Anna’s Story - A slave’s Journal Entry 4
Posted: Wed Jan 04, 2023 9:25 pm
WARNING: Slavery Topics, Slightly harder than normal stories here.
The next few weeks I spent in that warehouse were a blur, albeit a boring blur, as all of us in our slave pen seemed to get used to the idea that were were going to be another person’s property somewhere. Most of us, including myself, couldn’t accept that were were slaves yet, but a general sense of numbness to our situation had developed as the days went on. I decided to keep my knowledge of what model I was most likely being sold as to myself, as it didn’t seem fair to the other women around me who’s lives as a slave probably weren’t going to be the best based off of what Mistress Robins had told me.
Still, in this numbness we were able to work out routines that made our time waiting to be shipped out to a slave dealer much less stressful. What was once a confused mess of waiting to get a chance to brush our teeth and use the toilet in the morning had morphed into a semi-orderly line for both that cut the time it took to get ready for morning inventory in half. Charlotte had even helped us work out designated sleeping areas for everyone so we at least had the illusion of having our own space.
One of the other slaves, Maria if I remember correctly, even figured out a way for us to make that horrible slave loaf a bit more edible. We had already figured out that we needed to save half of our loaf for later on since this place only fed us once a day, but maria figured out that soaking it in our “milk” made it go down so much easier. The second half had to be eaten soaked in water, but it achieved the same result and filled us up a little better that way. You wouldn’t think these little things would make a difference, but in a place like this learning how to turn soy milk cartons into a cup and making slave loaf into “oatmeal” kept half of these women from falling into complete despair.
One of our rarer luxuries over these few weeks, however, was the humble shower. We were expected to wash ourselves a bit every day using the sink on the toilet, but for some unknown reason to us [under staffing the warehouse, most likely], they were only able to take us out of the pen for one every three or four days. To a free person this would be considered mildly gross, and they would be right. Unfortunately we were slaves and according to Mistress Robins when I asked her at some point, the company didn’t think that slaves sitting in a chain-link cage all day got dirty enough to warrant more than that. I doubt whoever wrote that policy had ever stepped foot in this place, or smelled it when you put this many people together at once, but we had to work with what we got.
The first shower, and the most uncomfortable one, came a few days after we got here. We were chatting a bit while we were eating our “oatmeal” when a pair of male overseers came to the door and yelled for us to line up at the door. I was at the middle of this line with Charlotte a few women behind me, and the twins just ahead of me. We moved forward one by one as they handcuffed us into two coffles just like the ones they brought us here in. The men then led us a short walk away from our pen to another, similar sized, slave pen that had been converted into a shower room with four shower heads against the wall and a large garbage can at it’s entrance.
They unlocked us one by one, and ordered us to throw our clothes in the can while handing us a packet of soap and what looked like a wet disposable cleaning rag from a bucket to use as a washcloth. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing as we waited in line for our turn at the shower head. The other women pre-soaped their bodies with the washcloth, and I followed their lead, not wanting to run out of time to clean myself in case there was a timer on the showerhead. The soap felt like cheap hand soap, but at least it didn’t burn like the chemical they used in intake, thank god. The water was just as cold as intake though, with me finding out very quickly why every woman ahead of me was shivering as she walked away from the shower head. Despite this cold, however, I tried to take all the time I was allowed to attempt to get my already horrible hair in order. In just a few days it was already turning into a tangled mess that the cheap comb we were given every morning couldn’t fix.
In retrospect, the showers weren’t much more than cold water and hand soap not much better than we had when we were processed into this place. They weren’t good at all compared to what even the poorest free person got, but at the time that ice cold water and shitty soap meant that we got to feel clean for just a little bit before the dirt and grime of this place got on us again. It also meant that we got a fresh set of clothes to take back to our pen with us, which I was getting disturbingly used to despite the fact that they were still made out of the most uncomfortable material ever made.
