Sabbatical in Slavery, Pt. 02
Posted: Wed Dec 22, 2021 3:58 am
(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 used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.) (Lindsay Williams’ Viewpoint)
The beeping forklift transferred my cage and two others like it from the back of a panel truck to an unfamiliar loading dock. I heard the different “beep” of a scanner recording our arrival to the new location, reinforcing the idea that we were so many caged animals, so much property to be owned, sold, and used by free people. Each of us three women was kneeling, gagged, cuffed, collared, and bound naked to the dog cage in which she had been imprisoned for the past several hours, since departing the Long Horn Slave Market. I heard or sensed someone roughly cutting the three zip-ties that had anchored my ankles and the chain of my handcuffs (bound behind my back) to the cage walls. Then the cheap padlocks that closed our cages were unlocked, and a forceful male voice ordered each of us to crawl forward to the yellow line on the loading dock floor, stop there and DO NOT MOVE.
The commanding voice came from a muscular, clearly athletic young man wearing boots, jeans, a logoed shirt, and an equipment belt bristling with devices such as handcuffs, a taser, and a long leather strap. As a professor and consultant on slave business matters, I had often dealt with (but largely ignored) slave wranglers like him. Now that I was a slave myself—more on that in a moment—my initial in-processing and auction at the Long Horn had aroused a monumental desire to please and sexually service men—all men really, but especially muscular handlers like him. My half-erect nipples and moist snatch awoke to the possibility of sexual use, making me eager to persuade him to spear me with the massive dick visibly pressing against his jeans—by preference, I hoped that he would fuck the brains and/or the crap out of my two lower holes, but at least allow me to tongue his magnificent dick and swallow the yummy discharge of that probe. I’d already swallowed three cocks and three loads of jism on this, my first day in a collar, but I was so uncontrollably horny and servile that I lusted after another round. Then the commanding voice gave me what I had already learned to regard as a standard warning to newly-arrived sluts:
“You are at the Pearson Pussy Ranch for training as pleasure slaves. I am required by law to tell you that the collar you are wearing can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Pearson employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping."
How did I get here, you may ask? My own ambition and stupidity. I had been an associate professor of slave studies at U Mass Amherst, but realized that I needed to better understand the psychology of slaves if I wanted to get tenure and above all to have slave merchants take my ideas seriously. So I stupidly self-indentured for a year in a collar. Nikki Sheldon, noted expert on slave psychiatry, had told me what she had been required to do to acquire HER knowledge of the subject: indenture herself for six months of sale and sexual use. She’d been fortunate enough to fall into the hands of her future husband, businessman Paul Sousa, and she’d apparently asked Paul to buy ME in the same manner. By the time I realized how unbelievably DUMB my plan was, I had allowed myself to be enslaved, stripped, auctioned, and painfully branded on the ass, all while the Long Horn Slave Market manipulated my mind into the appropriate mental outlook (read cock-obsessed bimbo) to be a slave. I had worked around slaves for years but was astonished at how easy it was to overpower my independent judgement so that I succumbed to Sudden Enslavement Syndrome. SES could best be described as slave mind on steroids. Slave mind develops over time from the mental conditioning inherent in slave yoga, as opposed to SES that came from the sudden loss of clothing when enslaved, processed, sold and branded like livestock. As a professor of slave studies I knew what was happening to me as my subconscious responded to the sudden transition from free woman to slave, but I was helpless to prevent it.
Paul had taken my desire to understand slavery at face value, shipping me off in a poodle cage to Pearson’s for training as a sex slave. He had promised me future opportunities to record my discoveries, interspersed with being pimped out in all manner of ways including (shudder) being a whipped submissive at the BDSM club he ran in Fort Worth. This morning I had been an up-and-coming, highly educated young academic who felt some pity and a LOT of contempt for slave whores, regarding them as brainless sluts driven by their hormones; now I was one of them, a bound and naked cunt with a throbbing rear end and a drive to get as much COCK as I possibly could inside every opening of my body. I had happily sucked the shaft of the slave wrangler who processed me, even though he resembled one of the uncouth undergraduate youths I regularly tried to enlighten in Massachusetts. Right now, I could still taste the fat shipping clerk who used my “dick-sucking lips” before stuffing me into this cage. In the back of my mind, I was mortified by the ease with which I had become just another collared bimbo, another set of moist holes eager to entertain men; How the mighty had fallen! Worse still, I had not fallen, I had enthusiastically leaped feet first into my new existence as a slave chasing tenure.
My ignominious situation became even worse after different slave wranglers took charge of each of us, cutting the gags, releasing our wrists, and then marching us to sit on toilet seats or straddle pee grates and relieve ourselves as they watched (no dividers or other privacy). The guy who controlled me was kinda cute, so as soon as I overcame my shame at urinating in front of him, I began to smile while thrusting my boobs towards him; once he ordered me off the seat and down onto my hands and knees, I tried to rub myself against his jeans as if I were a cat in heat, almost begging him to use me. I thought I had reached rock bottom when I brazenly came on to him like that, but I was even more chagrined when he refused! He reached down, patted my head and groped one of my large breasts, saying
“Yes, I know you’re a horny little bitch, but we don’t have time for that now. Be a good girl, and tomorrow you MIGHT get fucked if you’ve earned it.” His tone of voice was condescending, as if I were just a brainless bimbo begging for a treat—trouble was, he was right!
I blushed, not just because I had been so blatant but also because he had refused. Intellectually, as a professor of slave studies, I understood the need for orgasm denial as an obedience tool for horny pleasure sluts like me. The problem was that for the past dozen years, muscular guys like him had fallen all over themselves begging for my attention, let alone my sexual favors. I know that I’m going to sound really conceited, but back in Massachusetts I could have my pick of guys in any social situation. Part of my social power, of course, was my well-endowed and toned body, which was now completely on display and available to my temporary master. More than that, though: prep school had taught me the self-confidence, poise, and fashion sense that made a guy’s dick visibly stand at attention if I deigned to even LOOK at him. All that education had exercised my mind, so that I could crack jokes, hint at possible intimacy, and yet discourage any man from being too familiar with me. Up until today, that had been my only challenge in sexual politics—how to tell good-looking men that I did NOT intend to sleep with them, all without hurting their feelings or provoking a fight between (male) winners and losers? I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have a guy turn me down.
Later that night, lying alone in a cage with a sore ass and an unsatisfied cunt, I realized that not only was I a slave, but I also had lost all my sexual leverage in dealing with men. Clothes, confidence, poise, and the ability to flirt verbally had all been taken from me. Instead of me having my pick of men, the only ones I met had unlimited access to hot and cold running (or at least juicy and dripping) pussy, ass, and mouth. (The very fact that I used terms like slut, cock, cunt, pussy, and ass, which previously I had rarely even THOUGHT let alone said, should tell you how immersed I was in the slave situation.) Now I was the horny thing, driven by hormones and vying for the precious attention of the other gender, a gender that had become bored, jaded with controlling and fucking Prime- and Choice-rated women. They were no longer competing for my approval; now I had to compete (and often lose) for scraps of THEIR attention.
Recognizing this transfer of sexual power, a seismic shift in supply and demand, gave my ego some reassurance, but after a day of jilling off and submitting to clothed, all-powerful males my libido still craved fucking. Hell, I even hungered for another mouthful of cum, a disgusting jelly that I had always avoided swallowing as a free woman. It’s human nature to want what you can’t get—or at least can get only in limited quantities. I had just joined the ranks of the horny, cock-obsessed sluts that I had so frequently sneered at when I was still free. (Fuck, to use a central word in my new vocabulary—Nikki Sheldon had been correct; less than 24 hours in a collar and I had a greater understanding of what motivated slaves than I had acquired in a dozen years of academic study. What do they call that in Education courses—experiential learning? Now all I wanted to experience was a good shafting. Nikki was also right about something else—that bitch Sarah Hollister MUST have been through what I had just experienced, if not more, to become so expert at manipulating slave sluts. Comparing her self-confidence to my current bedraggled, subjugated state, I took what comfort I could from believing that at some point she must have been a horny slave—probably used in every opening and branded like me—to be so effective. I just wished I knew the details, so as to mentally equate her to my new, helpless self.)
The next morning, a different wrangler whose nametag read "Harry” cuffed me, walked me to a pee grate to relieve myself, and then bent me over, ankles tied apart with my wrists pulled up behind me towards the ceiling. Next, he flooded both of my lower passages with warm water, leaving me struggling to hold the water in for several minutes before he released me to void myself in the toilet. At least HE took the trouble to grope my boobs, ass, and clit while I hung there, which did a little bit towards restoring my pride and a LOT towards distracting me from the pressure in my cunt and rectum. He pointed out two nozzles, mounted two feet off the floor, which he told me to back into on future mornings to clean myself out without wasting his time.
After a tasteless breakfast—identical to the “supper” of the previous evening—of slave kibble and water, consumed on my widespread knees with my hands still restrained behind me, Master Harry walked me to a separate room with a Red Cross and the words “Veterinary Treatment” on the door. There, some guy who claimed to be a paramedic very gently peeled off the bandage over my brand, sprayed it with disinfectant and painkiller, and put on a new dressing while giving me another pair of ibuprofens with a swallow of water. He also gave me a shot of “horny juice,” a cock-tail (pun intended) of estrogen and other organic chemicals that, as the name implies, helped make a female slave aroused and compliant. As if I needed a shot when I was already crazy with need. (When I taught Slave Studies back in Amherst, I tried to entertain my students by describing this injection of hormones as “Whore-Moans;” I didn’t find that so funny now that the shots caused ME to be the moaning slut!)
The paramedic repeated the same process morning and evening for the next two weeks until he adjudged my skin to be healed and my arousal to be full-blown [another intentional pun]. From my point of view, the best part of this pro-forma “medical treatment” was that the paramedic—who was NOT a licensed slave wrangler even though he wore similar clothing—took every opportunity to grope and fondle my helpless body; once my butt stopped hurting during week two, he often took the opportunity to briskly fuck me while I was bent over his bench!
For the rest of the staff, the genuine slave wranglers, a hard fucking—or at least discharging themselves in one of a slave’s three openings—was the ultimate reward for good behavior as a slave cunt, and even then the slut in question had to EARN that jism by demonstrating superior muscular control to entertain the almighty COCK that had graciously invaded her.
A piece of slave candy constituted a lesser reward—it wasn’t very tasty, but ANY sweetness was desirable when we lived on a bland diet of slave kibble with occasional vegetables and nuts for balance. (Almost the only good result of going to this school, besides my larger bra size, was that the limited diet slimmed my waist down.) Sometimes, when my oral performance was almost-but-not-quite-good-enough, the wrangler would withdraw his magnificent shaft from my mouth and spray all over, a little on my smiling, upturned face but mostly in a bowl of kibble, telling me to enjoy a “hot meal” on him (which was odd, since part of that hot meal was on ME). It was at times like that, when my subservience and arousal drove me to gobble up the revolting mess, that I reflected on how low I had fallen, from articulate professor who occasionally bestowed her attentions on a fawning young man to a naked, bound, kneeling whore eagerly eating up every drop of jism gifted to me by an all-powerful MALE slave wrangler who controlled me completely, and could earn my undying gratitude by fucking any of my holes any time he chose to do so.
