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Anna’s Story - A Slave’s Journal Entry 15

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Danicali299
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Anna’s Story - A Slave’s Journal Entry 15

Post by Danicali299 »

Thank you Zee, CarlBradford, Eroticstoryspinner, Avicia, and Mister Smith for your editing and input.

Trigger Warning: Slavery, Dark Shit, Pregnancy Related Shit, And People getting milked.
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The silence was awkward as I sat there staring into space while Miss O’Connor was standing behind me trying to make me presentable again. I thought to myself how odd of a role reversal it was. Last year I was taking care of Miss O’Connor’s appearance. Now it was her brushing my hair and helping me apply the very products from the factory I worked in on my face. They felt nice, and I could tell why that hippie shit went for so much money.

Then I broke the silence and bluntly asked, “Why didn’t you call after the baby came? I thought I was going to be there forever.”

She replied, “I wanted to, but Ethan wouldn’t set it up when I called him after Andrea told me you gave birth. He was supposed to pass a message along telling you that I would be there in a couple of weeks, but he obviously didn’t do that since we’re having this conversation right now. It’s honestly embarrassing that you were able to get a message to me, but I couldn’t even get my own brother to tell you two sentences.”

Hearing this, I sheepishly said, “I understand ma’am. I’m sorry if I was out of line.”

She accepted my apology and warmly said, “Listen Anna, I’m sorry that all this happened to you, and I’m sorry that my asshole brother didn’t bother telling you I was coming like he was supposed to. After a quick brunch downstairs I promise that I will get you as far away from this place as possible and I can start making this up to you. Now let's finish getting you all pretty again.”

I could tell how much she regretted her plan last Christmas and as much as I wanted to scream at her and hate her, I wasn’t going to hurt her any more than she hurt herself over that mistake. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to forgive her and move on so I didn’t end up like Edna. I was still curious how she was going to make it up to me though, and when I asked while she was doing my makeup, she told me it was a surprise for when we got home. Hopefully, this surprise wasn’t another kid.

After she was done with me, I was allowed to turn around and look in the mirror. The clothes she grabbed for me the night before were plain but nice, and with my hair and makeup done I didn’t look like I just spent the past ten months as a breeding slave. I still felt like an emotional wreck, and already had an appointment with a doctor to get medicine to help me with the post-partum depression as soon as we got home, but that morning I felt like Cinderella getting dolled up for the ball. Miss O’Connor even covered my barcode up with some makeup so I could enjoy brunch without people downstairs instantly seeing I was a slave. I doubted Master Walsh was gonna appreciate that little detail, but as far as I was concerned he could go fuck himself after what he pulled.

I followed Miss O’Connor out of the room and before we went downstairs she hugged me tight and warmly said, “Honey, I’m so proud of you. I know things are hard right now, but bringing a life into this world is supposed to mess you up. Just be patient and take care of yourself, and you’ll come back from this a better person than you were before.”

I had no idea how popping a baby out was going to make me a better person at the time, but in the end, she was right. I didn’t notice it at first, but it was like some maternal switch was flipped in my brain and I could see situations from a completely different perspective after that. At the moment however, I was still trying to get my head straight so I could put on a good face for those rich assholes downstairs. I still looked like I just had a kid, but with my rich asshole camouflage, I could at least pretend for the morning I wasn’t a slave.

Surprisingly, Miss O’Connor’s makeover worked and they didn’t recognize me as a slave, and even the men who had used me multiple times when I was with the breeders didn’t recognize me with nice clothes and makeup on. They were here with their wives and families, and I had to fight the temptation to go up to a few of these men and say in front of their wives, “Hello, Sir, do you remember having sex with me when I was 7 months pregnant? It felt great having my sore tits squeezed like a stress ball while you finished inside me and left me a candy bar as payment.”

I didn’t understand it. These men had beautiful wives and happy-looking families, and they got their rocks off using run-down breeders like a fleshlight? While I was pregnant and desperate I didn’t mind putting out for snacks and attention, but out here it felt like these men were slapping their wives in the face every time they showed up there to pick a slave out. I knew it was common for married men to use slaves like that, but for some reason it still made me mad that the only difference between cheating and what they were doing was a barcode on the woman’s wrist.