Before we could get our new change of clothes, however, they made us drip dry standing there with our hands behind our heads. This whole time, I could already feel these two overseers watching us. I know they probably saw much nicer looking women than me every day, and most likely weren’t looking at us like that, but it was still humiliating to be exposed to two unknown men like I was on display for them. They even encouraged us to jump up and down a bit to dry off quicker or “dance” the water off in place if we wanted to. A few did, but I wasn’t giving them a show unless I had to. Then, as we were all still standing there drip drying I heard a familiar voice, Mistress Robins.
She was walking into our shower room with another overseer in tow. After making brief and polite conversation with the two overseers watching us, her reason for being here became obvious as soon as she put her gloves on. She went from slave to slave scanning our barcode and inspecting us from head to toe. She was efficient, and it only seemed to take her a moment to check all the boxes on her phone for each of us. When she got to me, she didn’t even seem to recognize me as she began to inspect me, even though I was just serving her the other day. She put my head down and roughly inspected my hair for anything of note, shined a light into my eyes, mouth and ears, and did a general inspection of my breasts, body and crotch for god knows what while checking boxes off on her phone. As I would find out later, this was done often to make sure that sick and lice ridden slaves weren’t causing outbreaks inside the warehouse.
This woman was a machine and just when I thought she was done treating me like a slab of meat and ready to leave; she pointed to me, Charlotte, and another slave, Halima, and said “Lice risk, do something about it please. Especially the scrawny Latina one, her hair is a week away from a rats nest”. After Mistress Robins and her assistant left, one of the overseers left as well and came back with some electric clippers. One by one we were bent over the shower room’s garbage can by one overseer while the other buzzed us down to nothing on our heads. Charlotte almost cried, and Halima just had this look of embarrassment like she was somehow more naked now, but I was proud of myself. I kept my composure somehow and only cried inside while this last bit of my old life was taken away from me. After we got taken back to our pen with our new change of clothes, the others tried but failed to avoid staring at us. Eventually as the weeks we were there went on, most of us ended up having the same thing happen to them and it stopped being a big deal. If anything it made it easier to keep ourselves clean in this environment.
As the days after our first shower and our first “spot inspection” as Mistress Robins would call them added up, our routines continued without much issue and we all seemed to get used to the little things they did to remind us of what we were now. I didn’t think I would see Mistress Robins in her office again after that day in the shower room, but I guess I was wrong. The day after my head was shaved she sent an overseer to bring me to her office. After the overseer let me in and closed the door, I stood there looking down at the floor nervously waiting for her to speak. I could sense her just sitting there staring at me and looking me up and down for what seemed like forever until she quietly said to me, “well slave, you already know how I like my massages. Get to it and stop wasting my time”. Those words instantly diffused a ton of the anxiety I was feeling at that moment as I got to work massaging Mistress Robins like I did days before.
She didn’t want anything extra this time but for some weird reason she felt the need to pet my shaved head while I was kneeling under her desk massaging her feet like I was her cat. Though patronizing, it actually felt pretty good. She kept running her hand over the buzz cut that used to be my long hair while saying to me when she was done, “you had nice hair slave, too nice for a slave to maintain unfortunately”. I wanted to be sad when she reminded me of that but I stopped myself when I realized she was somewhat right, as it would’ve gotten much worse and much more painful to shave off later if I let it turn into a rats nest of tangles and mess.
Until I left the warehouse a few weeks later, an overseer took me to Mistress Robin’s office every morning. I would be left in her cage for her to collect when she arrived, and work for her until she left at night. The massages killed my hands and after eating her out almost a dozen times I felt like a whore, but for some reason it didn’t feel degrading the way she did it to me. One time she even put a some peanut M&M’s just inside of her and had me eat the candies out of her. Ignoring the fact that it’s probably not a good idea to put candy inside yourself like that, I would’ve never seen myself eating candy out of another woman’s vagina in a millon years. Yet here I was eating M&M's covered in Mistress Robins's Juices like it was the best thing in the world. Actually, compared to slave loaf soaked in water, it somehow was. That particular night with the candy, she even rewarded me with some “stimulation”. I didn’t have an intense orgasm as far as I can remember, but I was apparently putty in this woman’s gloved hand when she was playing with my pussy to the point where I had to ask permission to lean on her desk when my knees got weak. With Mistress Robins, however, it wasn’t all sex and massages.
