Fraternity Girl

[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. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor be used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Special thanks: The HCI PETSMART Obedience School appears by kind permission of Gentleman Mariner, who described its methods in much greater detail in his classic tale/tail “Went West.”)

(Prelude: The kitchen of the Delta Tau Chi Fraternity House at TCU’s Fort Worth Campus)

Amy Williams, the cook and “house mother” of the fraternity, is a pretty if somewhat blousy and well-padded woman, probably closer to 50 than 40 years of age but still moving with attractive grace and femininity. It’s nearing the end of the May exam period for the Spring term. She was talking to Josh Wilkins, just elected to serve as chapter president for the following year.

“Mister Josh, you know that Julie is due to complete her term of indenture next Monday, and she needs to be returned to the State Agriculture Department that day to record her manumission. The way we’ve usually done that is the chapter president buys her a set of clothes and takes her and her indenture papers to her turn-in; after that, she’s free to go, but we walk the poor girl next door to the Texas Freedom Foundation so they can care for her as she re-integrates into society.”

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to start earning the big bucks as president,” Josh joked about his unpaid—at least in monetary terms—duties. “I’ll do it, and I’m sure your next question is gonna be, how will we replace Julie?” DTC was hardly a well-endowed fraternity, but it took a minimum of four slave girls to act as maids and kitchen help, at least during the academic year. The brothers were often too flaky to clean up after themselves, and besides they enjoyed having a nice selection of slave pussy around.

He continued, however: “The good news is that the National Board of DTC just received a very large gift from one of our alumni brothers, authorizing each chapter to purchase and train a new slave each of the next three years for up to $100,000 each girl. I have to take our treasurer, Hal, with me to the market to buy Julie’s replacement.”

Amy knew how young men’s minds worked—or didn’t—when it came to young women, so she reminded him to make sure he found a girl with some smarts and not just a nice rack and soft lips. No matter how good a girl might be to fuck, most of her job was to clean, cook, and sometimes tutor the slower, denser brothers, so the chapter didn’t need any “dumb broads.” She also reminded him that there was a written SOP concerning how to bid on and if necessary train new sluts.

*****

(Patricia Herron’s viewpoint).

I had thought that yesterday was the worst day of my life, when I had to surrender myself at the Agriculture Department to satisfy the bank. It had all gone bad so quickly. Three years ago, I had graduated TCU with a degree in English Literature and a minor in business, but the only job I could get was as a secretary, which hadn’t translated into enough money to even pay the interest on my student loans, especially since two the male chauvinists for whom I worked couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. So now I would be a slave for the next seven years to pay off $62,000 in remaining debt. I shuddered to think if one of my former bosses got his hands on me . . .

As I said, I THOUGHT yesterday was the worst, but today is likely to be even more excruciating. I again feel the terror I had known at age 18 when, in order to qualify for that college loan, I had spent the day naked, collared, and helpless being fondled and slave-graded at the Longhorn Slave Market—only this time, there was no one to sign for me, release me, and give me back my clothes after the grading. Instead, I’d started with the usual preliminaries of slave block moves and pornographic photographs to be uploaded to the National Slave Registry (mine being more than five years old needed to be updated). The other change was that as an actual slave I got an injection of Hony Juice, a hormone concoction that appeared to be living up to its name by adding to my arousal; somehow my fight-or-flight nervousness was translating into sexual excitement, even though I was truly terrified of becoming a nameless sex object. (The slave vet remarked that the Longhorn frowned upon the use of Horny Juice because it distorted the slave’s natural arousal, but apparently the bank insisted on it to get maximum dollar for me.)

Next, a spray down my throat temporarily eliminated the ability to talk, and my body was restrained, spread-eagled, on its back on a cold, metal, adjustable table that allowed the free people—which no longer included me!—to walk up close to me and almost casually finger and explore my body.
I lay in the middle of a row of a dozen similarly-restrained, naked (and mostly female) bodies. As we were put on the tables, I must confess to being secretly relieved that the young women nearest the visitor’s entrance were very attractive, obviously just-18-years-old girls wearing the pink collars that proclaimed they were free women here only for slave grading, not sale. When the doors were opened to the public (gawkers aged 18 or over who paid 75 cents each), these poor girls got surrounded, fondled, and teased unmercifully by their erstwhile classmates in high school.