In addition to hour upon hour of slave yoga, I and the other “pussies” on the ranch were completely subjugated, kept constantly aroused (by fondling as well as Whore-Moans), and drilled to be mindless sexual servants of every free male. Sometimes, we had to lick the female wranglers to orgasm, but most of the time they wore strap-on dildos to give the slaves more practice in being shafted. To reinforce our subservience, we spent most of our time on hands and knees, with buttplug-attached tails dangling between our legs. Anywhere a man could insert a penis, we were expected to clamp down on that penis, rhythmically massaging it. Almost the only words we were allowed to say was “Yes, Master, No, Master, Yes, Mistress, or No, Mistress.” (To be fair, we were also taught to stand, walk, sit, kneel, and lie down in a way that exuded sex appeal. I had thought I knew how to entice a man, but Pearson made that attitude second nature, so I was a crawling sex magnet.)
I was excused from SOME of this training, especially being sodomized anally and fucked doggy-style, for two and a half weeks until my wounded left butt cheek had healed sufficiently. When it came to discipline, I of course couldn’t be whipped across my LEFT cheek, so instead I got twice as many strokes on my RIGHT rear end or boobs! Sometimes, I thought that my right buttock must be as red and sore as my left. To make up for this shortfall in my “training,” I got the privilege of spending more time on my knees sucking cocks and straddling a wrangler, bouncing up and down on his cock (or her strap-on) while flexing my kegel muscles. Three other members of my “slut class,” all branded with the cursive “D” indicating they were Prime-rated Sandy Foot Girls from the Big D Slave Market, got similar exclusions and training.
Once my horny paramedic declared me healed, my special status disappeared. In fact, the slave wranglers tried to make up for my previous “easy time” by giving me, as they so delicately put it, “all the butt-fucks and air-tights” I had missed in my previous “training.” (If you’re not familiar with the term, being “air-tight” describes a woman whose three openings are simultaneously filled with pricks or, in our case, pricks and strap-ons; there simply weren’t enough male wranglers to provide three dicks per slave, especially because as human beings those wranglers couldn’t keep it up 16 hours a day.) Perhaps it was another symptom of my subjugation, but I remember feeling thankful that my “doggie tail” butt plug had stretched my anus in preparation for all those large shafts pumping in and out of my colon (!).
Some of this explanation for my “advanced training” I got from Sophie, who was my trainer, disciplinarian, and den-mother. She was a tall, cool, poised blonde; except for her hair color, she reminded me a great deal of myself before I had so stupidly indentured myself in the interests of “research.” Fortunately for me, Mistress Sophie had apparently concluded that I was fully committed to being a Pearson slut, as eager and horny as any slave bimbo I had ever seen (To borrow a phrase from the board game “Clue,” I cannot disprove that suggestion). She took a benevolent attitude towards me, although I had to spend a lot of time “practicing my oral skills” on HER crotch. Apart from her clothes and equipment belt, one of the noteworthy differences between Mistress Sophie as a wrangler and Slut 6627 (me) as a slave was that she had retained her pubic hair. While I brought her to several orgasms in a row, Sophie quietly explained why my training had shifted once my butt healed. Apparently, the Pearson management had a standard minimum number of dickings that each graduate had to experience in each opening before she was declared “worthy” of graduating as one of their slave bimbos. They even recorded all these figures on a “school transcript” given to the slave’s owner. Just what I needed after 21 years of school, another series of A’s—or should that be O’s for orgasm?
Towards the end of my fourth week at Pearson, the management held one of its periodic open house cocktail parties to show off their wares (or should that be whores?) to high rollers and potential customers. The stars of these parties were the long-term trainees, who spent months learning to be polished courtesans, able to compete—or at least so Pearson claimed—with the graduates of long-term consort academies such as Broadstone. I and the other members of our “quicky” month-long course were so much window dressing, serving the guests and trying very hard not to attract criticism (for which we would pay dearly after the party). Instead of getting a make-over and glamorous evening clothing, I felt fortunate to get my hair trimmed, a few strokes of mascara and lipstick to decorate my face, and a see-through plastic apron that revealed every inch of my figure while preventing me from accidentally dripping my juices on the food. In a place where they regularly shoved dicks into my mouth and ass, worrying about sanitation seemed odd to say the least.
While the star performers were sometimes taken aside into bedrooms for a thorough examination of their skills, I and my fellow waitresses had been instructed to kneel and fellate any guest who indicated a desire to use us, but NOT bring them off if they said they were waiting to use another privileged slut. Therefore, I was pleased but not surprised when my new owner, Paul Sousa, gestured for me to kneel in front of him.
He did indeed unzip and offer his (substantial and clean) penis, which I dutifully inhaled. I was flattered that his dick grew quickly, but I suppose any heterosexual man would have a similar reaction if an almost naked young woman with large boobs took him into her mouth. He almost whispered,
“Sorry, but if I took you into another room you might get in trouble. This way we can talk—feel free to take your mouth off me to answer. You don’t need to prove your skill to me—I’m sure you’ve learned your lessons well, so just fake it.”
We proceeded to have a whispered conversation, interrupted on my part by frequent slurping and moving my head forward and back to entertain his delicious prick. He wanted assurance that I was healing and not too downcast by my situation. At the end of our conversation, he suddenly sped up his pumping in and out, then pretended to come in my mouth and put his still-rigid cock away. Under the circumstances, he showed remarkable restraint—he was either an incredible gentleman who didn’t want to force himself on a helpless slave (even one he owned) or he was an even rarer bird, a completely faithful husband! (I had already learned that having sex with slaves is not considered adultery in southern society—just a perk of being a free person.)
*****
Master Paul must have given me a flattering report, for Mistress Sophie was very pleased with me when next she had my lick HER pussy. Days later, after a final flurry of forced fornication in all my fundaments, I found myself once again riding in a poodle cage inside a van. No matter how uncomfortable and demeaning the ride, I was at least traveling AWAY from the Pearson Ranch. Surely, I thought, the next 11 months couldn’t possibly be as bad as the first one—you can’t blame a brainless twat for being so wrong!
When the driver finally released me from that mobile prison, he led me on a leash, still gagged and cuffed, up the steps of a very fancy house, the kind I hoped one day to own when I became a wealthy business consultant. He rang the doorbell while I silently wondered whether this was another step in my humiliation. I was overjoyed when the door was opened promptly by a smiling Nikki Sheldon. She was wearing a very stylish business suit, having apparently just come from her work as a psychiatrist, while I was standing slave naked, in full public view—but it still felt like coming home to be transferred to her custody. My smile was as broad as hers, but I didn’t know the protocol for such a situation, so I knelt in front of her and bowed my head to kiss her sandals while the driver got her signature accepting delivery. (In retrospect, the entire situation was bizarre. We had gone from friends and professional equals to owner and slave, free person and cunt, dressed professional and naked slut.)
Having been through similar experiences before, Nikki—excuse me, MISTRESS Nikki—defused the situation. She briskly ordered me to stand and follow her into the house, then gave me a warm hug before she removed my gag and released my wrists. “I’m so glad to see you, Lindsay; come on, I’m sure you need a toilet.” As I followed her to the nearest half-bathroom, I realized that I was overjoyed not just to see a friend who was kind to me but to be addressed as Lindsay, rather than “Slut 6627” (the last 4 digits of my Slave Identification Number) or simply “cunt,” “bitch,” “slave twat,” and all the other demeaning terms used to emphasize my purpose as a slave. It took so little to lift my spirits!
Nikki pointed out toothbrush and mouthwash waiting on the little bathroom sink, and left me to relieve myself and clean up, telling me to join her in the living room when I was ready. I found her sitting down so I automatically knelt in front of her, fingers interlocked behind my neck, naked boobs thrust forward. Nikki made no comment about my subservience, just smiled and repeated her happiness at seeing me again. Even though I was naked on my knees, it was a joy to have a conversation without commands, criticism, or sexual overtones. Still, I was careful not to omit the word “Mistress.”
After a few minutes of chatter, she finally looked directly in my eyes and remarked, flatly, “So now you know.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I replied. “You were right that being a slave gives me a different understanding of my situation. To be honest, this is the first time in over a month that I’ve talked to a free person without expecting to be used sexually.”
Nikki smiled a little sadly. “Yeah, that’s a key part of being a slave—every interaction with a free person demands obedience and usually sex. Speaking of which, how horny are you?”
I suddenly realized that my poodle transport had been the longest period of consciousness that I’d spent in a collar that did NOT involve sexual stimulation. She was right—I’d become so used to being a sex slave that I was wondering when my next blowjob or shafting would happen! Helplessness and “whore-moans” had made me hornier than any teenager, and the thought of that, even more than my nudity and subservience, caused me to blush while still longing for more use. I nodded, but before I could even form a thought, Nikki continued speaking as if she had been reading my mind.
“That’s right, sweetie, they’ve made you addicted to submissive sex. It may fade if you don’t get another happy juice injection, but you’re still going to be begging for daily use. If this were the end of your indenture, I’d advise you on how to reduce your dependence, but considering you still have 11 months to go, it would be cruel to do that now. Just remember that this house is a safe zone—I’m sure that Paul told you we intend to have you visit here periodically so that you can rest and write down your observations about slavery.”
Wow. Considering that these two could just have pimped me out 24/7 for the next eleven months, giving me recurring opportunities to rest and reflect on my experience was incredibly generous. I started to thank her, but she interrupted,
“I’m not asking you to thank us, just trying to put you at ease. I AM going to have you do a little housekeeping around here—change and wash the sheets and towels, vacuum the rugs, scrub out the sinks and toilets—but that’s just because Paul and I are too busy with our work to clean up after two and now three occupants.”
Nikki continued, “But, what I really wanted to say was that any time YOU feel too horny, you just need to kneel in front of us as you are now and ask to be used. We may put your mouth to work pleasing us, or we might shaft you with a dick or strap-on, but we don’t want you to suffer TOO much frustration. As it is, Paul’s planning to put you to work at his BDSM club in 3-4 days, let me tell you THAT should provide plenty of stimulation and domination. Meanwhile, don’t hesitate to ask for what you need.”
Without pausing, she continued. “Paul and I have both been slaves, so we don’t intend to force you in our home, but we get just as horny as any former slave, and we’ve given each other permission to play with you when YOU need to be fucked, OK?” It was shocking to hear this youthful, happily married medical professional speak casually of fucking, but I realized that she really did understand my needs and motivations.
It suddenly occurred to me—now that I had become addicted, what would I do for sexual use once I regained my freedom? I MUST be under the influence of “Slave Mind”—here I was, praying to survive another 11 months to regain my freedom, yet I found myself contemplating pretending to be a slave after that time, just to get my fix of submissive sex! A strange idea about that desire for submission hung just outside my consciousness, but it wasn’t until that night that I put two and two together, and came up with—FLAME! Son-of-a If, as both Nikki and I suspected, Sarah Hollister had at some point experienced sexual slavery, then it stood to reason that she like me would hanker to experience that same domination after she regained her freedom. Was it possible that the slut Flame on board the cruise brothel Yo Ho Ho, the good-looking, skanky redhead who somehow had SARAH HOLLISTER’s SIN inside her lip was really Sarah pretending to be a slave??
Naaah, things didn’t add up. Nikki and I had both become slaves because of our trusting natures, but NOBODY would voluntarily become a slave TWICE. No matter how much I hated Sarah, I couldn’t imagine even HER being so dumb, especially when all those slave merchants who would recognize her! Besides, Flame had a real Sandy Foot Girl brand on her ass, and how could Sarah have gotten such a badge without people finding out she’d been a slave? Nice theory, but I found it hard to believe she had voluntarily put a collar back on to masquerade on the cruise ship.