Luckily, Master Walsh was already warned by Miss O’Connor not to give me any shit for my barcode being covered, and to let me enjoy his little party in relative peace. I could tell that Miss O’Connor was pissed at him, and the two of them were just keeping up appearances in front of his friends now. His wife was nice enough to give me a gift basket of the cosmetics I used to make, though. The other guests got one too, but since Miss O’Connor and I weren’t supposed to be there that morning, I was grateful for the gift when she privately gave it to me and apologized for her husband not passing along my owner’s message. At least ONE of the breeding operation’s owners had some decency. The best part of it all was the food, though.

I didn’t just have a basic steak. I had a 12oz sirloin from one of the cows on the ranch cooked in front of me Pittsburgh style by a culinary school-trained slave until it was rare with a perfect sear on the outside and put on a plate with an omelet and home fries. This was not a meal for a slave, this was a meal for a queen and I sat on my throne at our table and finished every last bite of it. By the time my plate was empty, I didn’t want to move.

Then, even though I was full, Miss O’Connor handed me a plate with some cobbler on it and said, “Enjoy this while you can. I already have a special diet planned that will help you lose the baby weight and get back into those nice uniforms I bought you last year.”

After I was done Miss O’Connor looked at me holding my stomach and said while laughing a bit, “Anna, I think you had enough brunch today. Let’s go get cleaned up and hit the road. We have a long drive back home.”

Finally, we could get away from this pretentious place. I was sad about one thing, though. I wanted to meet up with Martin before I left and thank him for getting my message out. I also wanted to “reward” him for his help, but there simply wasn’t time before we left for me to even make my way to where he lived on the ranch.

After we left, the drive was long and dull. Miss O’Connor didn’t want me driving yet, and that meant all I had to do to keep myself occupied while I was awake was listen to the radio or awkwardly talk with her. I didn’t want to dwell on the pregnancy, but for some reason, she wanted to talk about hers and try to relate with me when it came to the hell and trauma that was bringing life into the world. I could tell her intentions were good though, so I humored her at least. It was kinda nice bonding with her over those experiences, and it felt nice to talk about how it all felt with her. Listening to her stories did make me wish I had someone like her husband, though. A man who was willing to take care of me and keep me comfortable would’ve made that experience much more bearable.

I already knew that I couldn’t have a husband like Miss O’Connor’s because I was a slave, but I did hope that one day I would be in the position to have someone to call my own. Most “official” marriages between slaves were arranged by their owners as part of a business deal or some other scheme that was supposed to lead to profit, and as far as I knew that’s how Earl and Edna got together. I wanted more though. I couldn’t have prince charming, but I could have someone I clicked with for as long as we could be together at least. That was just how it worked for slaves. You could either have a loveless arranged marriage where you had to learn to love your partner over time, or you could have secret relationships that could be broken up at a moments notice by your owner.

No matter what I did to keep myself distracted from the drive though, the lack of breast pumping was starting to hurt like hell. Eventually, Miss O’Connor noticed how uncomfortable I was, and allowed me to squeeze what I could into an empty coffee cup at least. It wasn’t much, but since both of us neglected to ask for a hand pump before we left it would have to do until we got to civilization and got something better suited for the job. It was funny how put off she was by it, while the only thing that made me uncomfortable about it all was how exposed I felt when we were in traffic and people driving by us could clearly see me sitting there topless trying to milk myself. Still, it beat being bound and hooked to a milking machine any day.

She even tried to cheer me up a bit by drinking some of it as a joke, before spitting it out the window. She still had a sour look on her face while she asked, “How do babies drink that shit? It tastes like diabetes and cheap almond milk.”

It wasn’t intentional, but her reaction cheered me up enough to keep me a little distracted from the pain until we made our way into a small town to bed down for the night. While we were there, she even found me a small pump at the local Dollar General I could use when we were in the motel.

I had shared a bed with her before, and it was awkward for me when she had me do it, but this time Miss O’Connor was the awkward one as we both slept naked due to me only having one set of clothes at the moment. It was nice to feel her warmth though, and by the morning I could feel her playing with my hair as I used her chest as a pillow like I always did. Even after this long, I was a creature of habit. It felt like before all this happened, and I didn’t want that moment to end. Unfortunately, those moments always had to end, and after a quick kiss on her breast to thank her for playing with my hair we had to get ready to get back on the road.

