The girl's paperwork assured me that the cheerleader outfit was genuine. She had been sold by her parents upon her eighteenth birthday, just three months before she graduated high school, and she had made them quite a pretty penny.
I was her fourth owner, and her price had come down quite a bit. Not that she was any less beautiful, of course. And at this point she was well-trained, obedient, and more than capable of faking sexual desire for whatever master owned her. No, it was simply that, with a constant supply of new slaves, as young women turned 18 and were sold by their parents; or committed a crime earning them a period of indenture; or slightly older women were sold off by husbands who decided they would rather purchase some slut than be stuck with the "love of their life" the truly wealthy could go through dozens of slaves a year. Or some of her previous owners might have been fetishists- rapists or trainers or others of their ilk.
I was none of those. I just had a thing for attractive young ladies with curly hair, and had never had a blond before. And I admit, I did enjoy that she was a former cheerleader. I liked to think of the proud, independent young woman she had been; convinced that she would graduate and go on to rule a college campus somewhere just as she had her podunk little high school... before everything changed for her.
I didn't know if any of that was true, of course. A slave's paperwork was detailed, yet nonspecific. Skills, experiences, statistics... but not biography. For all I knew, she might have been a Swedish cheerleader, if Swedes had cheerleaders. At this point, it didn't matter.
Gagged and waiting in the dealer's back room for me to pick up, she would have been trained to obey a certain set of commands common to all slaves, and picked up a few new ones from previous masters. "Speak when spoken to" was a universal command, as was "never speak about your past."
The commands could be broken, of course- that was a fetish, itself- but it was frowned upon. Reminding a slave of her life Before was deemed to cruel a treatment for a glorified cocksocket, though practically nothing was actually forbidden.
And truly, all I cared about was how sweetly she gagged while I fucked her face, and whether she was a screamer or a moaner when I took her in the ass.
The dealer- a redheaded free woman, dressed professionally in a suit, hair up in a ponytail- lead me back to my new purchase, and I smiled at my first sight of her. Made up to the max, kneeling in chains and collar, gag and cute little cheerleader outfit.
The dealer laughed. "Want to try her out here? I'll help."
I grinned at her, taken with the idea. The dealer was somewhere in her 30's, and a spectacular beauty herself. Tall, with long legs and long hair, a spectacular body and full lips in a roundz freckled face... and just a touch of aome accent.
"Sure." The dealer was not kind, dragging the girl over by her hair and removing her gag.
Turns out, the whore gagged very sweetly.
Ate pussy pretty well, too, from the sound of it.
The last thing I expected after purchasing my new little cheerleader slut was for the dealer herself to close up shop and invite herself back to my home. Somehow I found myself driving the car, while she sat in the back and played with the girl. I managed to avoid driving off the road while I gawked in the rear-view mirror, but it was a close-run thing.
Once we were back at my place, the dealer dragged the girl from the car by her hair again, and made her crawl to the door. When I opened it, she strode imperiously- as imperiously as you can while dragging a whimpering blond slut- past me to the living room.