I had almost relaxed in the relative anonymity of being the slave no one knew or stared at when two vaguely familiar faces suddenly appeared above me, having walked deep between my widespread legs so that they were only inches from my exposed crotch: Josh Wilkins and Hal . . . what was his name? Boron! The two had been forgettable, nerdy freshmen when I was a senior at TCU, and I had once been paid to tutor Josh because his writing skills were so bad. He had even had the nerve to ask me for a date, but I had tried, as gently as possible, to turn him down. Back then, I had been far above him socially, but now I was spread wide and at his mercy. I couldn’t even talk, and for a woman who relies on her writing and speaking to influence others that made me feel even more vulnerable than even being naked and bound. Oh, crap.

It was obvious that he remembered me as well. “I always thought you were destined to end up on your back as a slut, Pat. I finally got between your legs, and I didn’t even have to buy you dinner first!” He looked pleased with himself but not particularly angry, yet I quailed at how low I had fallen, both literally and figuratively. I told myself that he must be—what, a college senior?—so there was no way he could afford to buy me and the wranglers wouldn’t let a mere spectator be TOO abusive to a slave, right? Only registered bidders at the auction got to check out the merchandise in detail.

And then he spread my labia and worked two fingers deep into my birth canal, only to bring them out, visibly moist from my treacherous body. He displayed his fingers to his buddy. “Yup, see how hot she is, Hal? You’re definitely born to the collar.” As he turned away, Josh winked and said, “See you later, sweetheart.” I prayed not—the only thing worse than being a sex slave for my former boss would be a sex slave owned by a vindictive younger guy! Where the hell were the wranglers?

Hal Boron hadn’t said much, although he did take the opportunity to heft my breasts and gently tweak my already-erect nipples. It took the remainder of my hour on display for me to recover from the shock and humiliation of meeting those two, but I finally convinced myself that they were just playing around; no way could they afford the $70,000 (counting the processing fees of the Longhorn) to buy my contract. I had to admit, the thought of being their sex toy for seven years was kind of intriguing, even sexy, or at least preferable to being pimped out by one of the slave prostitute companies. I didn’t want either of those outcomes, of course, but I realized that I had to allow myself a little arousal to get one of the slave merchants to buy me for a relatively safe and bearable service. Just the thought of such service was bad enough. Still, somehow, I managed to smile, wriggle, and even will my nipples to perk up when the full-time merchants came through with their tablets. They barely glanced my way, however—you know you’re really bad off when you’re disappointed that nobody seems interested in buying your body for sex slavery!

*****
After the ordeal of being on display like that, the wrangler who had charge of me—Jim, I think?—released me, re-cuffed my hands behind my back, and (with his fingers firmly up my butt crack and his palm lightly gripping my left buttock) frog-marched me off to one of the many wire mesh cages. He sprayed the antidote down my throat to restore my voice, then left me with a bottle of water to recover and wait, my heartrate rising slowly, for the moment of truth when I would be sold at auction.

When I heard someone walking down the corridor between cages, apparently headed towards me, I followed “Master” Jim’s instructions to kneel on the hard floor, facing the mesh gate of my cage, with my thighs spread wide and fingers interlocked behind my neck, a pose that, inevitably, caused my modest breasts to rise upwards as if I were offering them for inspection. Jim took advantage of the “offer” by firmly fondling them as if they were twin bags of mashed potatoes, telling me he was trying to ensure that I was aroused for my auction. For the next half-hour, as he walked me over and stood in line with the other wrangler-and-slave pairs waiting for their turn on the block, he periodically goosed me or whispered dirty compliments while encouraging me to slowly increase my masturbation, bringing myself up to a low boil by the time it was my turn at the head of the line for auction. I cooperated fully because, as I’ve said before, I really wanted to sell for enough money to pay off my loan, not to mention ensuring that my new owner (GAAAH, I hate that word) would take care of me during my servitude.