A few hours later Miss O’Connor was hungry and we pulled into the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel right off the highway. I had no idea why she was having me put makeup over my barcode again, but I found out soon enough after I saw a sign by the door saying, ‘NO SLAVES ALLOWED’ in big letters.

I questioned why I was going inside a restaurant I wasn’t welcome in, but Miss O’Connor whispered in my ear, “This is the only good place besides McDonald's for miles, just pretend you’re not a slave and we’ll be fine.”

It always threw me off seeing the sheer number of businesses denying service to slaves. Most sit-down restaurants, salons, spas, brothels, and even clothing stores banned slaves who didn’t work there from entering the building unaccompanied. A ton even banned slaves from entering with their owners. A good example of this was Costco. Miss O’Connor could go there and shop, but I had to wait in the car or the designated slave area by the entrance for her to come to get me. Same for the time Jessica dragged me to the mall with her to carry her bags and give opinions on what she was trying on. As soon as an employee saw my barcode, I was kicked out and had to wait in the car. Luckily for me, Jessica got pissed and left in protest so I wasn’t waiting long. The local Catholic church didn’t even let me worship outside of a gated-off section in the back where I could barely hear the priest. It was insulting that I couldn't even go to church without being looked down upon by the free people sitting in front of me. It was clear to me that these “good Christians” didn’t learn a thing from the book they claimed guided their life so much. To be honest, that experience made me never want to go to church ever again.

That’s why slaves loved Walmart, thrift stores, and fast food so much. They didn’t care who you were as long as you had money and paid for your shit. The discrimination even pissed off a lot of free people. People could accept slaves having to stand in special train cars on the subway, or in the slave section of the bus, but when people couldn’t take their slaves with them to the store because some snooty company thought that their very presence would pollute their brand it was a problem. The reasons slaves and free people were mad about this issue were usually very different, but it was one of those issues almost everyone could come together on and be happy about when another retailer was forced to scrap their slave ban. We didn’t get human rights, but at least we could go into Target, I guess.

Ironically, like most other businesses that banned slaves as customers, this one was mostly staffed by them. Our poor waitress didn’t even have a name, just the number seven on her name tag. I could even tell by how she carried herself and the scars on her arms that she was probably catching a beating for every customer complaint she received, even the ones that were from obvious Karens. Miss O’Connor could see this too and was very nice to this poor girl serving us so we didn’t get her in trouble. I hated the South, and I hated how I kept seeing all these slaves down here being treated like shit. Still, the food was good and I was hungry, so I looked past the evidence of the suffering around me and ate my meal just like a free person would - in blissful ignorance of how the slaves making their meals possible were treated. After a little bit, even Miss O’Connor couldn’t get out of this country/plantation-themed facade fast enough and get back on the road. Luckily, we only had a few more hours to go until we were back in Pennsylvania and back to someplace where I knew I wasn’t going to see this level of abuse and discrimination anymore.

By the time we arrived in Philadelphia, I had been asleep for hours. Miss O’Connor encouraged me to get as much rest as I needed, and I was still exhausted for some reason. She explained that I wasn’t going to feel normal for months, and what I was feeling was my new normal, but I just wanted the after-effects of this pregnancy to go away. It was already bad enough that I was producing over a pint of milk each day, and I didn’t want anything else getting in the way of my ability to do my job and serve Jessica. I just wanted to put the past ten months behind me and go back to what I was trained to do. My appointment the next day, and the medicine that would stop my milk and help with the depression, couldn’t come fast enough.

Eventually, we arrived back home, and I didn’t even notice until Miss O’Connor was gently waking me up in the driveway. To say I was excited to see my “home” was an understatement. I cried tears of joy seeing this place and couldn’t wait for Miss O’Connor to unlock the door and let me in. In retrospect, I was much too excited to go back to being a house slave, even if the alternative was being pregnant in what was basically a minimum-security prison full of other pregnant women who’s only distraction was being pimped out or reading beat up books while being miserable all day. Still, it was nice to see Michael, Edna, and Earl on the other side of the door. I had no idea what warranted this reception, but I went along with it.