For the next three days, I had an easy life for a slave. During the day I was often alone, left to do housekeeping and then write my observations—many of which I’ve confided in this tale—of what it meant to be a slave. Having been reduced to a “brainless, cock-hungry bimbo,” I found it difficult to express what I had learned in dispassionate academic terms without obscenities. I even asked Nikki to review my draft, and she gave me some ideas to explain my motivation. (This slave tail grew out of her suggestion that I write a chronology to help me identify the lessons involved.)
In the early mornings when it was chilly, she let me wear T-shirt style nightgowns. They may have been large by Nikki’s standards, but on ME these garments were so tight across the boobs and butt that they made my body look like an over-ripe Jessica Rabbit caricature. Nikki also bought me some see-through bras to support my new boobs.
When Paul was home, he and Nikki spent some time cuddling on a couch while watching Netflix; both of them seemed willing to have me kneel while servicing them. One night, Nikki was gone overnight so Paul cuffed my hands and bent me over the back of that couch so that he could slowly shaft his slave while he watched the evening news over my head! I know that sounds weird, but in a way he seemed to be indulging my addiction, not “fucking the collared help,” a common pastime of wealthy men in Texas. Afterwards, he sent me to shower and then allowed me to cuddle with him in bed. It wasn’t about sex—he just remarked that, when HE had been a convicted slave on a chain gang, he had really missed physical contact. Sigh; that was undoubtedly the best night I’d spent since I was collared, and he didn’t even tweak my nipples!
I spent 3 more periods of 4-7 days each at Nikki’s house, writing my thoughts and washing laundry in the daytime, and (if I begged enough) servicing my owners sexually at night. When Paul was away, Nikki would strap on a dildo and shaft me vigorously while praising my performance.
That first interlude of 4 days ended 1 morning when my legal owner, Paul Sousa, had me strip off my nightgown, don the plastic poncho permitted to slaves in inclement weather, and sit in his car, collared and cuffed, while he drove us to his club in Fort Worth. Paul made it clear that he would NOT force me to have sex with anyone against my will, but by now I was so horny I would gladly agree to ANYTHING that involved being fucked!
Arriving at the club, Master Paul turned me over to a woman who held the oxymoronic title of “Head Submissive,”—that is, the den mother of the young women who acted submissives as well as waitresses at the club. She was a busty brunette of about my age, who introduced herself as “Cheryl Pierce, Cheri to my friends.” Cheri outfitted me with the tight leather outfit worn by the other girls—a broad fake collar with a tight bustier/bra that put my 38DD’s on display and practically begged any male to reach into my cleavage. She also gave me tall leather boots with 3-inch heels and finally a pair of leather short-shorts that came with interesting appendages. Nikki had warned me about these shorts, laughing at the memory of herself wearing them: inside each pair were two thick, plastic-covered shafts, clearly designed to fill my lower openings. The front one was 6 inches tall while the rearward (both towards the rear and going into MY rear!) was somewhat shorter and narrower, with a narrow neck just above the point where the dildo was attached to the shorts, turning it into a butt plug that my anus. That meant that I had both of my lower openings stuffed—except when I volunteered to be a bondage submissive, in which case the shorts would come off so that flesh could fill me instead.
Nikki had warned me that each shaft was actually a vibrator, with a 3rd one mounted on the front of those shorts to contact my clit. Every table in the club had a device where the members could “tip” me for good service or just to watch me jiggle around—if more than 1 table tipped me at the same time, more than 1 vibrator would start up.
Even without these vibrators, I had a blast that evening, flirting with the customers, trying not to spill drinks when vibrators cut in. Now that the slave market and Pearson’s Ranch had turned me into a horny bimbo slut, I really enjoyed waitressing for a crowd of males plus a few free females. I purposely bent over when I served drinks, allowing the customers to fondle my boobs or slide their hands down my tight shorts and squeeze my bare butt.
By the end of the first evening, I was on the verge of climaxing from this combination of stimulation, fondling, and flirting. I was so hyped up that I scarcely got any rest. When a lull came on the second evening that I worked at the club, I begged Master Paul to ravage me.
“Let’s be clear about this, Lindsay,” he replied, quietly. “I’ve already told you that the only way for you to get used here is to surrender your body as a submissive. Are you asking me for that?”
I babbled a response. In the blink of an eye, he had cuffed my hands behind my back, led me into the room where I had crashed the previous night, put me on my knees, and abruptly ordered me to “Suck dick, slut.” I eagerly tongued, slobbered over, and swallowed his cock and balls. In less than 30 seconds I unleashed a tiger—Master Paul jerked me to my feet, bound me to a bondage rack, then pulled my tight pants with attached shafts down to my knees.
By this time I was begging him to use me any way he wanted—"whip me, fuck me, cornhole me, POUND me, Master. PLEASE!” He obliged me, ramming my twat doggie style for several minutes and then, as I began to twitch in submissive orgasm, he shifted targets, hastily squirted more lube up my back passage and worked himself deep inside me. Lying down on top of me, Master Paul reached around to toy with my boobs and clit while building up the force with which he butt-fucked me.
I don’t even recall when and how he discharged inside me, because I was so overwhelmed that I shook and vibrated for minutes on end. When I recovered consciousness, he was releasing me from the rack and my cuffs, then firmly swatted my butt as he sent me into the shower for a quick wash.
From then on, for the next two weeks or so, Submissive Lindsay was the new toy on the block, being regularly humiliated, flagellated, and gloriously shafted by every member (in both sense of that word) of the club. I awoke refreshed every morning, having flirted with the customers every evening and enjoyed it when they plowed my openings at night. If it were possible to drug yourself with submissive sex and whipping, then I overdosed. Twice, the bouncers intervened to protect me from injury, after which I got a night off for my skin to recover—a night I spent longing for more use!
I realized that was the key—the sex was fun, but what I really craved was the attention of free men; slave mind had set in HARD. I lost track of how many times I got fucked in which holes but suffice it to say that Master Paul told me that I was a credit to Pearson’s training. Another brainless and promiscuous Pearson pussy.
*****
I would happily have served out the remaining months of my indenture as Lindsay the bondage bimbo, acting the entire time like the kind of slave slut that I had so often disparaged. All good things come to an end, though . . .
One morning, Cheri told me to go to the boss’s office. I reminded myself that I was still Master Paul’s property, so I paused to strip off my robe before knocking on his door. When he responded to the knock, I walked in and assumed the Present position with my legs slightly apart, fingers interlaced behind my neck, displaying every inch of my body to him; just standing there like that fueled my sense of vulnerability. “You sent for me, Master?” I asked, hoping he would fuck me over his desk —let’s face it, I’d become an insatiable whore! Still, his next words filled me with dread.
“I have to be honest with you, Lindsay: as a former slave, it bothers me that people like you actually make careers and profits at the expense of enslaved human beings.” I was shocked and terrified—I had come to trust this man, my owner, and now he told me that he hated what I did?
He went on without pausing. “At least you have the guts to experience this evil first-hand, which is more than most people in the business do. Besides, if I treated you the way most slaves are treated, I would be no better than you—and no, BDSM play isn’t real punishment because you seem to ENJOY it.” He paused, then continued. “However, as I recall, you enslaved yourself because you wanted to understand how slaves think.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he continued. “So, I’ve decided to help you with your ‘research;' I’m leasing you out to SlutsRUs.”
Gulp. No matter how drugged and demeaned I had been at Pearson’s Ranch or Master Paul’s club, I always felt that the people who controlled me were looking out for me as a slave. Now I was going to work for a temporary agency that was infamous for supplying slave for all manner of sexual service. He was right, of course—being pimped out by such an agency would improve my understanding and research about slavery, but I felt suddenly as if he were pushing me out onto a high wire without a net. He could see the fear in my face but promised me that he would check in periodically and look after me, a promise that gave me some slight reassurance. (I later realized that Paul was just too nice a guy to leave any woman, even one who had profited from the slave industry, to be mistreated.)
There was only one possible response: “Yes, Master.” He sent me to see Mistress Cheri who would handle delivery to SlutsRUs. Once again, I was covered in a plastic poncho and cuffed/buckled into the passenger seat of a car while she drove me to the local office of that temp agency. Along the way, she tried to reassure me that I would be safe—SlutsRUs was a business that didn’t want to incur charges by allowing a customer to “damage the merchandise.” Without naming names, she even told me that Mr. Sosa had previously rented out a slave to them with good results—knowing she meant Nikki, I just replied “I know her,” which discouraged further talk. Once we reached a building topped with a neon sign identifying the company, Cheri removed the poncho, zip-tied my hands behind me, and led me on a leash into the manager’s office. The nameplate on his desk read “James Oglethorpe;” he was a fit man in middle age with a poker face.
I knew what was expected of me, so I knelt, thighs wide apart and head bowed, while Cheri gave Master James the paperwork and they finalized my sub-lease from Paul Sosa’s corporation to SlutsRUs. Cheri gave me a hug and departed, promising to see me soon but leaving me alone and frightened. Master James ordered me to stand, then cut my zip-tie so I could pose in various block slave or yoga moves while he looked me over critically, staring at my body but never touching it.
“I think you’ll do fine, girlie. Here’s a towel and some soap—the last door on the left is the shower room.” When I returned, he caged me with a blanket, pillow, some sandwiches, and a bottle of water, then left me to rest before the evening.
About 6 p.m., a friendly, slightly-overweight redhead who introduced herself as “Ginny” woke me up and led me to a crowded closet labelled “Wardrobe.” (She may have been overweight and even a little ugly, but I envied her the lack of a collar on her neck.) Once at Wardrobe, she outfitted me as the worst kind of skank—pushup, strapless bra with a plunging neckline blouse to display my breasts, leather micro-mini with thong underwear, fishnet stockings, and a pair of battered platform shoes that were ALMOST the right size. Once I donned this scanty attire, she sat me down with a mirror and a set of garish makeup—pink eyeshadow and what Ginny called “cocksucker red” lipstick. She kept encouraging me to trowel on the makeup until I appeared as slutty as the clothing she had given me.
I soon found out the purpose of this odd outfit when I joined three other young women, each with a different hair color. Master Jim, a beefy guy who looked like a club bouncer, delivered the 4 of us downtown. I began to get the idea as the 3 other girls filled me in on their “work.”
I’d read about evenings like this in northern cities, especially prior to passage of the 34th Amendment permitting non-hereditary slavery in the U.S. Back then, young women with no choice had offered their sexual use by standing on downtown street corners, sometimes just to earn money for their children. Both their Johns and the pimps who controlled those women robbed and mistreated them, which was the principal reason for outlawing prostitution. In the new slave United States, however, slaves could not legally refuse sexual service to free men and therefore were not technically prostituting themselves when hired for sex—all the money went to their owners anyway.
*****
There I was, a Phi Beta Kappa Ph.D. college professor who usually wore upscale suits, standing on a dark street corner dressed literally (a word I don’t use lightly) as a whore while looking for unwashed men who would pay $20 and up to use me sexually. And I had become so horny that the only thing I could imagine that could be worse would be if I DIDN’T attract enough “johns” to satisfy my lust and SlutsRUs’ budget.
During my classes, I had promoted slavery as a taxable, safe alternative to "lot lizards, human trafficking, and the disgusting sight of hookers shaking their behinds on every street corner." The irony that I was now exactly the sort of human trash that I used to look down over my glasses at was not lost on me.
What made my humiliation both better and worse was that I ENJOYED “shaking my behind” on a street corner; it almost restored my pride to have complete strangers stop their cars and pay for my time, or at least my flesh. Some of my encounters were brief and relatively painless, such as climbing into a stranger’s car and sucking him off as he forced my face into his groin and flooded my mouth with blasts of sticky cum. I got some cock and male attention as well as a $20 bill to hand to Master Jim, while the John got off in 5 minutes—everyone happy.
