Over the next few days I repeatedly pleasured myself as I studied the lovely cursive AC brand Agatha Crush had shown me. I couldn't stop wondering about how it might look on my bottom. Fortunately there were plenty of videos on the web about how to create a temporary tattoo. By scanning the image of Professor Crush's AC monogram I was able to transfer a basic outline onto my arm, which I was then able to paint in with washable ink.
My "brand" looked FANTASTIC. Sleek, elegant, and stately, Agatha's monogram was a symbol of both power and a strangely dignified beauty. I desperately wanted to see what it would look like on my backside but of course there was no way I could use the same method to paint a proper logo on my own bottom. I briefly considered asking Suzie to help me. I knew she would be delighted - too delighted, perhaps - but although she saw me naked in Slave Yoga class regularly the thought of having to drop my pants for my lesbian friend to "slave brand" me was simply too embarrassing.
I had supposed that I would wash the "brand" off my arm right away, but after seeing how gorgeous it was I decided to leave it on for several days. I found it strangely thrilling, as it gave me a peculiar but not unpleasant sense of being "owned". Of course I reasoned this was part of my research for in reality nothing could be further from the truth. After all, I was a graduate student conducting vital research that Agatha needed, so despite her penchant for head games I knew that she needed me and I was still very much in control the situation.
I kept the tattoo covered at all times, of course, although that option was not open to me in my Slave Yoga class. I had gone too far in my training to even consider putting on a leotard and any bandages I wore would most likely be removed by Master John or Master Mark before the session began so the injury could be checked. (That was standard practice with slave girls and licensed slave trainers were required to take a class in veterinary medicine). Fortunately my temporary tattoo had largely washed off my arm at this point, although it did capture Master John's attention during my stretching exercises. He looked at it quizzically, then smiled and continued, never saying a word.
I was afraid of what Sunfire might say when she saw it in the showers, as the faded mark on my forearm matched the lovely raised brand the little slut had on her ass cheek. She seemed shocked when she spotted it, but said nothing, as her own ass was crisscrossed with a plethora of stripes from the whipping Professor Crush had given her for touching me. When I saw her looking at me, I grabbed my own bottom cheeks as if they were in pain, then winced in mock sympathy.
I laughed in Sunfire's face as she glared at me with a mixture of shame, frustration, and anger at her own helplessness.
Score! Power games could be so much fun!
In the showers I found myself staring at Sunfire's bottom, fascinated by both the marks from the whipping and the beauty of her slave brand. Unlike my flat, shiny magic marker smudge Sunfire's brand was a gloriously raised welt that centered the other whipping "tramlines" on her shapely bottom. Professor Crush's generous dose of discipline and permanent mark of ownership had made Sunfire's ass even more beautiful, too beautiful for a mere slave slut, and I could not help but wonder what my bottom would look like if it were given similar care and attention. It seemed quite unfair to me that a mere slave girl was spoiled with such a lovely mark while I was relegated to drawing on my own arm.
As intense as my feelings of hatred for Sunfire were, I knew they were not jealousy, for in my studies I learned that you could only be jealous of someone you identified with. You are more likely to be jealous of your neighbor's new car then a billionaire's new plane, for example.
There was no way I could be jealous of Sunfire. How could I identify with a common slave slut?
I also knew from my extensive reading on the subject how intensely painful a slave branding was; the most common adjectives used to describe the pain were, ironically enough, "indescribable" and "unimaginable."
Oh, how I hated her! I pleasured myself during my study of the slave branding procedures, imagining Sunfire biting on a stick or a rubber bit as the brand burned into her ass. Ha-ha! I wish I had been there to watch her eyes bulge out of her head and hear her screams as the brand found its mark. But it also saddened me, for I knew that it would be impossible for me to imagine something that by definition I could not imagine.
Professor Crush said nothing as I explained my resentful-but-not-jealous feelings for Sunfire, but paid me the compliment of her full attention. When I finished she did not respond directly, but turned to another topic that had clearly been troubling her.
"Tracy, your progress is excellent but your interactions with Sunfire and the other slave girls are entirely unsatisfactory. The purpose of your research is to fully internalize the emotions and psychology of the Slave Yoga experience. However the interactions you have had with the other slave girls is still Mistress-to-Slave, which leaves a gaping hole in your data."
Her objection seemed odd to me, as having Sunfire whipped for touching me in the showers hardly seemed like a strategy for promoting sisterhood. I asked her for a solution and she said she didn't have one, but assigned me the task of solving the problem by our next meeting. I said I needed more time, but she had already turned away from me toward her computer, and in doing so lifted up a folder to reveal a slave whip on her desk.
It was a beautiful whip, with a long pink handle and pink leather strip that formed the "popper" or business end of the whip. The silver handle had a monogramed "AG" on it, in my Professor's lovely cursive script.
"Is that the whip you used on Sunfire?" I said, staring at it breathlessly.
"Yes," she said, smiling as she picked up the whip and ran the leather popper strands lovingly through her fingers. "Handsome, isn't it? And quite precise."
I shuddered as she cracked the whip at me, and flinched for I felt quite sure it was going to hit me directly in the face. Much to my surprise I heard the lightening crack, and felt the wind from it against my cheek, but felt no pain. Instead the whip curved around me, twisting around the doorknob as it opened the door to her office!
I stood mouth agape, relieved that I had not been whipped but in utter disbelief of the precision of what I had just seen. Agatha Crush certainly knew how to use a whip, and I now understood fully the artistic beauty of the precise pattern on Sunfire's bottom.