In a surprising twist, Edna was the first to greet me. She ran over and hugged me while emotionally saying, “When I heard you were pregnant, I was afraid you were gonna end up staying down there. I’m glad you’re back, and if you try to overwork yourself before you’re ready I’ll beat you myself.”

At least Edna didn’t change much, even though I could tell that she seemed to have a little more respect for me than before. Maybe it was because of how long I was gone, maybe she thought I knew her pain now, I would never know. Then Michael hugged me and told me how much he missed my cooking. Not much changed with him either I guess. He did smell better than before and dressed differently though. Maybe something clicked with him and he finally started to grow up and treat himself like he was an adult now. I was happy for him.

Finally, Earl approached me and shook my hand. I knew he wasn’t a hugger, and I appreciated the gesture as I told him, “Your son was a gentleman and risked a lot getting a message to you guys. You should be proud of him.”

Earl and Edna then asked me embarrassingly, “Did Martin do anything with you? I feel bad if he took advantage of you while you were like that.”

I laughed a little and blushed as I said to them, “I was his reward one night when I was towards the end of my pregnancy. He was a gentleman though and made sure I was comfortable and taken care of the whole time. He even gave me a massage when he was done because he thought he hurt me for some reason.”

They looked at me with shock and I added, “Guys, it’s fine. We were both slaves and neither of us had a choice in the matter. The fact that he treated me the way he did should make you guys proud.”

Luckily, they accepted my explanation and left me alone long enough for me to get a cup of coffee started. While I was making my coffee, Miss O’Connor came into the kitchen with Jessica on facetime and handed me the phone. I could see how tired she looked, and how ragged her scrub top was. I knew from overhearing Miss O’Connor’s warnings that her internship would be hell, but seeing her like this made me just want to run through the phone and take care of her like I was supposed to.

It was nice talking with her though, and I ended up spending almost an hour in the living room talking with her about pregnancy, life, graduation, and everything I missed while I was gone. She even told me why Michael was so cleaned up now. He had a girlfriend now, and I was pretty happy for the kid. I may have been her slave, but with the shit that we confided in each other those nights I was in bed with her we were close in a way that made me feel like I was more than a human vibrator. It wasn’t love, since I wasn’t a lesbian, but it was a companionship that made me feel wanted by someone for more than my job as a slave. I missed her and couldn’t wait to pack my things and move to Syracuse to serve her.

Unfortunately, she had to get ready for work and our call ended. As I was about to go give Miss O’Connor back her phone I noticed something, however. It was this beautiful wooden urn with a picture of my mother’s face carved into the wood on one of the shelves in the living room. I had no idea why Miss O’Connor had this on display, but I was happy to see it now that I knew my mother wasn’t suffering anymore. I was thinking to myself how messed up it was that I wasn’t crying seeing it in front of me, and I felt guilty for a moment. Then I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder. It was Miss O’Connor.

She softly said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted to wait until we were home and then you got sucked into your call with Jessica.”

Then she paused and said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I replied, “She would’ve liked it, ma’am. I’m surprised you put it out here though.”

Miss O’Connor seemed surprised for some reason and said, “It felt disrespectful leaving it in your room where there was nobody to take care of it.”

I then sheepishly asked, “Do you know if she was suffering in the end?”

Miss O’Connor sat me down on the couch and replied while holding my hands, “She came into the ER that night toward the end of my shift. She wasn’t doing too well, and we could tell that she wasn’t gonna last the night. Poor woman’s organs were failing, and the only thing keeping her going was the drugs in her system.”

She gulped for a second and told me, “After work, I went upstairs to see her. She wasn’t exactly happy to see me for obvious reasons and said a few choice words to me. She did ask me to stay with her for a little while, though, and we spent the last hours of her life talking about you. She was proud of you and kept telling me all these little stories about how you were when you were a kid. In the end, all I could do was pray with her while she closed her eyes for the last time.”

I could see her eyes get a little misty as I said, “Please tell me you didn’t tell her I was in that place. She didn’t deserve that.”

Miss O’Connor held my hands a little tighter and replied, “I told her that she was a grandmother now, and the baby wouldn’t be a slave like you. I even lied and told her that you were at home sick when she asked me if I could bring you there to see her. I feel bad for lying to a dying woman, but I couldn’t let her die knowing what I did to you.”