I must have blocked out the details of my actual auction—I was driven by the twin passions of arousal and terrified humiliation, prancing around in response to the auctioneer’s commands. In the middle of the bidding, I caught sight of my two tormentors, Josh and Hal, grinning as I flaunted myself like the skankiest whore in creation. And then I noticed that Josh had a numbered paddle that, I assumed, allowed him to bid on me in the auction. The idea that he might actually own my ass both terrified and aroused me so much that I shuddered to a halt, unable to recall what I should do next. Fortunately, the auctioneer, a burly Black guy, got me going again with a sharp but brief tap of the whip between my legs. I was still emotional, weaving, and dizzy when I heard the auctioneer announce,

“Sold, to Number one-forty-two for $72,000.” Well, at least the bank was paid off, I thought, as I fainted dead away.

When I awoke I was back in a cage, with the market’s slave veterinarian just checking me over and Jim the wrangler looking very concerned, bless his heart. They both told me to stay calm and move slowly while ingesting first a candy bar and then another water bottle.

Half an hour later, I heard the sound of multiple people headed towards my cage, so I again got on my knees in the “Present” position, feeling completely subservient and exposed, which was half the purpose of that position anyway.

You guessed it: Master Jim arrived with my two new owners: Josh Wilkins and Hal Boron. Josh proudly announced that I was now the property of Delta Tau Chi fraternity, and my heart sank at the thought of being not just a sex slave but a sex slave (on my own college campus!) for a bunch of young guys with little to no experience dealing with women in bed or out. I guess I needed to work on my poker face—Josh immediately saw that I found the idea completely repulsive.

He sighed audibly. “Looks as if we need to bring you down a few pegs so you understand your new role in the world, slut,” he said, not angry so much as disappointed. Turning to the wrangler, he said, “Please give me half an hour to make arrangements for her training, and then take her down to shipping—there should be a shipping voucher for her by then.”

Looking at me again, he cupped my chin and remarked, “I’m sure you think I’m being a dick, but I bet you’ll be a lot more content once you’ve been re-trained for your new status. Have a nice vacation, Babe.” He and Hal turned on their heels and left. Master Jim shook his head, saying “Girl, you got no idea how much trouble you’re in. Just do what you’re told and show some enthusiasm—best way to get through the training.”

Thirty minutes later, he walked me to the shipping department, stopping just long enough to allow me to use a piss grate and swallow another few ounces of water. Before I could blink, I was gagged, blindfolded, stuffed with dildos up both of my lower entrances, and cuffed on my knees inside one of those oversized dog cages used to transport slaves. This was NOT going to be fun.

*****
I tried my best to sleep on what seemed like a long and uncomfortable journey. I was awoken by the loud electronic “beep, beep” of a vehicle backup alarm as the truck I was on apparently shifted into a new location. I found out where I was soon enough.

When released to crawl out of my cage, I found myself facing a dilapidated former PetsMart, with the store name covered by a single coat of roughly-applied paint. On the front door itself, which I and two other newly-collared sluts faced on our knees, hands behind our neck as we waited for instructions, was a much smaller, cardboard sign on which was lettered:

HCI Obedience School #42
203 East Interstate 20
Arlington, TX 76018

(Much later, I discovered that the nationwide slave corporation HCI ran a series of these schools, really intended to break down the resistance of newly-enslaved former people who had to learn, like me, that they were no longer human beings but animals who must submit instantly to orders from their owners, orders that naturally included the most degrading possible sexual services and other ignominious treatment. Unlike high-end schools such as the Pearson Pussy Ranch, the HCI schools operated for maximum compliance at minimum cost. For most purposes, a docile fuck toy was cheaper and therefore preferable to a high-end slave courtesan. Most of these schools were located, like #42, in abandoned PetsMarts where some of the display cases had been replaced by locking doghouses for the inmates. Slaves generally referred to these little shops of horrors as “SlaveSmarts,” a double-entendre meaning that a new slave would either learn to be obedient or else be punished physically, as in “that smarts!” I got both outcomes.)

In succeeding weeks, I was brainwashed into instant, horny obedience that involved offering my entire body for use and abuse, eager to submit to any humiliation in return for the absence of pain and the taste of a few morsels of food, mostly slave kibble and disgusting slave sweets. The whole experience was so horrific that I’ve tried not to remember it in detail, but certain scenes bubbled up periodically, especially when as a slave I was ordered to do something particularly disgusting:

--First and foremost, everything that a slut wanted cost her/him oral sex. During the first week there, nobody got any sex, but after that, EVERYTHING was about submissive sex. The slave’s gender was irrelevant, although almost all of us were female while the wranglers were of both genders but mostly male. Permission to speak? Suck my cock. Want another cup of slave kibble? Lick my labia. Need a blanket to stay warm in your dog house? Swallow my load. Oh, and by the way, don’t forget to enthusiastically beg for and give thanks for the sexual treat. And all this was in addition to the mass classes, often held in a fenced area where any free person could drop by to watch, where we spent hours on our knees, worshipping artificial dicks and vaginas mounted on tripods.