Other experiences were scarier. The second night I spent on the corner, a convertible carrying three men stopped in front of me. They were the kind of young guys—perhaps 20 years old—that reminded me of college students taking my slave study courses—immature, unreliable, and driven by hormones. I had never had much patience, respect, or interest dealing with such people. Now, I realized yet again, they had the whip hand. They were free men with money in their pocket, and I was a slave prostitute who was expected to “entertain” them any way they wanted in return for some of that money to give to my masters—all I would get out of it besides attention from immature males would be a mouthful of cum and some slave kibble! To finish the image of young guys out for a thrill, I overheard one of them say “look at the knockers on that one—bet she reminds you of Professor Walker, huh, Bill?”
The driver turned red. I decided to play along. Leaning into the front window so that my boobs were practically in one guy’s lap, I tried to use a sultry voice with an OxBridge English accent as I said: “Hmmm, Bill. Were you hot for the teacher? What does Professor Walker teach?”
One of the other guys played along, replying “Business Administration.”
“Business, hmmm.” I replied, shifting my weight so my breasts moved side to side. “Well, pretend we’re in class talking about prices on Supply and Demand curves. If your demand includes enough money, I’ll supply the curves.”
We negotiated the price for all three of them to use me. I was frightened but aroused—I crawled into the back seat, after which the young man in the shotgun seat shifted to the rear, sandwiching me in as I kissed both of them and let them fondle me in a moving car. I tried to keep track of where “Bill” was taking me and was relieved to see him pull up at the local no-tell mo-tel. There was a tracker in my shoes, and I prayed that Master Jim knew where I had gone. When we got to the motel room, I stopped them so I could collect “Tuition” of $100 each, which I hid in a pocket of my jeans while distracting them by flashing my bare tits. After that, the three guys were so eager to paw the merchandise that the only way I could avoid getting my clothes torn was to have them sit on the bed while I did an impromptu strip-tease, all the time talking in that fake “posh” accent. I was babbling a disjointed combination of economics and innuendo, pointing out my ASSets as I turned away and dropped my thong, then proposing a “Business Plan” that began with me blowing each of them before they “gave me the business” on the bed.
During the next hour I lost track of who plowed which of my openings how many times, but it was fun—or at least, fun for the kind of “cock-obsessed bimbo slut” I had so often sneered at before I BECAME one. I recall thinking that it was a good thing I had given myself an enema and then greased that opening with mint-flavored lube—otherwise the cocks in my mouth would have been disgusting instead of just choking me.
Despite several orgasms (mine and theirs), I managed to remain conscious until all 3 of them, having come at least twice apiece (me being the piece) collapsed. I slid out from under Bill, collected my clothing, and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. One of the other guys—John?—joined me half-way through, soaping me gently while telling me that I was sexier than ANY of their professors. I suddenly felt a little sorry for the poor guy, who was obviously struggling with learning while distracted by the kind of mature, intimidating female professor that I had been as recently as three months ago. So I spontaneously wrapped my arms around his neck to give him a long, lingering French kiss, then slid down his front to give him a bonus blowjob. I was again amazed at the resilience of young cocks, as he rose to full erection and even fed me another yummy load.
When we finished, I dressed quietly and John volunteered to drive me back to my corner, borrowing Bill’s keys. I could tell the other girls were relieved to see me re-appear aunharmed. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and thanked him for “the rides—both of them” before sliding out to resume my post. Master Bill was pleased when he heard the story and got the money I had collected.
*****
After nine days of my walking the streets, Master James heard good reports and began to give me different “assignments.” Some were better that standing on a corner, such as being a lap dancer at a strip joint, while some were far worse. Let me mention a few of the most horrifying assignments—and admit that the humiliation only INCREASED my arousal:
First, I got hired out at an actual glory hole, where a line of females—and a surprising number of males, some of them apparently free yet for some reason wearing cages on their own equipment—spent their evenings kneeling, chained in front of holes where they had to suck off anonymous cocks thrust through those holes into the darkened room where we all waited. The kind lady who ran this establishment encouraged us to get the customers off as fast as possible. Each time we swallowed ten loads from the Johns, we got a short break and a disposable toothbrush to try to clean out the disgusting taste. I will say that giving 40 or more blowjobs every evening for a week gave me opportunity and motivation to perfect my technique so I could get to the next breaktime faster. Who would have thought I would be proud of becoming a champion cocksucker? One night, with my mouth full of swelling dick, I recalled breaking up with a boyfriend in graduate school when he complained about my lack of oral skills—I couldn’t help wishing that I could encounter that boyfriend someday (after I had regained my freedom) and show him how much I had improved! Sigh—my branded ass and my enlarged boobs weren’t the only changes I’d experienced.
At the time, I thought that working in a glory hole was about as demeaning as I could get, but SlutsRUs found even greater humiliations for me. Since I’m on the subject of cock-sucking, I should mention my LEAST favorite place to work—the “Spit-Roast Bar.” As the name might suggest, this fine establishment capitalized on the male fantasy of being able to sodomize a helpless woman at both ends. In practice, this meant that I would be bound on knees and elbows to a typical slave rack, held about 3 feet above and parallel to the floor with all three of my openings available. To make sure of the latter, the manager tied a ring-gag into my mouth to hold it open. Once I was in this humbling position, the management of the ”Spit-Roast Bar” would cover my body with a lightweight, plywood surface that in turn would be covered by a tablecloth and then rolled out into the dining area. Two guys—or sometimes a guy whose adventurous date wore a strap-on, casually sodomizing and fucking the immobilized slave while eating—and sometimes trading seats or holes as they went along! For an hour, I was just a mobile cum-dumpster, and it wasn’t unusual for me to get a load in all three holes, not to mention having to swallow unclean dicks and strap-ons! Once the meal was over, I would be rolled back out to the kitchen and allowed to stretch, gargle, and clean up before being strapped down for the “next sitting.”
Gradually, the passivity of slave mind set in—if free people wanted to use my unworthy body that way, they had the power and I didn’t, so I might as well relax and enjoy being an (almost) human fleshlight. I imagined Professor Williams of U. Mass, dressed in a sequined evening gown, having dinner while pumping vibrators in and out of Slut Lindsay’s cunt and ass. I even got off (mentally, at least) every time I felt one of the guests withdraw from my “juicy little twat” and ram himself into the winking opening just above it. This, after all, was what my extensive Pearson education was intended to prepare me for; an anonymous piece of slave ass who serviced free people joyfully without their ever perceiving me as human.
Talk about being a cheap date—the customers didn’t even have to wait while the waiter delivered dinner since they fed it to me directly! The ignominy of being used like an anonymous piece of slave meat, I still craved semen, another complete reversal of my pre-slave attitudes.
*****
Another time, the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch needed more girls—or more properly pony sluts—for some large social function. The ranch manager, an older but fit woman named Mary Jacobs, had gone through the entire SlutsRUs on-line catalog for the State of Texas and selected me, along with 1 male and 4 other female slaves, because we had the long legs, firm boobs, and toned muscles appropriate for ponies. When Master James called the 6 of us into his office, he tried to pretend this was just another sex gig, but I heard the awe in his voice when he said that Ms. Jacobs had hired us for three weeks straight, to ensure we were properly trained to perform as ponies. She had also paid a premium so that, for the one male and two females who were not already branded, she would be able to fry their butts with the Spinning Wheel brand—for once, that made me thankful that I was already “badged!” We all had to get nipple rings installed before the due date; having my nipples pierced was the ultimate dehumanizing experience.
The up-side of this three-week gig was that I didn’t have to risk my body walking the streets every night, but the downside was a lot of uncomfortable time sitting around. First, we all had to be shipped to the ranch, and Ms. Jacobs had specified that each of us make the trip with a 2-inch circumference plug in our butts, making the cramped travel in a poodle cage even more uncomfortable than usual. At the time, I thought the buttplug requirement was just a customer being sadistic, but when we arrived, I realized that she had actually done us a favor, stretching our asses in preparation for the pony tail butt plugs we would wear throughout our stay. I had found the doggie tail plugs at Pearson’s to be irritating, but these huge intruders were far more . . . well . . . intrusive! You know what I mean, damnit. (I had already noticed that my much of my esoteric education was receding into the distance as I spent my time focused on pleasing men and getting them to shaft me. No more reading or contemplation. For a woman who, until now, had made her living using her mind, this was worrying. Slave Mind was one thing but becoming a brainless bimbo seemed potentially worse than any indignity I had suffered up until then.)
More time passed as we were dressed as ponies, which included a tight leather bustier, tall boots with horseshoes on the bottom, and an elaborate headdress outfit that including not only reins to a gag-bit in the mouth but also a second pair of reins connected to—you guessed it—the new nipple rings. Believe me, when a driver pulled back on those 2 sets of reins, it felt as if he were about to tear off my nipples, so I tried to stop on a dime! Most of the drivers also liberally used the whip. They used it lightly, but it hurt, and spurred me on to be a better pony girl, prancing proudly.
Plus, of course, Ms. Jacobs decreed that each of us would get a shot of horny juice every third day we were on the farm. With my mouth and nipples tightly controlled, I was in no position to tell her that I’d already had plenty of whore-moans at Pearson’s. The injections, on top of my natural slave heat and exhaustion, really got to me. My mind went into passive la-la land as I dutifully pulled and halted when ordered to do so without thinking of much else except where I could get my next ration of cock and jism.
Fortunately, the ranch hand slave wranglers who taught us to be ponies were horny young adults. Like Pearson’s, the Spinning Wheel used sex—or rather deprivation of sex—to reward and motivate our behavior. I had once written a paper on the value of orgasm denial as a training technique, but now I realized how insidious that technique could be.
When I didn’t get enough cock [I defined “enough” as something pounding every hole at least twice a day] during the first few days, my consciousness receded even farther. Then my dutiful if brainless obedience earned me a reward—being strapped onto a mounting stand and pile-driven by one of the well-hung stallions of the place. Well, why didn’t you say so? I thought to myself. Once I realized the reward system, I became the model of a sex-crazed pony girl, throwing myself into whatever I was told to do—which earned me 2 more sessions with a stallion!
I figured out what was going on after we’d been training for 2 weeks—nobody bothered to tell the sluts anything. The Spinning Wheel was hosting some pony races, which meant that most of the Ranch’s trained ponies were preparing for those races and couldn’t provide transportation for the visitors. I and my fellow rental sluts were taught just enough that we could be “Picnic Ponies”—that is, not championship racers but able to pull visitors to the racetracks or to scenic sites—ponds, groves, etc.—where those visitors could have a picnic and then use the ponies for entertainment. Now THAT sounded like the kind of job for me—for the 4 days of the races, I eagerly towed visitors as fast as possible wherever they wanted to go, and in return they tied me spread-eagled across the back of the racing sulky so said visitors could plow me fore and aft for our mutual enjoyment. In those 4 days, I estimated that I got as many inches of cock and ounces of cum as I usually ingested in 10 days anywhere else except the Glory Hole!
At the end of the race meet, after all the visitors left, the Spinning Wheel held a “Social Corral” mixers—dozens of naked ponies including me, hooking up with the stallions and ranch staff. MY kind of a party, I thought, as I was tied over a padded fence rail and pumped by half a dozen studs. I was still buzzed from the sexual high the next day when my poodle cage returned me to SlutsRUs, just in time for Master Paul to pick me up and take me to his home for another week of housekeeping, writing, and oral service on my knees.