By this point, I was crying and said through my tears, “Thank you, ma’am. I’m just happy she didn’t have to suffer anymore. May I go to my room and have some alone time?”

She allowed me to have the rest of the night off to process everything, but first I was sent on a run to the thrift store before they closed in a couple of hours with 50 dollars. I was supposed to get myself some clothes to last me until I could fit into my old uniforms again, but for some reason, I was allowed to keep the change and do what I wanted with it.

As I walked through the aisles picking out what I wanted to try on I started to realize that she was bribing me right now. The cheap keepsake urn she promised when I was bought was replaced with handcrafted oak, and now I was being given way too much money to buy a few shirts and pairs of pants that wouldn’t come to more than 25 dollars with the tag sale they had going on that week. I wasn’t insulted, but I was put off a bit by the effort. I was a slave, and as much as she screwed me over, I knew she was overcompensating when all I wanted to do was get back to the way things were before we left for Texas.

Still, the leftover money went to good use when I saw a heart necklace I really liked. The silver and three diamonds were fake, but it reminded me of something my mother gave me for Christmas one year. I got jumped and robbed a few months later, but for the short time I wore it, I felt like a princess.

By the time I got back home, I was exhausted. Edna had already finished making dinner for the family and the slaves at least, so I knew I was going to get a nice meal before I went to my room and passed out. This was also the first taste of my new diet, Miss O’Connor was starting early, I guess. So instead of the chicken and gravy Edna and Earl ate, I got sauceless stir-fried vegetables and some baked fish. It wasn’t bad tasting, but it was a shock, to say the least. I couldn’t complain much though, at least Miss O’Connor gave enough of a shit to help me lose the baby weight. Now if she could get me those pills to stop my milk a little faster, I’d be happy.

After I ate dinner with Earl and Edna I made my way upstairs. Jessica’s room was empty, with it looking no different than the guest room. I could even see how clean Michael’s room was now as I wished him a good night. Then when I opened my door I was floored, apparently my room got a bit of an upgrade while I was gone. I could recognize a few pieces of furniture that used to be in Jessica’s room and even got her mattress and fake plants she used as decoration. It was still cramped, but with the way they set it up now I had room for a desk and what I assumed was Michael’s old TV. There was even a new to me laptop sitting on the desk. It was weird. I was gone for almost a year, but this room had almost no dust in it. The windows were even shiny and clean. Still, I was too tired to think and just wanted to pump and fall asleep.

I was so beat that night that I didn’t even set my alarm clock like I was supposed to. I woke up to Miss O’Connor jostling me awake while my breast pumps were still attached to me and making my nipples hurt like hell.

I expected her to be annoyed or mad at me, but instead, she warmly said, “It’s ok slave, you’re not in trouble. Yesterday wasn’t the greatest and you have plenty of time to catch up on your work before your doctor's appointment later.”

Then she started laughing after she saw the pumps still attached to me and said, “My husband found me asleep with the pump going all night so many times. Don’t worry, they’ll stop being sore in an hour or so.”

Afterward, it was a race to get ready for the day, or at least it felt like it was, as I took the world’s quickest shower and choked down my banana and oatmeal. Then when I got upstairs to start my cleaning lists Miss O’Connor stopped me and said, “We need to talk about your future. Meet me in the living room”. I had no idea what that meant, but I was worried for some reason as I entered the living room and saw Miss O’Connor sitting there with some papers.

Luckily, it was good news. While I was gone Jessica wanted to turn me into an investment that would help pay off her student loans a little quicker. As Miss O’Connor put it, it was a waste for me to clean all day while I had the potential to work a skilled job and earn her daughter money that she needed more than a house slave. I was going to college after all, even if it wasn’t the University of Pennsylvania. The only catch was that I couldn’t pick the job I was being trained for, since Miss O’Connor and Jessica had already decided that I was going to be a nurse. I had no interest in anything medical, but if it was better than being a house slave I was up for the challenge. If this was how Miss O’Connor was making things up to me, I was interested now.