(The sad thing is that the brainwashing really worked. By week four of my incarceration, I actually looked forward to being naked, my knees spread wide to display my dampening crotch, my breasts sticking out with rigid nipples, and wanting nothing more in the world than to (1) cram as much of the wrangler’s thick cock as I could fit down my throat and then (2) beg him to ram that monster into my pussy while I repeated “Thank You, Master,” over and over. I’d become a mindless, dick-hungry bitch.)

--We weren’t even called by our slave ID numbers, let alone individual names—we were just referred to by letter-number combinations based on where our dog cages were. Mine was D7, but it didn’t matter. I was no longer an independent and college-educated American citizen, just a naked, collared, and frequently bound sex toy straining to please.

--Any hesitation or resistance was punished—all the wranglers carried quirts, braided short whips that they could “pop” your ass (slaves were almost always on slave fours) once or twice. If you were particular bad at an exercise, the wranglers insisted that you must confess your error and ASK to be bent over and spanked/whacked multiple times, leaving your ass a mass of welts. And, of course, really recalcitrant or disobedient slaves got strung up with wrists and ankles secured in a spread-eagle position, after which a real bullwhip would work all over your back, ass, thighs, and between your legs. I only got whipped once, but it took weeks to heal even though, in retrospect, I realized that the sadist who whipped me was an expert who minimized injury while maximizing pain.

--As I mentioned, we had to perform much of this outside under the hot sun, in a fenced-in area with each slave chained down and a crowd of random citizens, mostly housewives I guess, casually watching us from the bleachers just outside the fence—not to mention making rather loud and condescending comments about what skanky whores we were. The insult value of such comments declined as I adjusted to the fact that I really WAS a sex-crazed whore. Saturdays were the worst, however—not only were there many more spectators, but on occasion our “trainers” would invite some of those spectators to pass through a normally-locked gate and come “sample” our half-trained bodies. The most extreme case of that occurred about six weeks after I arrived at SlaveSmart. Each of us trainees—who by now were terminally cock-hungry and mostly obedient—had been instructed to use both hands to grasp a free-standing metal fence railing, about three feet off the ground. The wranglers came around, cuffing our wrists and locking our collars to those railings. Then they had us step backwards with our feet until our flip-flops were about three feet behind the railing, at which point they would force us to move those feet sideways until we were spread wide open, leaving us completely exposed and chained. In case you can’t visualize it, I was now leaning forward, legs spread wide with my butt still raised and chained hands holding my body so that I was in a modified “leaning rest/push-up” position, completely unable to move without falling painfully onto the railing and gravel. And THEN they invited spectators to pass through the gate.

Only one thing was needed to make our public humiliation worse, and somehow they managed it, at least on my case—ensuring that we were used by someone we knew! The management must have invited Josh Wilkins down, because he suddenly appeared in front of me. Mistress Lila, one of the wranglers who had been particularly harsh with me, gave me two hard whacks with her quirt—one across my straining ass and one vertically between my thighs so that it caught my labia—and told me to “make sure this Master gets your best service, or else you’ll get to start your training all over again!”

So there I was, dutifully opening my mouth, tonguing his dick, and (in accordance with my training), smiling up at him with my mouth and eyes to convey what a good little cocksucker I was and how much I appreciated the honor of sucking his cock. Truth to tell, the brainwashing took over and I really ENJOYED servicing him, although part of my mind was looking on in disgust. I was telling myself that I had to both accept his jism and display it on my tongue when he abruptly pulled his penis out, walked around behind me out of sight, and rammed himself up to the hilt between my labia!

