(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY of a world when non-consent is legal and accepted; in real life, human beings are not property and informed consent is always MANDATORY. This story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author, whom I again wish to thank. As always, all the characters are over the age of 18.
For a change, this story describes the experiences of a MALE slave. His reasons for self-indenture may seem foolish, but people have done dumber things while they were in love. You may also find his behavior once enslaved to be spineless, but regardless of gender, a wise slave chooses to obey. Don't be surprised if this story goes in a different direction from previous efforts.)
"I'm sorry Dan; I love you but I can't marry you, and I've told you why."
There I was, Dan Martinson, on one knee with a huge engagement ring, and the love of my life, Laura Simmons, had just turned me down, again. The thing is that I DID know why, and it made sense. I was just too spoiled for words.
As the only child of two well-to-do and successful parents, I grew up with educational and financial advantages of which most Americans could only dream (just the way I wrote that sentence, avoiding a preposition at the end, is a pedantic example of my education). I went to a superb suburban high school and academically advanced summer camps (Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth.) I received a nearly-new car for my 16th birthday; I graduated from a Little Six College (more selective and far more student-centric than the Ivy League) with zero debt; and I launched my internet search engine company with perfect credit and substantial backing from my grandparents. I later sold out to the dominant search company for $450 million. If you spend most of your life travelling first class with personal assistants and other amenities, it's really hard NOT to feel entitled even if you aren't intentionally arrogant.
In my defense, I would plead that I was not totally selfish or socially irresponsible. I studied hard in school and read widely on my own. I was commissioned out of ROTC and spent six years as an Armor officer, with my second tour down-range as a captain commanding a cavalry troop (that's armored reconnaissance vehicles, not horses, for those of you unfamiliar with Army lineage). The G.I. Bill paid for my masters degree in computer science, but I worked the non-stop weeks and months and years you would expect to make my computer company a success, and I rewarded my associates in that endeavor handsomely with pay, benefits, and hefty shares of the final sale price. I sincerely believed in many social causes and contributed both time and money to various charities. Yet, my default position was to assume subconsciously that everyone around me, including Laura, was there to support me and make my life easy. Unless someone important (such as Laura) protested loudly, I just assumed that whatever I wanted was what everyone around me wanted.
As a result, at age 36 I had everything except the one thing I wanted most—a full-time marital partnership with Laura. I do mean partnership, by the way—I wasn't looking for a trophy wife to put on a shelf, but a magnificent partner in life, supporting each other in our different goals. The woman was not only brilliant, funny, and drop-dead gorgeous, but (unlike me) she had struggled through college and law school on scholarships, part-time jobs, and student loans, becoming the youngest partner in a major law firm at the age of 32. We were fantastic together both in bed and out. She didn't resent the advantages I had had and certainly didn't want to live off my money. But she just couldn't live with the attitude those advantages and that money had instilled in me.
After she shot me down again, I went on a rare drinking binge. I confessed my sorrows to Jim Mayhew, my best friend in the Army and former collaborator in the IT industry. Although he sympathized with me, he was such a true friend that he refused to bad-mouth Laura or reject her critique of my life. On our third drink each, before we became totally incoherent, he remarked:
"You two would be perfect together, Dan, but the lady has a point. The sad thing is, there's no way for you to really start over and divest yourself of your advantages. Even if you could somehow give away all your money—which I don't suggest, and I don't think Laura does, either—you would still have that sterling resume of education, military service, and all the advantages you had in life." Then he stopped and laughed.
I was feeling sorry for myself, so his laughter irritated me; I asked him what was so fracking funny.
"Nothing. I was just thinking that the only way you could really remove all your advantages and retool your attitudes would be to self-indenture yourself. You know, become a slave for a year or two so you had to serve others. And that's not going to happen."
"Got that right. Who would ever do a crazy thing like that?"