Most of those days she needed an assistant to carry things for her, or do something else too mundane for another overseer to assist her, so I got to follow her around the warehouse helping her out with her work. It was exhausting keeping up with her the whole day, and I still had to work for her on the same “sit on our ass all day” rations as everyone else, but it was honestly great practice for serving my future master/mistress and keeping up with their daily grind. If I was stuck being a slave, I was at least not gonna be a fuckup about it.
The oddest part of working for her though, was getting to see more of how the people working in this place viewed us. Mistress Robins and most of the other overseers I saw weren’t cruel to the slaves here unless they purposely did something to piss them off, but I could clearly see what we were to these people in the end. The slaves in the pens were seen as no more than inventory that needed to be maintained until they weren’t the overseer’s problem anymore, and the slaves that worked around the warehouse like me were talked to and treated like we were a tool or an appliance that only existed to make their jobs easier. Yet at the same time, the slaves working in this place were often treated with a small amount of respect and "kindness" that the women in the pens didn't get from these people.
Mistress Robins was the perfect example of this mentality. When I was working for her or serving her in the office, my presence was barely even acknowledged as long as I was quietly following instructions and conforming to her expectations. If I was not needed in that moment, I was expected to quietly wait out of her eyesight until I was called over. At the same time, Mistress Robins always made a point to thank me when she was done with me for the day or play with my hair for a few minutes while I was going down on her. She even had the "kindness" to make sure I was able to get a quick water and bathroom break in a couple of times a day while she was running me all over the warehouse. 15 years later I still can’t understand how a person can go from treating a me and pen full of slaves like we were nothing during a spot inspection, to treating me like a person a few hours later that same day when by all accounts I was the same person, just in a different place.
In the end though, I had to keep reminding myself every day when I was done with my work that this was all going to be over soon, and I would be shipped off to some slave dealer any day now. When that happened, I couldn’t rely on Mistress Robin’s patronizing “kindness”, or the support of the others in my slave pen when I was standing there by myself being bought by god knows who. I had to be strong, and I had to be strong by myself. Or else I was going to fuck this all up for myself.
The next few weeks I spent in that warehouse were a blur, albeit a boring blur, as all of us in our slave pen seemed to get used to the idea that were were going to be another person’s property somewhere. Most of us, including myself, couldn’t accept that were were slaves yet, but a general sense of numbness to our situation had developed as the days went on. I decided to keep my knowledge of what model I was most likely being sold as to myself, as it didn’t seem fair to the other women around me who’s lives as a slave probably weren’t going to be the best based off of what Mistress Robins had told me.
Still, in this numbness we were able to work out routines that made our time waiting to be shipped out to a slave dealer much less stressful. What was once a confused mess of waiting to get a chance to brush our teeth and use the toilet in the morning had morphed into a semi-orderly line for both that cut the time it took to get ready for morning inventory in half. Charlotte had even helped us work out designated sleeping areas for everyone so we at least had the illusion of having our own space.
One of the other slaves, Maria if I remember correctly, even figured out a way for us to make that horrible slave loaf a bit more edible. We had already figured out that we needed to save half of our loaf for later on since this place only fed us once a day, but maria figured out that soaking it in our “milk” made it go down so much easier. The second half had to be eaten soaked in water, but it achieved the same result and filled us up a little better that way. You wouldn’t think these little things would make a difference, but in a place like this learning how to turn soy milk cartons into a cup and making slave loaf into “oatmeal” kept half of these women from falling into complete despair.
One of our rarer luxuries over these few weeks, however, was the humble shower. We were expected to wash ourselves a bit every day using the sink on the toilet, but for some unknown reason to us [under staffing the warehouse, most likely], they were only able to take us out of the pen for one every three or four days. To a free person this would be considered mildly gross, and they would be right. Unfortunately we were slaves and according to Mistress Robins when I asked her at some point, the company didn’t think that slaves sitting in a chain-link cage all day got dirty enough to warrant more than that. I doubt whoever wrote that policy had ever stepped foot in this place, or smelled it when you put this many people together at once, but we had to work with what we got.