(To Be Continued)
The beeping forklift transferred my cage and two others like it from the back of a panel truck to an unfamiliar loading dock. I heard the different “beep” of a scanner recording our arrival to the new location, reinforcing the idea that we were so many caged animals, so much property to be owned, sold, and used by free people. Each of us three women was kneeling, gagged, cuffed, collared, and bound naked to the dog cage in which she had been imprisoned for the past several hours, since departing the Long Horn Slave Market. I heard or sensed someone roughly cutting the three zip-ties that had anchored my ankles and the chain of my handcuffs (bound behind my back) to the cage walls. Then the cheap padlocks that closed our cages were unlocked, and a forceful male voice ordered each of us to crawl forward to the yellow line on the loading dock floor, stop there and DO NOT MOVE.
The commanding voice came from a muscular, clearly athletic young man wearing boots, jeans, a logoed shirt, and an equipment belt bristling with devices such as handcuffs, a taser, and a long leather strap. As a professor and consultant on slave business matters, I had often dealt with (but largely ignored) slave wranglers like him. Now that I was a slave myself—more on that in a moment—my initial in-processing and auction at the Long Horn had aroused a monumental desire to please and sexually service men—all men really, but especially muscular handlers like him. My half-erect nipples and moist snatch awoke to the possibility of sexual use, making me eager to persuade him to spear me with the massive dick visibly pressing against his jeans—by preference, I hoped that he would fuck the brains and/or the crap out of my two lower holes, but at least allow me to tongue his magnificent dick and swallow the yummy discharge of that probe. I’d already swallowed three cocks and three loads of jism on this, my first day in a collar, but I was so uncontrollably horny and servile that I lusted after another round. Then the commanding voice gave me what I had already learned to regard as a standard warning to newly-arrived sluts:
“You are at the Pearson Pussy Ranch for training as pleasure slaves. I am required by law to tell you that the collar you are wearing can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Pearson employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping."
How did I get here, you may ask? My own ambition and stupidity. I had been an associate professor of slave studies at U Mass Amherst, but realized that I needed to better understand the psychology of slaves if I wanted to get tenure and above all to have slave merchants take my ideas seriously. So I stupidly self-indentured for a year in a collar. Nikki Sheldon, noted expert on slave psychiatry, had told me what she had been required to do to acquire HER knowledge of the subject: indenture herself for six months of sale and sexual use. She’d been fortunate enough to fall into the hands of her future husband, businessman Paul Sousa, and she’d apparently asked Paul to buy ME in the same manner. By the time I realized how unbelievably DUMB my plan was, I had allowed myself to be enslaved, stripped, auctioned, and painfully branded on the ass, all while the Long Horn Slave Market manipulated my mind into the appropriate mental outlook (read cock-obsessed bimbo) to be a slave. I had worked around slaves for years but was astonished at how easy it was to overpower my independent judgement so that I succumbed to Sudden Enslavement Syndrome. SES could best be described as slave mind on steroids. Slave mind develops over time from the mental conditioning inherent in slave yoga, as opposed to SES that came from the sudden loss of clothing when enslaved, processed, sold and branded like livestock. As a professor of slave studies I knew what was happening to me as my subconscious responded to the sudden transition from free woman to slave, but I was helpless to prevent it.
Paul had taken my desire to understand slavery at face value, shipping me off in a poodle cage to Pearson’s for training as a sex slave. He had promised me future opportunities to record my discoveries, interspersed with being pimped out in all manner of ways including (shudder) being a whipped submissive at the BDSM club he ran in Fort Worth. This morning I had been an up-and-coming, highly educated young academic who felt some pity and a LOT of contempt for slave whores, regarding them as brainless sluts driven by their hormones; now I was one of them, a bound and naked cunt with a throbbing rear end and a drive to get as much COCK as I possibly could inside every opening of my body. I had happily sucked the shaft of the slave wrangler who processed me, even though he resembled one of the uncouth undergraduate youths I regularly tried to enlighten in Massachusetts. Right now, I could still taste the fat shipping clerk who used my “dick-sucking lips” before stuffing me into this cage. In the back of my mind, I was mortified by the ease with which I had become just another collared bimbo, another set of moist holes eager to entertain men; How the mighty had fallen! Worse still, I had not fallen, I had enthusiastically leaped feet first into my new existence as a slave chasing tenure.
My ignominious situation became even worse after different slave wranglers took charge of each of us, cutting the gags, releasing our wrists, and then marching us to sit on toilet seats or straddle pee grates and relieve ourselves as they watched (no dividers or other privacy). The guy who controlled me was kinda cute, so as soon as I overcame my shame at urinating in front of him, I began to smile while thrusting my boobs towards him; once he ordered me off the seat and down onto my hands and knees, I tried to rub myself against his jeans as if I were a cat in heat, almost begging him to use me. I thought I had reached rock bottom when I brazenly came on to him like that, but I was even more chagrined when he refused! He reached down, patted my head and groped one of my large breasts, saying
“Yes, I know you’re a horny little bitch, but we don’t have time for that now. Be a good girl, and tomorrow you MIGHT get fucked if you’ve earned it.” His tone of voice was condescending, as if I were just a brainless bimbo begging for a treat—trouble was, he was right!
I blushed, not just because I had been so blatant but also because he had refused. Intellectually, as a professor of slave studies, I understood the need for orgasm denial as an obedience tool for horny pleasure sluts like me. The problem was that for the past dozen years, muscular guys like him had fallen all over themselves begging for my attention, let alone my sexual favors. I know that I’m going to sound really conceited, but back in Massachusetts I could have my pick of guys in any social situation. Part of my social power, of course, was my well-endowed and toned body, which was now completely on display and available to my temporary master. More than that, though: prep school had taught me the self-confidence, poise, and fashion sense that made a guy’s dick visibly stand at attention if I deigned to even LOOK at him. All that education had exercised my mind, so that I could crack jokes, hint at possible intimacy, and yet discourage any man from being too familiar with me. Up until today, that had been my only challenge in sexual politics—how to tell good-looking men that I did NOT intend to sleep with them, all without hurting their feelings or provoking a fight between (male) winners and losers? I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have a guy turn me down.
Later that night, lying alone in a cage with a sore ass and an unsatisfied cunt, I realized that not only was I a slave, but I also had lost all my sexual leverage in dealing with men. Clothes, confidence, poise, and the ability to flirt verbally had all been taken from me. Instead of me having my pick of men, the only ones I met had unlimited access to hot and cold running (or at least juicy and dripping) pussy, ass, and mouth. (The very fact that I used terms like slut, cock, cunt, pussy, and ass, which previously I had rarely even THOUGHT let alone said, should tell you how immersed I was in the slave situation.) Now I was the horny thing, driven by hormones and vying for the precious attention of the other gender, a gender that had become bored, jaded with controlling and fucking Prime- and Choice-rated women. They were no longer competing for my approval; now I had to compete (and often lose) for scraps of THEIR attention.
Recognizing this transfer of sexual power, a seismic shift in supply and demand, gave my ego some reassurance, but after a day of jilling off and submitting to clothed, all-powerful males my libido still craved fucking. Hell, I even hungered for another mouthful of cum, a disgusting jelly that I had always avoided swallowing as a free woman. It’s human nature to want what you can’t get—or at least can get only in limited quantities. I had just joined the ranks of the horny, cock-obsessed sluts that I had so frequently sneered at when I was still free. (Fuck, to use a central word in my new vocabulary—Nikki Sheldon had been correct; less than 24 hours in a collar and I had a greater understanding of what motivated slaves than I had acquired in a dozen years of academic study. What do they call that in Education courses—experiential learning? Now all I wanted to experience was a good shafting. Nikki was also right about something else—that bitch Sarah Hollister MUST have been through what I had just experienced, if not more, to become so expert at manipulating slave sluts. Comparing her self-confidence to my current bedraggled, subjugated state, I took what comfort I could from believing that at some point she must have been a horny slave—probably used in every opening and branded like me—to be so effective. I just wished I knew the details, so as to mentally equate her to my new, helpless self.)
The next morning, a different wrangler whose nametag read "Harry” cuffed me, walked me to a pee grate to relieve myself, and then bent me over, ankles tied apart with my wrists pulled up behind me towards the ceiling. Next, he flooded both of my lower passages with warm water, leaving me struggling to hold the water in for several minutes before he released me to void myself in the toilet. At least HE took the trouble to grope my boobs, ass, and clit while I hung there, which did a little bit towards restoring my pride and a LOT towards distracting me from the pressure in my cunt and rectum. He pointed out two nozzles, mounted two feet off the floor, which he told me to back into on future mornings to clean myself out without wasting his time.
After a tasteless breakfast—identical to the “supper” of the previous evening—of slave kibble and water, consumed on my widespread knees with my hands still restrained behind me, Master Harry walked me to a separate room with a Red Cross and the words “Veterinary Treatment” on the door. There, some guy who claimed to be a paramedic very gently peeled off the bandage over my brand, sprayed it with disinfectant and painkiller, and put on a new dressing while giving me another pair of ibuprofens with a swallow of water. He also gave me a shot of “horny juice,” a cock-tail (pun intended) of estrogen and other organic chemicals that, as the name implies, helped make a female slave aroused and compliant. As if I needed a shot when I was already crazy with need. (When I taught Slave Studies back in Amherst, I tried to entertain my students by describing this injection of hormones as “Whore-Moans;” I didn’t find that so funny now that the shots caused ME to be the moaning slut!)
The paramedic repeated the same process morning and evening for the next two weeks until he adjudged my skin to be healed and my arousal to be full-blown [another intentional pun]. From my point of view, the best part of this pro-forma “medical treatment” was that the paramedic—who was NOT a licensed slave wrangler even though he wore similar clothing—took every opportunity to grope and fondle my helpless body; once my butt stopped hurting during week two, he often took the opportunity to briskly fuck me while I was bent over his bench!
For the rest of the staff, the genuine slave wranglers, a hard fucking—or at least discharging themselves in one of a slave’s three openings—was the ultimate reward for good behavior as a slave cunt, and even then the slut in question had to EARN that jism by demonstrating superior muscular control to entertain the almighty COCK that had graciously invaded her.
A piece of slave candy constituted a lesser reward—it wasn’t very tasty, but ANY sweetness was desirable when we lived on a bland diet of slave kibble with occasional vegetables and nuts for balance. (Almost the only good result of going to this school, besides my larger bra size, was that the limited diet slimmed my waist down.) Sometimes, when my oral performance was almost-but-not-quite-good-enough, the wrangler would withdraw his magnificent shaft from my mouth and spray all over, a little on my smiling, upturned face but mostly in a bowl of kibble, telling me to enjoy a “hot meal” on him (which was odd, since part of that hot meal was on ME). It was at times like that, when my subservience and arousal drove me to gobble up the revolting mess, that I reflected on how low I had fallen, from articulate professor who occasionally bestowed her attentions on a fawning young man to a naked, bound, kneeling whore eagerly eating up every drop of jism gifted to me by an all-powerful MALE slave wrangler who controlled me completely, and could earn my undying gratitude by fucking any of my holes any time he chose to do so.