“Oh, well done, Pat,” he commented, in a slightly mocking tone. “You’re so lubricated that you’ve obviously been dreaming about me fucking you—there’s no way you could fake that much moisture!” The sad thing was that he was correct—I had been brainwashed so thoroughly that I really DID enjoy his dick pounding my mouth and cunt, in spite of or perhaps because of the added humiliation of being used by the former nerd whom I had once rejected. Hell, I was so horny and subservient I would probably have enjoyed his dick up my butt, but at least (for that day) he didn’t “push” the matter that far. Long story short: I had to admit that I was well and truly broken. Somewhere inside my mind, my bruised ego still insisted that I was a smart woman named Patricia, but for all other intents and purposes I was the ideal fraternity house girl, collared pussy ready to obey and almost enjoying my abasement as my body pleasured my owner.

****
Two weeks later, I was again tightly restrained and caged, on my way back (I presumed) to six-plus years of servitude at the DTC house. I was overjoyed to escape the SlaveSmart school, but worried about becoming a sex object for a bunch of nerds headed by the guy who had become my ultimate love/hate obsession, the man who had bought me and then made my servitude even more crushing, Master Josh. The very fact that I thought of him as “Master” should tell you how much he dominated my thoughts; I genuinely expected him to be waiting for my arrival so that he could instantly invade me in all of my openings.

Yet, I quickly discovered that my new life was significantly better than my previous “training,” and most of the improvements were due to the House Mother, Mrs. Williams. She absolutely refused to be addressed as “Mistress,” and I learned eventually that she had, herself, once been a slave slut in the same chapter house before regaining her freedom and dignity. She was firm but kind and understanding with us, and made my horrible new existence almost bearable. Almost.

To begin with, I actually got to wear CLOTHES after two months of nudity, two months that left me with a deep tan everywhere except under my collar—and yes, that included the entirety of my buttocks. OK, OK, the uniform for house girls was a stylized French maid outfit, complete with very impractical petticoats and skirt that displayed most of my thighs, but it even included a detachable apron and—wonder of wonders—genuine panties for hygienic purposes. Mrs. Williams and the other three girls told me that I would only be nude during specified periods of sexual service, periods that were closely regulated. To ensure the smooth operation of the chapter, us fraternity girls were exempted from such service between about 2 a.m. through 8 p.m.—not free from all work, just reserved for our more practical duties of cooking, service, bed linens, cleaning, and so on. The brothers could (and did) grab or spank our buttocks and boobies as we passed by them in the house, but not order us to strip or kneel to give them blowjobs.

For the next several weeks the other girls and I labored to give the house a thorough cleaning before classes resumed for the fall. I got to know these women and took comfort from having other, more experienced, peers who could tell me how things worked and to some extent look out for me. If one of the girls saw another being ordered around by a fraternity member, even the house manager, they would let Mrs. Williams know and she, in turn, would intervene or get one of the chapter’s officers to “stop distracting the sluts from doing their jobs.”

That was important, because I was so horny and brainwashed that I would otherwise have obeyed whatever one of these nerds told me to do—and if that involved sex, I would literally salivate and lubricate at the chance to get shafted and/or swallow a load that my warped mind regarded as the ultimate taste treat. The other girls told me that the brainwashing gradually faded, and I should try hard to resist inappropriate orders, but for the first two years of my slavery I was the docile little whore that SlaveSmart had trained me to be.

Don’t get me wrong, I still had to service brothers (I almost said “members,” an interesting if inadvertent pun), but even that was regulated—they had to sign up, in singles or pairs (the latter got priority) to use a specific house girl at a specific time outside of our non-sex toy duties. After the first month, I lost track of how many blowjobs, spit-roasts, butt-fucks, and “ordinary” fucks I gave; I’m sure it averaged out to 2 or 3 in each category each week, only slightly relieved during scheduled breaks in the academic calendar. Fortunately, the business manager took all the chapter’s slaves to a slave veterinarian about every two months, where we got tested for STDs and treated with ZeePharma’s latest miracle cures to tighten anal sphincters, birth canals, and pectoral muscles (to support breasts). Of course, we also received scheduled renewals of our time-release birth controls, not to mention intermittent shots of Horny Juice! Moreover, if the brothers wore us out too much—which often happened during the fall term when potential pledges got the free use of one of the house girls for an hour or two—Mrs. Williams or one of the elected officers would intervene ordering the exhausted girl(s) into 24 hours of actual-no-kidding “bed rest.”