The first shower, and the most uncomfortable one, came a few days after we got here. We were chatting a bit while we were eating our “oatmeal” when a pair of male overseers came to the door and yelled for us to line up at the door. I was at the middle of this line with Charlotte a few women behind me, and the twins just ahead of me. We moved forward one by one as they handcuffed us into two coffles just like the ones they brought us here in. The men then led us a short walk away from our pen to another, similar sized, slave pen that had been converted into a shower room with four shower heads against the wall and a large garbage can at it’s entrance.
They unlocked us one by one, and ordered us to throw our clothes in the can while handing us a packet of soap and what looked like a wet disposable cleaning rag from a bucket to use as a washcloth. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing as we waited in line for our turn at the shower head. The other women pre-soaped their bodies with the washcloth, and I followed their lead, not wanting to run out of time to clean myself in case there was a timer on the showerhead. The soap felt like cheap hand soap, but at least it didn’t burn like the chemical they used in intake, thank god. The water was just as cold as intake though, with me finding out very quickly why every woman ahead of me was shivering as she walked away from the shower head. Despite this cold, however, I tried to take all the time I was allowed to attempt to get my already horrible hair in order. In just a few days it was already turning into a tangled mess that the cheap comb we were given every morning couldn’t fix.
In retrospect, the showers weren’t much more than cold water and hand soap not much better than we had when we were processed into this place. They weren’t good at all compared to what even the poorest free person got, but at the time that ice cold water and shitty soap meant that we got to feel clean for just a little bit before the dirt and grime of this place got on us again. It also meant that we got a fresh set of clothes to take back to our pen with us, which I was getting disturbingly used to despite the fact that they were still made out of the most uncomfortable material ever made.
Before we could get our new change of clothes, however, they made us drip dry standing there with our hands behind our heads. This whole time, I could already feel these two overseers watching us. I know they probably saw much nicer looking women than me every day, and most likely weren’t looking at us like that, but it was still humiliating to be exposed to two unknown men like I was on display for them. They even encouraged us to jump up and down a bit to dry off quicker or “dance” the water off in place if we wanted to. A few did, but I wasn’t giving them a show unless I had to. Then, as we were all still standing there drip drying I heard a familiar voice, Mistress Robins.
She was walking into our shower room with another overseer in tow. After making brief and polite conversation with the two overseers watching us, her reason for being here became obvious as soon as she put her gloves on. She went from slave to slave scanning our barcode and inspecting us from head to toe. She was efficient, and it only seemed to take her a moment to check all the boxes on her phone for each of us. When she got to me, she didn’t even seem to recognize me as she began to inspect me, even though I was just serving her the other day. She put my head down and roughly inspected my hair for anything of note, shined a light into my eyes, mouth and ears, and did a general inspection of my breasts, body and crotch for god knows what while checking boxes off on her phone. As I would find out later, this was done often to make sure that sick and lice ridden slaves weren’t causing outbreaks inside the warehouse.
This woman was a machine and just when I thought she was done treating me like a slab of meat and ready to leave; she pointed to me, Charlotte, and another slave, Halima, and said “Lice risk, do something about it please. Especially the scrawny Latina one, her hair is a week away from a rats nest”. After Mistress Robins and her assistant left, one of the overseers left as well and came back with some electric clippers. One by one we were bent over the shower room’s garbage can by one overseer while the other buzzed us down to nothing on our heads. Charlotte almost cried, and Halima just had this look of embarrassment like she was somehow more naked now, but I was proud of myself. I kept my composure somehow and only cried inside while this last bit of my old life was taken away from me. After we got taken back to our pen with our new change of clothes, the others tried but failed to avoid staring at us. Eventually as the weeks we were there went on, most of us ended up having the same thing happen to them and it stopped being a big deal. If anything it made it easier to keep ourselves clean in this environment.