In addition to hour upon hour of slave yoga, I and the other “pussies” on the ranch were completely subjugated, kept constantly aroused (by fondling as well as Whore-Moans), and drilled to be mindless sexual servants of every free male. Sometimes, we had to lick the female wranglers to orgasm, but most of the time they wore strap-on dildos to give the slaves more practice in being shafted. To reinforce our subservience, we spent most of our time on hands and knees, with buttplug-attached tails dangling between our legs. Anywhere a man could insert a penis, we were expected to clamp down on that penis, rhythmically massaging it. Almost the only words we were allowed to say was “Yes, Master, No, Master, Yes, Mistress, or No, Mistress.” (To be fair, we were also taught to stand, walk, sit, kneel, and lie down in a way that exuded sex appeal. I had thought I knew how to entice a man, but Pearson made that attitude second nature, so I was a crawling sex magnet.)
I was excused from SOME of this training, especially being sodomized anally and fucked doggy-style, for two and a half weeks until my wounded left butt cheek had healed sufficiently. When it came to discipline, I of course couldn’t be whipped across my LEFT cheek, so instead I got twice as many strokes on my RIGHT rear end or boobs! Sometimes, I thought that my right buttock must be as red and sore as my left. To make up for this shortfall in my “training,” I got the privilege of spending more time on my knees sucking cocks and straddling a wrangler, bouncing up and down on his cock (or her strap-on) while flexing my kegel muscles. Three other members of my “slut class,” all branded with the cursive “D” indicating they were Prime-rated Sandy Foot Girls from the Big D Slave Market, got similar exclusions and training.
Once my horny paramedic declared me healed, my special status disappeared. In fact, the slave wranglers tried to make up for my previous “easy time” by giving me, as they so delicately put it, “all the butt-fucks and air-tights” I had missed in my previous “training.” (If you’re not familiar with the term, being “air-tight” describes a woman whose three openings are simultaneously filled with pricks or, in our case, pricks and strap-ons; there simply weren’t enough male wranglers to provide three dicks per slave, especially because as human beings those wranglers couldn’t keep it up 16 hours a day.) Perhaps it was another symptom of my subjugation, but I remember feeling thankful that my “doggie tail” butt plug had stretched my anus in preparation for all those large shafts pumping in and out of my colon (!).
Some of this explanation for my “advanced training” I got from Sophie, who was my trainer, disciplinarian, and den-mother. She was a tall, cool, poised blonde; except for her hair color, she reminded me a great deal of myself before I had so stupidly indentured myself in the interests of “research.” Fortunately for me, Mistress Sophie had apparently concluded that I was fully committed to being a Pearson slut, as eager and horny as any slave bimbo I had ever seen (To borrow a phrase from the board game “Clue,” I cannot disprove that suggestion). She took a benevolent attitude towards me, although I had to spend a lot of time “practicing my oral skills” on HER crotch. Apart from her clothes and equipment belt, one of the noteworthy differences between Mistress Sophie as a wrangler and Slut 6627 (me) as a slave was that she had retained her pubic hair. While I brought her to several orgasms in a row, Sophie quietly explained why my training had shifted once my butt healed. Apparently, the Pearson management had a standard minimum number of dickings that each graduate had to experience in each opening before she was declared “worthy” of graduating as one of their slave bimbos. They even recorded all these figures on a “school transcript” given to the slave’s owner. Just what I needed after 21 years of school, another series of A’s—or should that be O’s for orgasm?
Towards the end of my fourth week at Pearson, the management held one of its periodic open house cocktail parties to show off their wares (or should that be whores?) to high rollers and potential customers. The stars of these parties were the long-term trainees, who spent months learning to be polished courtesans, able to compete—or at least so Pearson claimed—with the graduates of long-term consort academies such as Broadstone. I and the other members of our “quicky” month-long course were so much window dressing, serving the guests and trying very hard not to attract criticism (for which we would pay dearly after the party). Instead of getting a make-over and glamorous evening clothing, I felt fortunate to get my hair trimmed, a few strokes of mascara and lipstick to decorate my face, and a see-through plastic apron that revealed every inch of my figure while preventing me from accidentally dripping my juices on the food. In a place where they regularly shoved dicks into my mouth and ass, worrying about sanitation seemed odd to say the least.
While the star performers were sometimes taken aside into bedrooms for a thorough examination of their skills, I and my fellow waitresses had been instructed to kneel and fellate any guest who indicated a desire to use us, but NOT bring them off if they said they were waiting to use another privileged slut. Therefore, I was pleased but not surprised when my new owner, Paul Sousa, gestured for me to kneel in front of him.
He did indeed unzip and offer his (substantial and clean) penis, which I dutifully inhaled. I was flattered that his dick grew quickly, but I suppose any heterosexual man would have a similar reaction if an almost naked young woman with large boobs took him into her mouth. He almost whispered,
“Sorry, but if I took you into another room you might get in trouble. This way we can talk—feel free to take your mouth off me to answer. You don’t need to prove your skill to me—I’m sure you’ve learned your lessons well, so just fake it.”
We proceeded to have a whispered conversation, interrupted on my part by frequent slurping and moving my head forward and back to entertain his delicious prick. He wanted assurance that I was healing and not too downcast by my situation. At the end of our conversation, he suddenly sped up his pumping in and out, then pretended to come in my mouth and put his still-rigid cock away. Under the circumstances, he showed remarkable restraint—he was either an incredible gentleman who didn’t want to force himself on a helpless slave (even one he owned) or he was an even rarer bird, a completely faithful husband! (I had already learned that having sex with slaves is not considered adultery in southern society—just a perk of being a free person.)
*****
Master Paul must have given me a flattering report, for Mistress Sophie was very pleased with me when next she had my lick HER pussy. Days later, after a final flurry of forced fornication in all my fundaments, I found myself once again riding in a poodle cage inside a van. No matter how uncomfortable and demeaning the ride, I was at least traveling AWAY from the Pearson Ranch. Surely, I thought, the next 11 months couldn’t possibly be as bad as the first one—you can’t blame a brainless twat for being so wrong!
When the driver finally released me from that mobile prison, he led me on a leash, still gagged and cuffed, up the steps of a very fancy house, the kind I hoped one day to own when I became a wealthy business consultant. He rang the doorbell while I silently wondered whether this was another step in my humiliation. I was overjoyed when the door was opened promptly by a smiling Nikki Sheldon. She was wearing a very stylish business suit, having apparently just come from her work as a psychiatrist, while I was standing slave naked, in full public view—but it still felt like coming home to be transferred to her custody. My smile was as broad as hers, but I didn’t know the protocol for such a situation, so I knelt in front of her and bowed my head to kiss her sandals while the driver got her signature accepting delivery. (In retrospect, the entire situation was bizarre. We had gone from friends and professional equals to owner and slave, free person and cunt, dressed professional and naked slut.)
Having been through similar experiences before, Nikki—excuse me, MISTRESS Nikki—defused the situation. She briskly ordered me to stand and follow her into the house, then gave me a warm hug before she removed my gag and released my wrists. “I’m so glad to see you, Lindsay; come on, I’m sure you need a toilet.” As I followed her to the nearest half-bathroom, I realized that I was overjoyed not just to see a friend who was kind to me but to be addressed as Lindsay, rather than “Slut 6627” (the last 4 digits of my Slave Identification Number) or simply “cunt,” “bitch,” “slave twat,” and all the other demeaning terms used to emphasize my purpose as a slave. It took so little to lift my spirits!
Nikki pointed out toothbrush and mouthwash waiting on the little bathroom sink, and left me to relieve myself and clean up, telling me to join her in the living room when I was ready. I found her sitting down so I automatically knelt in front of her, fingers interlocked behind my neck, naked boobs thrust forward. Nikki made no comment about my subservience, just smiled and repeated her happiness at seeing me again. Even though I was naked on my knees, it was a joy to have a conversation without commands, criticism, or sexual overtones. Still, I was careful not to omit the word “Mistress.”
After a few minutes of chatter, she finally looked directly in my eyes and remarked, flatly, “So now you know.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I replied. “You were right that being a slave gives me a different understanding of my situation. To be honest, this is the first time in over a month that I’ve talked to a free person without expecting to be used sexually.”
Nikki smiled a little sadly. “Yeah, that’s a key part of being a slave—every interaction with a free person demands obedience and usually sex. Speaking of which, how horny are you?”
I suddenly realized that my poodle transport had been the longest period of consciousness that I’d spent in a collar that did NOT involve sexual stimulation. She was right—I’d become so used to being a sex slave that I was wondering when my next blowjob or shafting would happen! Helplessness and “whore-moans” had made me hornier than any teenager, and the thought of that, even more than my nudity and subservience, caused me to blush while still longing for more use. I nodded, but before I could even form a thought, Nikki continued speaking as if she had been reading my mind.
“That’s right, sweetie, they’ve made you addicted to submissive sex. It may fade if you don’t get another happy juice injection, but you’re still going to be begging for daily use. If this were the end of your indenture, I’d advise you on how to reduce your dependence, but considering you still have 11 months to go, it would be cruel to do that now. Just remember that this house is a safe zone—I’m sure that Paul told you we intend to have you visit here periodically so that you can rest and write down your observations about slavery.”
Wow. Considering that these two could just have pimped me out 24/7 for the next eleven months, giving me recurring opportunities to rest and reflect on my experience was incredibly generous. I started to thank her, but she interrupted,
“I’m not asking you to thank us, just trying to put you at ease. I AM going to have you do a little housekeeping around here—change and wash the sheets and towels, vacuum the rugs, scrub out the sinks and toilets—but that’s just because Paul and I are too busy with our work to clean up after two and now three occupants.”
Nikki continued, “But, what I really wanted to say was that any time YOU feel too horny, you just need to kneel in front of us as you are now and ask to be used. We may put your mouth to work pleasing us, or we might shaft you with a dick or strap-on, but we don’t want you to suffer TOO much frustration. As it is, Paul’s planning to put you to work at his BDSM club in 3-4 days, let me tell you THAT should provide plenty of stimulation and domination. Meanwhile, don’t hesitate to ask for what you need.”
Without pausing, she continued. “Paul and I have both been slaves, so we don’t intend to force you in our home, but we get just as horny as any former slave, and we’ve given each other permission to play with you when YOU need to be fucked, OK?” It was shocking to hear this youthful, happily married medical professional speak casually of fucking, but I realized that she really did understand my needs and motivations.
It suddenly occurred to me—now that I had become addicted, what would I do for sexual use once I regained my freedom? I MUST be under the influence of “Slave Mind”—here I was, praying to survive another 11 months to regain my freedom, yet I found myself contemplating pretending to be a slave after that time, just to get my fix of submissive sex! A strange idea about that desire for submission hung just outside my consciousness, but it wasn’t until that night that I put two and two together, and came up with—FLAME! Son-of-a If, as both Nikki and I suspected, Sarah Hollister had at some point experienced sexual slavery, then it stood to reason that she like me would hanker to experience that same domination after she regained her freedom. Was it possible that the slut Flame on board the cruise brothel Yo Ho Ho, the good-looking, skanky redhead who somehow had SARAH HOLLISTER’s SIN inside her lip was really Sarah pretending to be a slave??
Naaah, things didn’t add up. Nikki and I had both become slaves because of our trusting natures, but NOBODY would voluntarily become a slave TWICE. No matter how much I hated Sarah, I couldn’t imagine even HER being so dumb, especially when all those slave merchants who would recognize her! Besides, Flame had a real Sandy Foot Girl brand on her ass, and how could Sarah have gotten such a badge without people finding out she’d been a slave? Nice theory, but I found it hard to believe she had voluntarily put a collar back on to masquerade on the cruise ship.