At the same time, it threw me off a bit. Investment slaves were common among slaves serving an indenture, with almost a quarter of the doctors and nurses at Miss O’Connor’s hospital being owned by the hospital itself as some sort of arrangement that allowed them to finish their education without any debt while still somehow earning enough every week to afford groceries, hygiene products, and small luxuries while still having a small amount of money to save up for their future. They even had their own dormitory in a building a few blocks away from the hospital where they lived in conditions that Miss O’Connor described as looking like a “cheap college dorm”. For a lot of young people, especially the ones where I was from, signing a 10-year indenture to a company in their field after graduating college was often the only way to pay for an education that didn’t involve taking the risk of falling into debt slavery at a later date. Luckily for them, they didn’t have to go through the hell of a slave warehouse beyond the basic intake process and getting their barcode.

It was different for chattel slaves like me, however. We were still supposed to make the same as a free person to satisfy some regulations against keeping slaves from taking over skilled professions while paying the same payroll taxes as a free person. At the same time though, there was no contract guaranteeing that I would see a single dollar of what I made like the indentured slaves got. In all reality, chattel slaves were rarely turned into investments or trained for anything more than menial labor or semi-skilled trades when the vast majority of them had no more than a fourth-grade education. There were a few exceptions like me, but for the most part, a chattel slave’s life was supposed to be one of hard manual labor, sex slavery, housekeeping, or mindless factory work that was only suited for those who had no choice in the matter.

I was one of the lucky few chattel slaves who could even read well and do math beyond the basics, and Miss O’Connor reminded me of that as she explained how my future was going to work. I would be a house slave when I wasn’t studying or at school, and even had a whole packet of guidelines, rules, and reminders she typed up to help me understand it all. They were mostly basic shit, but a few of them stood out. One specified how much I would be punished for failing an assignment or a test while I was in school, while another reminded me how much money she was investing in my education. The lowest score I could get on any assignment or test was an 85, and for every point I got below that I would either get five hard strokes from her dad’s old bamboo cane or find out what a real shock collar feels like. To be honest, I quivered a bit when I read that page. I wasn't just getting a lecture if I failed, I was getting pretty severely punished.

On one hand, it seemed a little extreme to beat and shock me over grades, but at the same time, I could understand it. She was paying almost 60,000 dollars after the tuition discount her hospital gave its employees for their dependents to send me to college for three to four years. In addition, while I was in school I wouldn’t be doing much housework, so in essence, going to college was my job, and slacking at that job would get me punished accordingly. I just didn't want to find out what a 100-year-old bamboo cane would do to my back, let alone one of those scary shock collars from the slave dealership.

Despite the potential consequences of it all, there was some good to all of this. Once I started working I would be getting a portion of my check every week for myself. At first, it was only going to be 10%, but once Miss O’Connor was paid back for her part in getting me educated and trained for it all it would go up to 25% and that would open up new possibilities for me. This meant that I could open up a freedom account at the postal bank and hopefully save enough to buy myself out and get my freedom in time.

I mentioned this to her while we were going over the plan she made, and instead of getting mad like I thought she would, she said, “If you can pay Jessica your assessed value when that time comes we’re not gonna stop you. Just remember how long and hard it is to get that freedom for someone like you.”

She was right. For an indentured slave, getting freedom was a simple matter of serving your time or buying out your indenture. For someone like me, the government made it as long and annoying as possible since they viewed most chattel slaves as a burden to society if they were ever freed. This meant that paying my owner was only the first step, and that was if Jessica accepted my money in the first place. I wasn’t going to trust a promise that would probably be forgotten in the decade or so required after graduation to get the money together. Then I had to go to the federal building and apply for my freedom, and my citizenship again.

That meant that I had to submit a stack of forms proving that I had the money to pay my owner, pay for the taxes and fees associated with gaining my freedom, and have enough left over to support myself for a year. Once me and Miss O’Connor did the math this was going to cost me almost 150,000 dollars at a minimum. Once that hurdle was cleared, I had to prove that I had a college or trade school education and was gainfully employed by my owner in a field that would support me once I was free.