In the spring, we were even more debauched during pledge activities. One time I and another girl between us had to suck off all 16 freshman pledges, and the two pledges who lasted the longest got to screw and ream our lower openings to their dirty little hearts’ content. Because of my brainwashing, this treatment felt great but left me wrung out and deep into slave mind.

Oddly enough, I/we were least in demand for sexual use during house party, homecoming, or other holiday weekends. I guess the brothers didn’t want their dates (i.e., free fellow students) to see us naked or being abused, so we got to spend such weekends as scantily-clad (but still clad) waitresses, almost invisible to brothers and guests alike. Slaves per se had become commonplace in Texas society, but I was still glad that younger versions of myself as a student didn’t witness my humiliation.

*****
What about Master Josh, you might ask? Funny thing was, he was the kindest, most respectful brother in the whole sad place, which I grant you may not have been too high a compliment under the circumstances. He ignored the other three house girls and regularly signed up to reserve me for an evening about every two weeks—the perks of being chapter president, I guess. Whenever it was his turn to reserve me, he would take me out for a meal as if we were on a date—even when all he could afford was the yellow arches, that meal was so different from my normally hurried, scant institutional food that it tasted like filet mignon. He encouraged me to speak to him as if I were his equal, at least intellectually, and we would have spirited discussions about literature and politics before going back to his room. To be honest, he was such a gentleman—at least in comparison to the other socially-handicapped brothers—that I would probably have slept with him even if I had a choice. And when we DID have sex, he continued to treat me like a human being instead of an animate sex object. OK, he did ask me to suck him off, but the point is that he ASKED, and I was usually feeling so cordial that I was glad to exercise my newfound oral skills on him. He was never lacking in personal hygiene, nor did he ever cum in my mouth, but instead, after a few minutes of my smiling service, he would return the favor, licking the entrance to my “love canal” as if it were the finest meal he’d ever eaten. When I finally begged him to mount me, he was happy to oblige, but was careful to pump me slowly and forcefully while diddling my nipples and (when it was within his reach) my clit.

I may not have climaxed every time, but even at its worst his use of me was far preferable (in both respect and sensations) to my usual experiences with his brothers. In fact, the combination of my submissive training and my growing feelings for him made our intermittent coupling the high point not just of my slavery but (to be honest) of my entire love life, which may have been limited before slavery but still was significant. At his crudest, Master Josh groaned—while unloading into my vagina or sometimes (if I begged long enough) into my colon—that I was the “finest piece of ass” he’d ever had. I didn’t say it, but I felt the same way about his performance, which made our “dates” into ultimate expressions of my “duty” as a slave. Best of all, perhaps, he continued the “girlfriend” treatment even after he had unloaded into me; I got to spend the remainder of the night cuddling with him—at least, up until the bitching hour of 2 a.m., when all slaves had to return to their normal, lonely bunks to get a few hours of sleep before showering and helping with breakfast.

*****
All good things come to an end, and that included even my strange, unspoken, full-contact romance (or was it just a reproductive physiology lab course?) with Master Josh Wilkins. A year after my enslavement, he graduated and went off to study for an MBA at a famous university, although he came back four times during that subsequent year, and each time he had arranged to reserve me for another slave date night. How to make a girl feel wanted. The last time was in June of the year after his graduation (now five years after my own graduation and two years into my enslavement), when he told me, regretfully, that he wouldn’t be back for a long while because he had to start with a major corporation the next week, but he thanked me sincerely and passionately for our romance and the many services I had performed. Then Josh reminded me of my own experience (which he had extracted during our previous conversations) about how hard junior executives were expected to work. At least he promised not to harass his secretary sexually!

The rest of the time, I settled in to being the best house girl I could be. I worked hard to repay Mrs. Williams’ kindness, learning to help cook, schedule, and even order food deliveries. That didn’t release me from periodic chores as duty slut, getting banged with regularity in all my orifices. Over time, two of the other girls completed their terms of enslavement and were sent off with little celebration parties among the slut staff. By the time I had been there four years, I was Mrs. Williams’ de facto assistant boss, which included helping two more young, shell-shocked female slaves adjust to our strange life as half chamber maids and half whores. I never recommended sending them to obedience school!