For the next three days, I had an easy life for a slave. During the day I was often alone, left to do housekeeping and then write my observations—many of which I’ve confided in this tale—of what it meant to be a slave. Having been reduced to a “brainless, cock-hungry bimbo,” I found it difficult to express what I had learned in dispassionate academic terms without obscenities. I even asked Nikki to review my draft, and she gave me some ideas to explain my motivation. (This slave tail grew out of her suggestion that I write a chronology to help me identify the lessons involved.)
In the early mornings when it was chilly, she let me wear T-shirt style nightgowns. They may have been large by Nikki’s standards, but on ME these garments were so tight across the boobs and butt that they made my body look like an over-ripe Jessica Rabbit caricature. Nikki also bought me some see-through bras to support my new boobs.
When Paul was home, he and Nikki spent some time cuddling on a couch while watching Netflix; both of them seemed willing to have me kneel while servicing them. One night, Nikki was gone overnight so Paul cuffed my hands and bent me over the back of that couch so that he could slowly shaft his slave while he watched the evening news over my head! I know that sounds weird, but in a way he seemed to be indulging my addiction, not “fucking the collared help,” a common pastime of wealthy men in Texas. Afterwards, he sent me to shower and then allowed me to cuddle with him in bed. It wasn’t about sex—he just remarked that, when HE had been a convicted slave on a chain gang, he had really missed physical contact. Sigh; that was undoubtedly the best night I’d spent since I was collared, and he didn’t even tweak my nipples!
I spent 3 more periods of 4-7 days each at Nikki’s house, writing my thoughts and washing laundry in the daytime, and (if I begged enough) servicing my owners sexually at night. When Paul was away, Nikki would strap on a dildo and shaft me vigorously while praising my performance.
That first interlude of 4 days ended 1 morning when my legal owner, Paul Sousa, had me strip off my nightgown, don the plastic poncho permitted to slaves in inclement weather, and sit in his car, collared and cuffed, while he drove us to his club in Fort Worth. Paul made it clear that he would NOT force me to have sex with anyone against my will, but by now I was so horny I would gladly agree to ANYTHING that involved being fucked!
Arriving at the club, Master Paul turned me over to a woman who held the oxymoronic title of “Head Submissive,”—that is, the den mother of the young women who acted submissives as well as waitresses at the club. She was a busty brunette of about my age, who introduced herself as “Cheryl Pierce, Cheri to my friends.” Cheri outfitted me with the tight leather outfit worn by the other girls—a broad fake collar with a tight bustier/bra that put my 38DD’s on display and practically begged any male to reach into my cleavage. She also gave me tall leather boots with 3-inch heels and finally a pair of leather short-shorts that came with interesting appendages. Nikki had warned me about these shorts, laughing at the memory of herself wearing them: inside each pair were two thick, plastic-covered shafts, clearly designed to fill my lower openings. The front one was 6 inches tall while the rearward (both towards the rear and going into MY rear!) was somewhat shorter and narrower, with a narrow neck just above the point where the dildo was attached to the shorts, turning it into a butt plug that my anus. That meant that I had both of my lower openings stuffed—except when I volunteered to be a bondage submissive, in which case the shorts would come off so that flesh could fill me instead.
Nikki had warned me that each shaft was actually a vibrator, with a 3rd one mounted on the front of those shorts to contact my clit. Every table in the club had a device where the members could “tip” me for good service or just to watch me jiggle around—if more than 1 table tipped me at the same time, more than 1 vibrator would start up.
Even without these vibrators, I had a blast that evening, flirting with the customers, trying not to spill drinks when vibrators cut in. Now that the slave market and Pearson’s Ranch had turned me into a horny bimbo slut, I really enjoyed waitressing for a crowd of males plus a few free females. I purposely bent over when I served drinks, allowing the customers to fondle my boobs or slide their hands down my tight shorts and squeeze my bare butt.
By the end of the first evening, I was on the verge of climaxing from this combination of stimulation, fondling, and flirting. I was so hyped up that I scarcely got any rest. When a lull came on the second evening that I worked at the club, I begged Master Paul to ravage me.
“Let’s be clear about this, Lindsay,” he replied, quietly. “I’ve already told you that the only way for you to get used here is to surrender your body as a submissive. Are you asking me for that?”
I babbled a response. In the blink of an eye, he had cuffed my hands behind my back, led me into the room where I had crashed the previous night, put me on my knees, and abruptly ordered me to “Suck dick, slut.” I eagerly tongued, slobbered over, and swallowed his cock and balls. In less than 30 seconds I unleashed a tiger—Master Paul jerked me to my feet, bound me to a bondage rack, then pulled my tight pants with attached shafts down to my knees.
By this time I was begging him to use me any way he wanted—"whip me, fuck me, cornhole me, POUND me, Master. PLEASE!” He obliged me, ramming my twat doggie style for several minutes and then, as I began to twitch in submissive orgasm, he shifted targets, hastily squirted more lube up my back passage and worked himself deep inside me. Lying down on top of me, Master Paul reached around to toy with my boobs and clit while building up the force with which he butt-fucked me.
I don’t even recall when and how he discharged inside me, because I was so overwhelmed that I shook and vibrated for minutes on end. When I recovered consciousness, he was releasing me from the rack and my cuffs, then firmly swatted my butt as he sent me into the shower for a quick wash.
From then on, for the next two weeks or so, Submissive Lindsay was the new toy on the block, being regularly humiliated, flagellated, and gloriously shafted by every member (in both sense of that word) of the club. I awoke refreshed every morning, having flirted with the customers every evening and enjoyed it when they plowed my openings at night. If it were possible to drug yourself with submissive sex and whipping, then I overdosed. Twice, the bouncers intervened to protect me from injury, after which I got a night off for my skin to recover—a night I spent longing for more use!
I realized that was the key—the sex was fun, but what I really craved was the attention of free men; slave mind had set in HARD. I lost track of how many times I got fucked in which holes but suffice it to say that Master Paul told me that I was a credit to Pearson’s training. Another brainless and promiscuous Pearson pussy.
*****
I would happily have served out the remaining months of my indenture as Lindsay the bondage bimbo, acting the entire time like the kind of slave slut that I had so often disparaged. All good things come to an end, though . . .
One morning, Cheri told me to go to the boss’s office. I reminded myself that I was still Master Paul’s property, so I paused to strip off my robe before knocking on his door. When he responded to the knock, I walked in and assumed the Present position with my legs slightly apart, fingers interlaced behind my neck, displaying every inch of my body to him; just standing there like that fueled my sense of vulnerability. “You sent for me, Master?” I asked, hoping he would fuck me over his desk —let’s face it, I’d become an insatiable whore! Still, his next words filled me with dread.
“I have to be honest with you, Lindsay: as a former slave, it bothers me that people like you actually make careers and profits at the expense of enslaved human beings.” I was shocked and terrified—I had come to trust this man, my owner, and now he told me that he hated what I did?
He went on without pausing. “At least you have the guts to experience this evil first-hand, which is more than most people in the business do. Besides, if I treated you the way most slaves are treated, I would be no better than you—and no, BDSM play isn’t real punishment because you seem to ENJOY it.” He paused, then continued. “However, as I recall, you enslaved yourself because you wanted to understand how slaves think.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he continued. “So, I’ve decided to help you with your ‘research;' I’m leasing you out to SlutsRUs.”
Gulp. No matter how drugged and demeaned I had been at Pearson’s Ranch or Master Paul’s club, I always felt that the people who controlled me were looking out for me as a slave. Now I was going to work for a temporary agency that was infamous for supplying slave for all manner of sexual service. He was right, of course—being pimped out by such an agency would improve my understanding and research about slavery, but I felt suddenly as if he were pushing me out onto a high wire without a net. He could see the fear in my face but promised me that he would check in periodically and look after me, a promise that gave me some slight reassurance. (I later realized that Paul was just too nice a guy to leave any woman, even one who had profited from the slave industry, to be mistreated.)
There was only one possible response: “Yes, Master.” He sent me to see Mistress Cheri who would handle delivery to SlutsRUs. Once again, I was covered in a plastic poncho and cuffed/buckled into the passenger seat of a car while she drove me to the local office of that temp agency. Along the way, she tried to reassure me that I would be safe—SlutsRUs was a business that didn’t want to incur charges by allowing a customer to “damage the merchandise.” Without naming names, she even told me that Mr. Sosa had previously rented out a slave to them with good results—knowing she meant Nikki, I just replied “I know her,” which discouraged further talk. Once we reached a building topped with a neon sign identifying the company, Cheri removed the poncho, zip-tied my hands behind me, and led me on a leash into the manager’s office. The nameplate on his desk read “James Oglethorpe;” he was a fit man in middle age with a poker face.
I knew what was expected of me, so I knelt, thighs wide apart and head bowed, while Cheri gave Master James the paperwork and they finalized my sub-lease from Paul Sosa’s corporation to SlutsRUs. Cheri gave me a hug and departed, promising to see me soon but leaving me alone and frightened. Master James ordered me to stand, then cut my zip-tie so I could pose in various block slave or yoga moves while he looked me over critically, staring at my body but never touching it.
“I think you’ll do fine, girlie. Here’s a towel and some soap—the last door on the left is the shower room.” When I returned, he caged me with a blanket, pillow, some sandwiches, and a bottle of water, then left me to rest before the evening.
About 6 p.m., a friendly, slightly-overweight redhead who introduced herself as “Ginny” woke me up and led me to a crowded closet labelled “Wardrobe.” (She may have been overweight and even a little ugly, but I envied her the lack of a collar on her neck.) Once at Wardrobe, she outfitted me as the worst kind of skank—pushup, strapless bra with a plunging neckline blouse to display my breasts, leather micro-mini with thong underwear, fishnet stockings, and a pair of battered platform shoes that were ALMOST the right size. Once I donned this scanty attire, she sat me down with a mirror and a set of garish makeup—pink eyeshadow and what Ginny called “cocksucker red” lipstick. She kept encouraging me to trowel on the makeup until I appeared as slutty as the clothing she had given me.
I soon found out the purpose of this odd outfit when I joined three other young women, each with a different hair color. Master Jim, a beefy guy who looked like a club bouncer, delivered the 4 of us downtown. I began to get the idea as the 3 other girls filled me in on their “work.”
I’d read about evenings like this in northern cities, especially prior to passage of the 34th Amendment permitting non-hereditary slavery in the U.S. Back then, young women with no choice had offered their sexual use by standing on downtown street corners, sometimes just to earn money for their children. Both their Johns and the pimps who controlled those women robbed and mistreated them, which was the principal reason for outlawing prostitution. In the new slave United States, however, slaves could not legally refuse sexual service to free men and therefore were not technically prostituting themselves when hired for sex—all the money went to their owners anyway.
*****
There I was, a Phi Beta Kappa Ph.D. college professor who usually wore upscale suits, standing on a dark street corner dressed literally (a word I don’t use lightly) as a whore while looking for unwashed men who would pay $20 and up to use me sexually. And I had become so horny that the only thing I could imagine that could be worse would be if I DIDN’T attract enough “johns” to satisfy my lust and SlutsRUs’ budget.
During my classes, I had promoted slavery as a taxable, safe alternative to "lot lizards, human trafficking, and the disgusting sight of hookers shaking their behinds on every street corner." The irony that I was now exactly the sort of human trash that I used to look down over my glasses at was not lost on me.
What made my humiliation both better and worse was that I ENJOYED “shaking my behind” on a street corner; it almost restored my pride to have complete strangers stop their cars and pay for my time, or at least my flesh. Some of my encounters were brief and relatively painless, such as climbing into a stranger’s car and sucking him off as he forced my face into his groin and flooded my mouth with blasts of sticky cum. I got some cock and male attention as well as a $20 bill to hand to Master Jim, while the John got off in 5 minutes—everyone happy.