After my driver, Roger, took me home, got me to drink several glasses of water, and poured me into bed, I woke up late the next morning with the predictable hangover. More fluids and aspirin patched me together, but I was too hung over to do my usual morning run. I compromised by taking a leisurely stroll around my neighborhood. As I passed the nearest grocery store, I saw a middle-aged woman park her flashy German-made car and lead a slave, who was probably in his early '20s, into the store while she smiled a mile wide. I guess it was some sort of status symbol for her, walking around with a naked young guy with his hands cuffed behind him and a dog leash connecting his collar to the woman's hand. I'm sure she paid tens of thousands of dollars for him at a slave market. I couldn't help noticing that his prick was half erect and already rather sizeable, which may have been what the woman was not-so-subtly bragging about! I felt sorry for the poor guy, not just because he was a slave but also because he wasn't even doing something marginally productive like carrying packages for her. It looked like a waste of a human being, kept around as a decoration for a woman.
About five steps later, I suddenly remembered what Jim had said last night. Wait a minute—maybe he was onto something. What if I offered Laura the chance to own me for some period of time, so that she could personally ensure that I lost my sense of entitlement and had to re-learn about life from scratch? It sounded crazy, I knew, but the more I thought about it, the more I found the idea fascinating. Right now, I had no need to work and no purpose in my life and, without Laura, nothing to look forward to. I wasn't suicidal, I just lacked major goals or projects. Being a slave would really suck (perhaps literally suck, since slaves could not refuse sexual service to free citizens—I'd have to think that through carefully). Still, if I could spend my time making her happy and perhaps winning her approval, it would improve both our lives in the long run. Hummm.
For the next few days, I spent a lot of time on the internet, trying to find out more about what it was like to be a slave. Since the 34th Amendment re-introduced slavery in the United States, the basic rules were simple: no one under the age of 18 could work with slaves or wear a collar, even for temporary slave grading. Slavery was not hereditary or based on race—it was something that happened because the individual lost his or her rights by committing a serious crime, by pledging his/her body as collateral and then failing to repay the debt, or by voluntarily choosing self-indenture. I focused on the latter case, which was of course rather rare, but I found a number of memoirs or fictional accounts of women who, for whatever reason, had volunteered to give up their rights for some period of time. There were almost no accounts by male slaves of any category, let alone males who had self-indentured. I imagine it was particularly difficult for a man to admit he had been so controlled and marginalized, and even harder to admit that he had chosen that of his own free will. Such thoughts again gave me pause. The few female accounts of becoming a slave conveyed a frightening loss of control over one's life. On the other hand, if this sacrifice earned me a lot of time with Laura, even uncomfortable and humiliating time as her controlled servant, it might be worth it.
After thinking about it, first furiously and then with a rational comparison of pluses and minuses, I persuaded Laura to meet me for coffee, telling her I had a serious suggestion to address my attitude problem. With very little preliminary, I sprang it on her: I would put all my assets in a blind trust and self-indenture myself to her for one year, 365 days. Before I even got to say that she was not obligated to marry me at the end of that time, she erupted. As usual, she did not mince words.
"Are you frakin' nuts, Martinson? Do you have any idea what being a slave would mean? Damn." She stared at my face, shaking her head. "You're serious, aren't you?"
Laura drew a deep breath and resumed more calmly. "I'll bet you've never even been graded at a slave market."
I started to ask why I would do such a thing when I realized that my response was one more indication of my special privilege. By this time in our history, most young women and many young men who had passed the age of 18 voluntarily presented themselves for formal slave grading at an official slave market, where for several hours or even overnight they were subjected to the full rigor of bondage. This meant being completely naked, collared, bound, and (for much of the period) deprived of your voice by a chemical spray, all while people ordered you around and fondled you at will. If you didn't follow instructions, you were punished. Some people underwent this so they could brag that they were hot enough to be classified as pleasure slaves, but many more sought slave grading because it was a requirement for college or home loans—since you had to pledge your body as collateral for non-repayment, the banks wanted an evaluation of your worth as a slave. Some people paid for college or got a home loan by going in the armed services first, but even the GI Bill didn't cover everything. I, of course, hadn't needed to apply for loans and had never even attended a slave grading; I felt it was unfair to take advantage of this process just so I could look at and touch a naked young woman who had no control over her circumstances. I've no objection to looking and touching, you understand, but only when the woman freely consents!
Laura continued. "Well, I have." She turned her lower lip inside-out to show me the slave ID number tattooed on the inside, which was part of the process of getting your slave grade entered into the national registry.
I murmured that I was certain she had been graded as Prime, the highest possible category, but she cut me off.