I also became the designated de-virginizer, teaching 18-year-old young men how to give pleasure to their female partners as well as themselves. On occasion, Mrs. Williams and then (increasingly) I had to intervene in how the other girls were treated, gently prodding the horny and inexperienced brothers to treat female slaves with a minimum of kindness and respect. Most of the brothers learned that such respect was repaid with greater cooperation and lasciviousness from the slaves, and I like to think that we prepared them for their future roles as husbands and fathers.

Things slowed down a little during the summers, although there were often two or three brothers in residence, usually for graduate courses or internships. At times like that, I got lonely and bored, worrying vaguely about what, if anything, I could do to support myself once I regained my own freedom. With Mrs. Williams’ support and even a small amount of funding from the budget, I took various on-line courses in hospitality management and cooking. At least those classes staved off the boredom and loneliness.

I also finally used my education, at least after a fashion, tutoring the brothers in English composition and lit. Mrs. Williams was adamant that I could not be required to write their papers for them, but I spent endless hours trying to get them to understand pronoun-antecedent agreement.

I shuddered to think about applying for any professional position and having to explain the seven-year gap in my work history—somehow assistant cook and slave madam/utility fuck in a fraternity house did not sound very impressive! I was too ashamed to go back to my family, and it wasn’t possible because my parents were confined to assisted living facilities with no way and little money to shelter me.

*****
About six months before my indenture was scheduled to end, Mrs. Williams took me aside. She was fully aware of my conflicted feelings—eager to regain my freedom but unsure what I would do to support myself. Then she dropped the bombshell: she was planning to retire the following year, and the national fraternity organization had authorized enough funds for me to continue as her live-in but free assistant for that last year, on the understanding that (if everyone was satisfied) I, the failed English Lit graduate, would become the DTC house mother upon her retirement. The limited salary I would receive would allow me to repay her when she took me out to buy much modest, mature clothing—not to mention a new hair treatment and some cosmetics to conceal the lily-white skin where my collar had rested for the past 6 ½ years! I tried over and over to thank her, but she said that she wouldn’t be able to go into retirement without being sure that the house, including its slave staff, would continue to operate efficiently and humanely.

There was, of course, one more spring break to “celebrate,” with all-slave-holes-on-deck to entertain the newly-installed brothers and their older peers. This was my seventh such orgy, but at last I could relax and actually ENJOY having my brains fucked out by a dozen or more horny young men. For the last time, I determined.

The anniversary of my enslavement finally came, and the seventh chapter president I had known accompanied me and Mrs. Williams to the State Agriculture Department office. It was VERY different from my first visit when I was enslaved seven years earlier—I kept my clothes on, didn’t have to suck off the official, and after I got my “Free Citizen of Texas” ID card, the other two took me out to lunch to celebrate.

The next year was a blur of mostly enjoyable experiences. During the first week of fall classes, Mrs. Williams had to remind a few of the more boisterous brothers that I was no longer subject to fondling, let alone sex, and must be addressed as “Miss Herron.” The boss and I had already held a long discussion with the other girls, including the newest “hire,” Kimmie (who succeeded me), and eventually the buxom Joan volunteered to replace me as “de-virginizer” for our youngest, 18- and 19-year-old brothers. As the year continued, Mrs. Williams was still clearly in charge, but gradually the house girls and even the brothers adjusted to listening to me. In turn, I became a shoulder to cry on for both slaves and students whose lives were too stressful.

The entire house had a retirement party for Mrs. Williams at the end of spring exam period, and I sincerely thanked her for everything she’d done to me. A week later she was gone, although for a few months we would talk on the phone periodically as she gave me good advice about how to run things and handle people.

I needed such help that first year on my own, but soon got into a groove that left me feeling unfulfilled. Gradually, I took a wide variety of courses in the food preparation department of TCU. Next, I branched out, taking a few intensive summer classes plus a lot of on-line seminars to eventually earn a master’s degree. Emotionally, I had plenty of opportunities to be surrogate mother to both slaves and younger students. I’d had enough raw sex to reduce but not eliminate my own urges.

That plus running the house kept me busy for the next two years, but I was once again at loose ends when, three years after regaining my freedom, the latest chapter president (Lord, how many of them had I known by now—ten?) informed me that the newly-elected chair of the national DTC board was coming to visit in August, just before fall classes resumed.