Other experiences were scarier. The second night I spent on the corner, a convertible carrying three men stopped in front of me. They were the kind of young guys—perhaps 20 years old—that reminded me of college students taking my slave study courses—immature, unreliable, and driven by hormones. I had never had much patience, respect, or interest dealing with such people. Now, I realized yet again, they had the whip hand. They were free men with money in their pocket, and I was a slave prostitute who was expected to “entertain” them any way they wanted in return for some of that money to give to my masters—all I would get out of it besides attention from immature males would be a mouthful of cum and some slave kibble! To finish the image of young guys out for a thrill, I overheard one of them say “look at the knockers on that one—bet she reminds you of Professor Walker, huh, Bill?”
The driver turned red. I decided to play along. Leaning into the front window so that my boobs were practically in one guy’s lap, I tried to use a sultry voice with an OxBridge English accent as I said: “Hmmm, Bill. Were you hot for the teacher? What does Professor Walker teach?”
One of the other guys played along, replying “Business Administration.”
“Business, hmmm.” I replied, shifting my weight so my breasts moved side to side. “Well, pretend we’re in class talking about prices on Supply and Demand curves. If your demand includes enough money, I’ll supply the curves.”
We negotiated the price for all three of them to use me. I was frightened but aroused—I crawled into the back seat, after which the young man in the shotgun seat shifted to the rear, sandwiching me in as I kissed both of them and let them fondle me in a moving car. I tried to keep track of where “Bill” was taking me and was relieved to see him pull up at the local no-tell mo-tel. There was a tracker in my shoes, and I prayed that Master Jim knew where I had gone. When we got to the motel room, I stopped them so I could collect “Tuition” of $100 each, which I hid in a pocket of my jeans while distracting them by flashing my bare tits. After that, the three guys were so eager to paw the merchandise that the only way I could avoid getting my clothes torn was to have them sit on the bed while I did an impromptu strip-tease, all the time talking in that fake “posh” accent. I was babbling a disjointed combination of economics and innuendo, pointing out my ASSets as I turned away and dropped my thong, then proposing a “Business Plan” that began with me blowing each of them before they “gave me the business” on the bed.
During the next hour I lost track of who plowed which of my openings how many times, but it was fun—or at least, fun for the kind of “cock-obsessed bimbo slut” I had so often sneered at before I BECAME one. I recall thinking that it was a good thing I had given myself an enema and then greased that opening with mint-flavored lube—otherwise the cocks in my mouth would have been disgusting instead of just choking me.
Despite several orgasms (mine and theirs), I managed to remain conscious until all 3 of them, having come at least twice apiece (me being the piece) collapsed. I slid out from under Bill, collected my clothing, and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. One of the other guys—John?—joined me half-way through, soaping me gently while telling me that I was sexier than ANY of their professors. I suddenly felt a little sorry for the poor guy, who was obviously struggling with learning while distracted by the kind of mature, intimidating female professor that I had been as recently as three months ago. So I spontaneously wrapped my arms around his neck to give him a long, lingering French kiss, then slid down his front to give him a bonus blowjob. I was again amazed at the resilience of young cocks, as he rose to full erection and even fed me another yummy load.
When we finished, I dressed quietly and John volunteered to drive me back to my corner, borrowing Bill’s keys. I could tell the other girls were relieved to see me re-appear aunharmed. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and thanked him for “the rides—both of them” before sliding out to resume my post. Master Bill was pleased when he heard the story and got the money I had collected.
*****
After nine days of my walking the streets, Master James heard good reports and began to give me different “assignments.” Some were better that standing on a corner, such as being a lap dancer at a strip joint, while some were far worse. Let me mention a few of the most horrifying assignments—and admit that the humiliation only INCREASED my arousal:
First, I got hired out at an actual glory hole, where a line of females—and a surprising number of males, some of them apparently free yet for some reason wearing cages on their own equipment—spent their evenings kneeling, chained in front of holes where they had to suck off anonymous cocks thrust through those holes into the darkened room where we all waited. The kind lady who ran this establishment encouraged us to get the customers off as fast as possible. Each time we swallowed ten loads from the Johns, we got a short break and a disposable toothbrush to try to clean out the disgusting taste. I will say that giving 40 or more blowjobs every evening for a week gave me opportunity and motivation to perfect my technique so I could get to the next breaktime faster. Who would have thought I would be proud of becoming a champion cocksucker? One night, with my mouth full of swelling dick, I recalled breaking up with a boyfriend in graduate school when he complained about my lack of oral skills—I couldn’t help wishing that I could encounter that boyfriend someday (after I had regained my freedom) and show him how much I had improved! Sigh—my branded ass and my enlarged boobs weren’t the only changes I’d experienced.
At the time, I thought that working in a glory hole was about as demeaning as I could get, but SlutsRUs found even greater humiliations for me. Since I’m on the subject of cock-sucking, I should mention my LEAST favorite place to work—the “Spit-Roast Bar.” As the name might suggest, this fine establishment capitalized on the male fantasy of being able to sodomize a helpless woman at both ends. In practice, this meant that I would be bound on knees and elbows to a typical slave rack, held about 3 feet above and parallel to the floor with all three of my openings available. To make sure of the latter, the manager tied a ring-gag into my mouth to hold it open. Once I was in this humbling position, the management of the ”Spit-Roast Bar” would cover my body with a lightweight, plywood surface that in turn would be covered by a tablecloth and then rolled out into the dining area. Two guys—or sometimes a guy whose adventurous date wore a strap-on, casually sodomizing and fucking the immobilized slave while eating—and sometimes trading seats or holes as they went along! For an hour, I was just a mobile cum-dumpster, and it wasn’t unusual for me to get a load in all three holes, not to mention having to swallow unclean dicks and strap-ons! Once the meal was over, I would be rolled back out to the kitchen and allowed to stretch, gargle, and clean up before being strapped down for the “next sitting.”
Gradually, the passivity of slave mind set in—if free people wanted to use my unworthy body that way, they had the power and I didn’t, so I might as well relax and enjoy being an (almost) human fleshlight. I imagined Professor Williams of U. Mass, dressed in a sequined evening gown, having dinner while pumping vibrators in and out of Slut Lindsay’s cunt and ass. I even got off (mentally, at least) every time I felt one of the guests withdraw from my “juicy little twat” and ram himself into the winking opening just above it. This, after all, was what my extensive Pearson education was intended to prepare me for; an anonymous piece of slave ass who serviced free people joyfully without their ever perceiving me as human.
Talk about being a cheap date—the customers didn’t even have to wait while the waiter delivered dinner since they fed it to me directly! The ignominy of being used like an anonymous piece of slave meat, I still craved semen, another complete reversal of my pre-slave attitudes.
*****
Another time, the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch needed more girls—or more properly pony sluts—for some large social function. The ranch manager, an older but fit woman named Mary Jacobs, had gone through the entire SlutsRUs on-line catalog for the State of Texas and selected me, along with 1 male and 4 other female slaves, because we had the long legs, firm boobs, and toned muscles appropriate for ponies. When Master James called the 6 of us into his office, he tried to pretend this was just another sex gig, but I heard the awe in his voice when he said that Ms. Jacobs had hired us for three weeks straight, to ensure we were properly trained to perform as ponies. She had also paid a premium so that, for the one male and two females who were not already branded, she would be able to fry their butts with the Spinning Wheel brand—for once, that made me thankful that I was already “badged!” We all had to get nipple rings installed before the due date; having my nipples pierced was the ultimate dehumanizing experience.
The up-side of this three-week gig was that I didn’t have to risk my body walking the streets every night, but the downside was a lot of uncomfortable time sitting around. First, we all had to be shipped to the ranch, and Ms. Jacobs had specified that each of us make the trip with a 2-inch circumference plug in our butts, making the cramped travel in a poodle cage even more uncomfortable than usual. At the time, I thought the buttplug requirement was just a customer being sadistic, but when we arrived, I realized that she had actually done us a favor, stretching our asses in preparation for the pony tail butt plugs we would wear throughout our stay. I had found the doggie tail plugs at Pearson’s to be irritating, but these huge intruders were far more . . . well . . . intrusive! You know what I mean, damnit. (I had already noticed that my much of my esoteric education was receding into the distance as I spent my time focused on pleasing men and getting them to shaft me. No more reading or contemplation. For a woman who, until now, had made her living using her mind, this was worrying. Slave Mind was one thing but becoming a brainless bimbo seemed potentially worse than any indignity I had suffered up until then.)
More time passed as we were dressed as ponies, which included a tight leather bustier, tall boots with horseshoes on the bottom, and an elaborate headdress outfit that including not only reins to a gag-bit in the mouth but also a second pair of reins connected to—you guessed it—the new nipple rings. Believe me, when a driver pulled back on those 2 sets of reins, it felt as if he were about to tear off my nipples, so I tried to stop on a dime! Most of the drivers also liberally used the whip. They used it lightly, but it hurt, and spurred me on to be a better pony girl, prancing proudly.
Plus, of course, Ms. Jacobs decreed that each of us would get a shot of horny juice every third day we were on the farm. With my mouth and nipples tightly controlled, I was in no position to tell her that I’d already had plenty of whore-moans at Pearson’s. The injections, on top of my natural slave heat and exhaustion, really got to me. My mind went into passive la-la land as I dutifully pulled and halted when ordered to do so without thinking of much else except where I could get my next ration of cock and jism.
Fortunately, the ranch hand slave wranglers who taught us to be ponies were horny young adults. Like Pearson’s, the Spinning Wheel used sex—or rather deprivation of sex—to reward and motivate our behavior. I had once written a paper on the value of orgasm denial as a training technique, but now I realized how insidious that technique could be.
When I didn’t get enough cock [I defined “enough” as something pounding every hole at least twice a day] during the first few days, my consciousness receded even farther. Then my dutiful if brainless obedience earned me a reward—being strapped onto a mounting stand and pile-driven by one of the well-hung stallions of the place. Well, why didn’t you say so? I thought to myself. Once I realized the reward system, I became the model of a sex-crazed pony girl, throwing myself into whatever I was told to do—which earned me 2 more sessions with a stallion!
I figured out what was going on after we’d been training for 2 weeks—nobody bothered to tell the sluts anything. The Spinning Wheel was hosting some pony races, which meant that most of the Ranch’s trained ponies were preparing for those races and couldn’t provide transportation for the visitors. I and my fellow rental sluts were taught just enough that we could be “Picnic Ponies”—that is, not championship racers but able to pull visitors to the racetracks or to scenic sites—ponds, groves, etc.—where those visitors could have a picnic and then use the ponies for entertainment. Now THAT sounded like the kind of job for me—for the 4 days of the races, I eagerly towed visitors as fast as possible wherever they wanted to go, and in return they tied me spread-eagled across the back of the racing sulky so said visitors could plow me fore and aft for our mutual enjoyment. In those 4 days, I estimated that I got as many inches of cock and ounces of cum as I usually ingested in 10 days anywhere else except the Glory Hole!
At the end of the race meet, after all the visitors left, the Spinning Wheel held a “Social Corral” mixers—dozens of naked ponies including me, hooking up with the stallions and ranch staff. MY kind of a party, I thought, as I was tied over a padded fence rail and pumped by half a dozen studs. I was still buzzed from the sexual high the next day when my poodle cage returned me to SlutsRUs, just in time for Master Paul to pick me up and take me to his home for another week of housekeeping, writing, and oral service on my knees.
(To Be Continued)