As the days after our first shower and our first “spot inspection” as Mistress Robins would call them added up, our routines continued without much issue and we all seemed to get used to the little things they did to remind us of what we were now. I didn’t think I would see Mistress Robins in her office again after that day in the shower room, but I guess I was wrong. The day after my head was shaved she sent an overseer to bring me to her office. After the overseer let me in and closed the door, I stood there looking down at the floor nervously waiting for her to speak. I could sense her just sitting there staring at me and looking me up and down for what seemed like forever until she quietly said to me, “well slave, you already know how I like my massages. Get to it and stop wasting my time”. Those words instantly diffused a ton of the anxiety I was feeling at that moment as I got to work massaging Mistress Robins like I did days before.
She didn’t want anything extra this time but for some weird reason she felt the need to pet my shaved head while I was kneeling under her desk massaging her feet like I was her cat. Though patronizing, it actually felt pretty good. She kept running her hand over the buzz cut that used to be my long hair while saying to me when she was done, “you had nice hair slave, too nice for a slave to maintain unfortunately”. I wanted to be sad when she reminded me of that but I stopped myself when I realized she was somewhat right, as it would’ve gotten much worse and much more painful to shave off later if I let it turn into a rats nest of tangles and mess.
Until I left the warehouse a few weeks later, an overseer took me to Mistress Robin’s office every morning. I would be left in her cage for her to collect when she arrived, and work for her until she left at night. The massages killed my hands and after eating her out almost a dozen times I felt like a whore, but for some reason it didn’t feel degrading the way she did it to me. One time she even put a some peanut M&M’s just inside of her and had me eat the candies out of her. Ignoring the fact that it’s probably not a good idea to put candy inside yourself like that, I would’ve never seen myself eating candy out of another woman’s vagina in a millon years. Yet here I was eating M&M's covered in Mistress Robins's Juices like it was the best thing in the world. Actually, compared to slave loaf soaked in water, it somehow was. That particular night with the candy, she even rewarded me with some “stimulation”. I didn’t have an intense orgasm as far as I can remember, but I was apparently putty in this woman’s gloved hand when she was playing with my pussy to the point where I had to ask permission to lean on her desk when my knees got weak. With Mistress Robins, however, it wasn’t all sex and massages.
Most of those days she needed an assistant to carry things for her, or do something else too mundane for another overseer to assist her, so I got to follow her around the warehouse helping her out with her work. It was exhausting keeping up with her the whole day, and I still had to work for her on the same “sit on our ass all day” rations as everyone else, but it was honestly great practice for serving my future master/mistress and keeping up with their daily grind. If I was stuck being a slave, I was at least not gonna be a fuckup about it.
The oddest part of working for her though, was getting to see more of how the people working in this place viewed us. Mistress Robins and most of the other overseers I saw weren’t cruel to the slaves here unless they purposely did something to piss them off, but I could clearly see what we were to these people in the end. The slaves in the pens were seen as no more than inventory that needed to be maintained until they weren’t the overseer’s problem anymore, and the slaves that worked around the warehouse like me were talked to and treated like we were a tool or an appliance that only existed to make their jobs easier. Yet at the same time, the slaves working in this place were often treated with a small amount of respect and "kindness" that the women in the pens didn't get from these people.
Mistress Robins was the perfect example of this mentality. When I was working for her or serving her in the office, my presence was barely even acknowledged as long as I was quietly following instructions and conforming to her expectations. If I was not needed in that moment, I was expected to quietly wait out of her eyesight until I was called over. At the same time, Mistress Robins always made a point to thank me when she was done with me for the day or play with my hair for a few minutes while I was going down on her. She even had the "kindness" to make sure I was able to get a quick water and bathroom break in a couple of times a day while she was running me all over the warehouse. 15 years later I still can’t understand how a person can go from treating a me and pen full of slaves like we were nothing during a spot inspection, to treating me like a person a few hours later that same day when by all accounts I was the same person, just in a different place.
In the end though, I had to keep reminding myself every day when I was done with my work that this was all going to be over soon, and I would be shipped off to some slave dealer any day now. When that happened, I couldn’t rely on Mistress Robin’s patronizing “kindness”, or the support of the others in my slave pen when I was standing there by myself being bought by god knows who. I had to be strong, and I had to be strong by myself. Or else I was going to fuck this all up for myself.