*****
No sense trying to hide it—you can guess who the chair was. Over the years, I had received a few e-mails and telephone calls from Josh, and I kept my private crush on him alive by tracking his incredible business career. That career had culminated in a recent Initial Public Offering for his start-up company that made him into an instant millionaire. By now, I thought that he was so important and wealthy that our previous relationship was nothing more than a bittersweet memory. Still, I tried to be cordial when I greeted him:

“There’s the famous Wall Street tycoon—or should that be typhoon, as in bag of wind? How are you doing, ‘Master’?” The quotation marks around that last word were visible to anyone within earshot.

His reply was equally light in tone, but something about the way he smiled at me off-guard. For the next day and a half, he went over the books, inspected the facilities (markedly improved by generous grants from the national organization), and generally acted like the visiting bigwig—yet every time I turned around I found his eyes on me. Finally, he cut to the chase:

“Pat—may I still call you Pat?—I’m not making any assumptions, and you’re free to refuse, but I’d really like to take you out to dinner tonight, just like old times.”

I almost choked, but eventually stammered out an acceptance, and asked how I should dress. He assured me that it was very informal, and matched that assurance by discarding his tie and jacket when he returned from his motel to pick me up for dinner. Just like our first evenings together, he drove us to the nearest golden arches—“Oooh, ‘Master,’ I hope this doesn’t cost too much for you. How many billion will you have left after this date?”
“Nothing but the best for my girl!”

It was as if we were in a time warp, although both of us were slightly better dressed than we’d been nine years earlier. We stayed in that brightly-lit place, having a lot of fun talking about everything in the world, until the place was due to close for the evening, at which point he made some remark about getting me back before midnight.

Fortunately, as the house mother I had my own separate entrance to the house, which was dark when we returned—the house girls were in the habit of turning in early when there were no brothers to reserve their service. Like a dutiful young man on a date, Josh walked me up to my door and waited patiently while I unlocked it. Only, when it came time for a goodnight kiss, I gave him a lot of tongue while groping his crotch, then pulled him inside.
Surprised, he tried to mumble something about not taking advantage of me. “Too late, Romeo,” I replied. “Ten years ago, you took advantage of the little slave girl, but now the house mother is gonna take advantage of YOU.”

We had a lot of fun, beginning with my traditional kneeling, smiling blow job and continuing for almost an hour of frantic kissing, fondling, and ultimately fucking. NOW I remembered why I had kept myself on birth control as a free woman.

True to form, when he finally pinned me down and unloaded into my birth canal, Josh reprised his crude compliment of bygone days: “You’re still the finest piece of ass at TCU.”

“Why, thank you for saying that. Too bad your cock isn’t up to testing that out right now. Wake me up in two hours and give me time to apply some lubricant, then you can try that ass out again.”

“Sounds like a deal, darling,” he almost purred. “Only, better make it three hours rather than two, I want to make sure my favorite slut gets her butt thoroughly stretched out.”

Three hours and twenty minutes later, he did just that—damn, that guy could fuck!

The next morning, I used a warm washcloth to wipe him off and then woke him up with a combination sloppy blowjob and reverse cowgirl fuck. The girls had cooked him breakfast, but we both felt a little uncertain as to where we stood with our on-again, off-again relationship.

At least, I felt uncertain. When he was about to depart to clear his motel room, he startled me and, I think, the slave girls, by sweeping me into his arms and thoroughly kissing, squeezing, and fondling me.

“By the way, Pat,” he said when we finally drew breath. “I don’t think I’ve told you this yet, but I’m moving back to the university at the end of the month to be a visiting professor of business.” His voice dropped to a whisper in my ear: “May I take my favorite fraternity slave girl out for weekly dinner dates?”

(The end)

[Belinda]

Carl,

Such a wonderful story with a happy ending. Thank you so much for your fine work.

Yours truly,

Belinda

[Jim927]

A great story and I liked the happy ending. Thanks for sharing your writing with us.
Jim

[JustBob]

Good story. I enjoyed viewing inside her head while going through her service.

[Mr. Smith]

Another great story. The hours limiting use of the slave girls at the fraternity surprised me. Although the logic was sound, I just don't see young men like that restraining themselves. If I was in a fraternity with amenities like that I would have been getting a daily BJ for stress relief. Here's to hoping Josh gets Pat to sign a FINO so the two of them can have their HEA.