy, not your master, Leslie. You, however,” he paused and I felt another solid whack on my butt, “need to remember to always call me ‘Master.’ And show some respect for Leslie—she will always be first girl for me and you’re just a cunt-licking slave whore, got it?” It’s a good thing my mouth was otherwise occupied or I would have gotten in more trouble. How dare this nerd prefer a used slave who was shamelessly aroused by the idea of servicing him, to me?

The next day, I woke up in the university stables, where “Master” Jimmy had hired out both Leslie and me for the same Junior Varsity pony girl training that I had cheerfully enrolled Leslie in the previous year. That’s when the reality of enslavement really hit me—I had chortled and teased Leslie about the manner in which the trainers, fat cat donors, and football players had callously used all her openings for their vulgar pleasures, but now that could happen to ME!

The next month was solid misery. Those bastards pumped me full of Horny Juice hormones so that I actually enjoyed having them use me. Not only was I regularly fondled and fucked in all three openings (my rectum was constantly straining around enemas, wrangler dicks, and a butt-plug pony tail), but the amount of physical exercise demanded was incredible. I had thought my body was in exceptionally good shape, but now I had to run dozens of miles daily. At least I no longer had to worry about counting calories, but instead was constantly slurping down food and fluids—and no, not ALL of the fluids had sperm in them.)

Leslie seemed to breeze through it all, yet one more reason for me to resent her competition. Of course, she had already been through this training the previous summer, but now she seemed to thrive on miles of running and yards of stiff cock. Damn her.

In high summer, I was sweating rivers but finally able to keep up with the other ponies—or so I thought. And then HE returned—late one afternoon, damn Jimmy just showed up, leaning on the fence and watching the ponies practice. At first, I felt a renewed humiliation that he could see me nearly-naked, sweating and tightly bound, pulling a HUGE wrangler in a little sulky. At the end of the race, when I was again gasping for breath, I realized that the head nerd wasn’t even looking at me—he couldn’t take his eyes off @#$%* Leslie, who appeared to have just finished a brief stroll with no visible sweat!
Then I heard him talking to the head wrangler/trainer about setting up a race, and my heart sank. I suddenly remembered how I had teased Leslie that I would enter her into formal pony races, with the winning team’s staff (plus any other spectators who felt like it) using and abusing the losing pony while she was tied bent over a fence. I could suddenly imagine myself in that position, taking multiple dicks into me with no control over the situation.

That produced a sleepless night of worrying which, of course, was poor preparation for a race. Long story short, I lost, with Leslie crossing the finish line 20 yards ahead of me. I was still panting when I felt the wranglers tying me bent over that low fence—at least it had a smooth wooden top! No sooner were my legs tied apart (my arms still bound parallel to each other behind my back) than I felt an unidentified but large penis shoved balls deep into my well-lubricated, exposed pussy. Two rough hands sank into my upthrust, bare buttocks, and whoever it was began pounded frantically in and out.
So far, it was enjoyable—hell, after a month of constant screwing and horny juice I actually enjoyed feeling that shaft working my tired body up to an orgasm. I don’t know about “addicted to love,” but I was becoming “addicted to dick.” Imagine the thrill when my owner, damn Jimmy, stepped in front of me, pulled up my head by my hair, and displayed the biggest damn cock I had ever seen. I mean, I thought by that point I was a real judge of man meat, but I was astonished by the caliber of that nerd—and THEN I had to try to accommodate it in my mouth and throat. It was a struggle just to fit him in, let alone breathe around that shaft. Then I realized that this guy owned me for the next 22 months. I hate to admit it, but I began to understand why Janey had been so happy to learn she would be his slave!

I had almost adjusted, both physically and mentally, to the economy-sized sausage pumping in and out of my mouth, while the guy ramming up my birth canal came to a noisy climax that brought on my own orgasm. Just when I was sinking into an endorphin-powered dream of sex slavery, Jimmy suddenly withdrew that shaft from my mouth and casually slapped it across each of my cheeks, leaving them wet with my own spit.

“Seems like you’ve finally learned what to do with your mouth, Janey,” Jimmy said in a pleasant voice. “Now I need to work on you being such a smart ass.” So saying, he stepped around me, disappearing from sight until I felt his hands on my rump. Just as I realized what he had said, I felt him squirt some lubricant inside my anus. Oh, my god, he didn’t mean to use that weapon on me back there, did he?

Turns out, he did. And after two minutes of excruciating pain, it ended up feeling pretty great! I began to beg him, over and over, to pound my brains out. He obliged my request.

*****
(Epilogue: Leslie Scott’s perspective)
Jimmy was as good as his word, arranging for the State Agriculture Department to free me even though he had to pay the University back for the second summer of my JV pony training. When he presented me with the form petitioning for my freedom, I refused to sign unless he promised that he would still fuck me regularly in all my openings. A girl has to have SOME standards. As soon as I was uncollared and allowed to dress, Jimmy got down on one knee in the Agriculture Office and proposed to me. I was overjoyed to accept, and (after some frantic engagement sex) we got married three days later. True to his word again, Jimmy made sure that he fucked me daily if not more often!

We moved into married housing on campus, because he still had three years left on his computer engineering degree. (Eventually he was able to buy freedom for my parents as well.) Janey became our live-in slave maid, although most of the time we allowed her to keep her clothes on. She did, however, have to fulfill her “duties” as a JV pony girl, which meant that her openings frequently got filled. (I had to resist the temptation to sign up for varsity pony girl.) After two summers in the pony school the girl was so hopped up on horny juice that she craved my husband’s cock almost continuously, but I insisted that she beg for dick in front of both of us, and sometimes made her a fluffer to get Jimmy erect so that I could mount him again. I wasn’t trying to be cruel, just wanted it clearly understood that she was just as horny as she had often accused me of being. Still, once she was freed, she resumed her studies in a different field, and we graduated from UT together, setting up a menage in which I was always first girl. Jimmy loved it!

(The End)

[jessmartin]

Great story, I would have liked to see more of Leslie fucking and humiliating Janet, but it's been great and I look forward to your next story.

[Jim927]

This was a great story. Thank you so much for taking the time to write it and share it with us.

Jim

[Mr. Smith]

Another great Carl Bradford HEA where the heroine has a sexual awakening as a pleasure slut and is transformed into a happy over sexed slut in love with her man. I would suggest that Jimmy loan out Janey to the University computer science club or DEV club for regular innovative "experimentation" that the nerds in these clubs would cum up with on a regular basis.