Luckily the Postal Bank had “Freedom Accounts” that couldn’t be touched by our owners, allowing us to save every dollar we could toward our freedom. They had horrible interest rates, annoying rules regarding withdrawals, and an app that was from the stone age, but for many slaves it was the best hope they had. There were even bonds we could buy as an investment toward our freedom. On the surface the Postal Bank seemed like a generous organization giving slaves a chance that nobody else would. In reality, most slaves who opened up accounts and bought bonds never got their freedom. This meant that the government made billions off of the life savings of millions of slaves just like a private bank would. The bonds were good for the slaves that could afford them though, so we had that at least.

Then after all those hurdles and fees, your name got put into the “freedom lottery” while you hoped that you would be one of the lucky ones allowed manumission that year. Things like education, income, and time since you were put into the pool weighted your slave ID more, but in the end, this was a years-long process that culminated with me hopefully getting my freedom before I left my 30s.

To be honest, looking at all the information she gave me was overwhelming. I had spent so much time mentally preparing myself for spending the rest of my life serving Jessica that the thought of working a normal job and getting my eventual freedom had me a little freaked out. I didn’t even know if Jessica would take my money and let me have my freedom. It didn’t sound too bad to spend the rest of my life keeping a portion of my pay while someone else paid for my housing, but it just seemed lazy to me. I couldn’t understand why so many investment slaves were content being someone’s property while they spent their money on stupid luxuries that they didn’t even have time to use after all the hours they worked.

Miss O’Connor quickly picked up on this and squeezed my hand while calmly saying, “I know this is a lot to take in, Anna, and I know this seems like a lot of pressure on you, but I’m here to help you with school if you need it. I want you to worry about freedom later though, right now you need to focus on doing good in school so I can get you that great job you need to even try to get that far.”

She wasn’t wrong, and I appreciated her bringing me back into the moment. I had to stop overthinking things so much. I was still going to be a slave for a long time, and I needed to stop putting the cart before the horse. Still, it felt nice knowing that I had a chance now, even if it was going to be a while before I could see it. If she was true to her word, I would even have help from an experienced doctor with some of the harder aspects of what I was going to learn.

Our conversation took a couple of hours, and after we were done it was almost time to leave for my doctor's appointment. After my time in Texas, I didn’t really like doctors examining me, but Miss O’Connor got me one who surprised me. Because I was a slave she still had to be in the room with me, but the woman taking a look at me and asking me questions didn’t treat me like a slave. To her, I was just another postpartum woman who needed help. In my case, that help came in the form of a prescription for some anti-depressants, the pills to stop my milk, a good diet, and more exercise until I got myself back into pre-pregnancy condition. She even showed me how to do something called pelvic floor exercises to get my bits and pieces to the point where it was supposed to be almost like I never gave birth. I couldn’t wait to get rid of anything that would remind me of my pregnancy.

I appreciated Miss O’Connor for bringing me here and it was nice being treated like an actual person, even if the doctor did legally have to call me “slave” because of some stupid standard that nobody understood. Once Miss O’Connor shared my future career with her, the doctor even recommended a gym that allowed slaves so I could get in better shape for my future career. I didn’t understand what she meant at first, but on the way back home Miss O’Connor explained that my job would be decently physically demanding and building a little strength would be a good idea before I graduated and found out the hard way. This is why I liked being owned by her, she always thought of the little things that I would’ve overlooked.

After we were home, things felt different. I was still a little off due to post-partum depression, but at the same time, I knew that I would be better soon if this medication worked as promised. Even without the depression being a factor things felt different. A year and a half ago I had my freedom ripped away from me, my identity taken away and left to the mercy of a slave owner, and my very existence turned into a product. It was not only humiliating being processed and turned into someone’s property, but it was also terrifying and I got lucky being bought by someone like Miss O’Connor instead of some abusive asshole.

Then she had the bright idea to play games with my body, and it backfired on her, leaving me pregnant against my will and locked up with no communication or hope of ever leaving that place. In the end, I was just as broken as that woman I saw on the chain gang that day. The only difference between us was how long it took, and how many scars we showed the world. I was a slave and was always going to be a slave no matter how nice my room was, no matter how kind my owners were, and no matter how hard I worked to please the family I served.

Now though, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn’t see it then, but the signs were on the wall and all I had to do was follow them. I didn’t know when it would end, but I knew that once I walked into that light all those years of hard work and dedication would be the foundation I could build my new life as a free woman on.
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