"Did you have somewhere else to be, or would you like a further demonstration of my skill with the whip?" she asked pleasantly.
Without saying a word, I quickly backed out of her office and ran down the hall.
I had no idea how I was going to meet the terms of Professor Crush's assignment. There was no way I could relate to the slave girls as anything but a free woman for that was what I was. Fortunately the next day at lunch Suzie provided the answer.
"A slavecation would be perfect!" she said. "It's just what you need."
"What on earth is a slave-a... A what?"
"A slave-CATtion, dummy. I set them up all the time. You go to some rich, exotic locale, like Hawaii or The Florida Keys, where no one knows who you are. Only you go as a slave girl, so you can spend a few days experiencing what it might be like to be a real slave."
"But the point is to learn how slaves interact with others," I protested.
"The larger point is to understand the psychology of slavery. This way you'll be able to completely get it inside your head. And as you'll be kenneled with other girls in a slave processing area as part of your transport you'll be able to interact with them there as well, not as a Mistress, but simply as another slave."
I told Suzie I would think about it. Her proposal did sound intriguing, and I knew that she was right that it was the best way to find out what it really felt like to be a slave girl without becoming a slave.
After all, it was just temporary. A bit deceptive, perhaps, but psychology experiments often involve assuming a role.
I began researching slave-cation on the Internet. A number of companies offered slavecation packages and the testimonials were positively glowing. I spent the afternoon pleasuring myself with my vibrator as I read the accounts.
"My wife Natalie and I had played slave games in the bedroom before so for our 10th wedding anniversary I gave her a slavecation in wine country at Slave Slut Winery. It was the best decision of my life. The winery was beautiful with a gorgeous room for me and a surprisingly comfortable slave kennel for my wife. Within the first day my normally shy and prissy wife was totally comfortable lounging around naked with the other slave girls, kneeling naked at my side, squatting with her legs spread, or sucking me off at dinner. When she wasn't picking grapes or working the fields her mouth was wrapped around my cock or she was humping me like a bunny rabbit."
"We live the lifestyle 24/7 now, and Natalie is begging me to make it permanent, since the idea of me selling her if she's not pleasing is a real turn on for her. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that; perhaps I'll make the decision on our next anniversary trip to Slave Slut Winery."
The next story was from Debra, a 28-year-old MD.
"Does it make sense that I never really understood freedom until I became a slave?"
"I had just come off a bad breakup when my best friend suggested that I treat myself with a fantasy slave-cation. From the time I turned myself in Slavecation Excursions took care of everything, from my travel and slave training right through to my auction to Master Karl. Master Karl was strict, demanding, rich, and handsome: everything a slave girl dreams of. For ten glorious days I had no responsibilities or worries and existed only to give pleasure; what an amazing stress reliever it was. Thank you, Slavecation Excursions, for the trip of a lifetime!"
However because of my academic background I was most intrigued by a post by Camille.
"As a Professor of African American History I had studied chattel slavery in the antebellum South my entire career, but nothing I knew prepared me for the authenticity of the Cottonbend Plantation Experience. From the time I was thrown naked into the slave pens for the buyer's "inspection", through the crack of the whip and my humiliating display on the auction block, through my first few days in the cotton fields, EVERYTHING about Cottonbend Plantation convinced me that I was back in 1840. Within 24 hours my sophisticated academic persona had vanished and I was sucking off the white trash overseers like a Jezebel to avoid the whip. I was so thrilled when I got my chance to "audition" to be a bedwarmer in Massah's "Big House". It totally played with my head and my erudite academic detachment quickly transformed into slave heat. For the first time I understood what it meant to be owned. Cottonbend Plantation changed my career, and my life."
Camille's account intrigued me, for like her I had experienced the juiciest of slave heats, and understood how the experience of being a collared slave slut can play with a girl's mind. Of course unlike Camille I still had my professionalism and academic attachment, and I had never been "owned." The concept of "ownership" greatly excited me, in a purely professional way, of course.
The other intriguing aspect of a slavecation was that for some of the women it seemed to be a one-way trip and a gateway into permanent slavery. I looked up Professor Camille and could find no mention of papers published after the date of her slavecation. Was she studying abroad, perhaps? Or was the lure of the collar too strong for her to resist?
One concept that intrigued me was the promise of a "blind" slavecation. In some cases the girls were simply leased to owners who did not know that the girl was not a permanent slave, or sent to train at a genuine slave facility, or placed in an environment like my Slave Yoga class where it would not be readily apparent to the casual observer who was slave and who was free. This offered the girls a level of authenticity not available in a mere role play, for no matter how Master John might mistreat me he would always know on some level that I was a free woman who might seek vengeance upon him. Not so with a helpless slave girl.
Of course as a trained psychologist I realized that like most everything one sees on the Internet the testimonials represented a self-selecting survey group. Satisfied girls wrote glowing testimonials that the slavecation service publicized; dissatisfied customers did not - or, perhaps, could not?
Nonetheless as I pondered the research potential of the opportunity I quickly warmed to the idea, and pleasured myself as I read the stories of various women vacationing in a collar. But did I really want to do it?
Much to my surprise the decision was made for me before I even went to bed. The phone rang, and Professor Crush informed me that she had talked to Suzie about "your idea for a slavecation" and she thought it was wonderful. I had wanted to protest that it hadn't been my idea, exactly, and I was still thinking it over, but she gave me an address and told me to "Be at the airport, 6PM, sharp."
"That's an hour from now! What do I pack?" I said.
"Nothing, silly" she said. "Everything will be taken care of for you. This isn't a holiday where you have to worry about anything, it's a slavecation."
