(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, 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.)
(Nikki's story, continued)
I was terrified—there was no other word for it, except maybe petrified. If I hadn't used the restroom about 90 minutes ago, I'd be peeing myself.
Since I turned 18, I had wanted to become a slave psychiatrist, and the Psychiatric Union required that all such specialists experience at least 180 days as a slave or indentured servant (in practice, both categories are treated as slaves). I knew this would be a life-altering event, and several people had tried to talk me out of it. But I was so committed to my future profession that earlier that day I had signed my freedom away at the capital office of the Texas Department of Agriculture's Livestock and Slave Division. Once I was legally a slave, I had no choice but to submit—stripped completely naked, collared with my hands zip-tied behind me, and led on a pet leash through a crowd of office workers who lost no opportunity to fondle my defenseless body and jeer at my loss of status.
Intellectually, I understood what this status change would mean. Up to that day, however, I had been one of the most privileged people on the planet, a middle-class Caucasian American who could go almost anywhere. Even if I accidentally trespassed on someone else's space or land, a smiling apology from a pretty young woman would usually avert any negative consequences. Slavery was completely different—I had no privileges or freedom.
That's how I ended up where I was—kneeling naked, collared, bound, and gagged on a hard tray that formed the bottom of a large dog cage, which cage was in the non-air-conditioned back of a truck hurtling down a Texas highway. I had a cheerleader's face (blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose usually described as cute), hair (blonde), and body (35C-24-34; I'm not bragging, my appearance is relevant to my fate). At the moment, however, this body that had earned me a full college scholarship and helped my team reach national rank in competitive cheerleading was so helpless that it couldn't even scratch itself. I had a mind that had gotten me into a top college at age 16 and earned a medical doctorate before I turned my current age, 24. But, that mind had no solutions to my situation. If anything, my mind only made things worse. For example, I knew that the bit gag holding my mouth in a "slave smile" tasted so bad because many slave handlers thought it amusing to coat such gags with their own semen, so that the slave's mouth tasted as if she (or he) had just given a blowjob. Yeech.
All right, I thought—there's nothing I can do about my situation, so I might as well inventory my experience as a slave so far. That's what this is supposed to be about, right?
Terror? I'd already covered that. Helplessness? Ditto. That brought me to my third emotion—incredulity at my own stupidity. How the HELL had I deliberately put myself in this situation? Yes, I wanted to be a slave psychiatrist, and yes, my 60-odd minutes (so far) of experience as a slave would be indispensable to my success in that field. Yet, my normally-rational mind was already overloaded with the emotions and sensations I was inventorying. I couldn't imagine what I would be thinking, if I were still thinking at all, at the end of six months. And I knew that worse was to come. My faculty mentor, Professor Walker, had tried to explain what my fate would probably be. Six years ago, when I turned 18 and the other cheerleaders pressured me into volunteering for slave grading, the combination of my body and my helpless excitement at the slave market had made me "slave hot," as recorded in the National Slave Registry by graphic official photos (sometimes known as the pink shots) and my grading as a Prime minus. When I was naïve enough to apply for self-indenture, those photos of my curvy, excited body had resulted in Judge Parker assigning me a classification of Pleasure Slut and shipping my well-muscled tushie to a high-end slave market, the Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas.
That was another source of my terror, because in a Slave Studies course I had read about the operation of the Big D. Doctor Sarah Hollister, Professor of Slave Studies at Harvard, had published a book called Profit Per Pussy: The Art and Science of Slaving. In it, she described her copyrighted plan that had transformed the Big D. She used the fact that this market had once been a livestock operation to create a brand name for the human livestock that now passed through it. For example, incoming slaves had coded tags stapled to their ears like cattle. These tags were a marketing tool to appeal to sexual stereotypes in the minds of different customers. Cattle chutes were used to guide the slaves going up for auction. The sand originally trod upon by cattle now coated the feet—and sometimes other parts—of the slaves. Professor Hollister had suggested a trademark that now was central to the Big D advertising campaign: its inventory was composed of "Sandy Foot Girls; only the finest pussy qualifies to be Sandy Foot Girls."
(Side note: ordinarily, I would object strenuously to being described as "pussy," or hearing a guy say the word in reference to any woman. Having voluntarily indentured myself as a pleasure slave, however, I guess my new job description included crude terms such as pussy, cunt, twat, slut, and so on. Male slaves were often referred to as "assholes," probably because, like female slave pussies, their rectums might well be invaded for the pleasure of free people. No such thing as pride for a slave unless it's pride in giving good sex.)
In general, the Hollister system moved the merchandise (including me) through as quickly as possible by marketing it to the known prejudices and fantasies of customers. Meanwhile, a series of steps disoriented and aroused the women to new heights. By the time she reached the auction block, each Sandy Foot Girl would be slave hot and sell to best advantage, marketed to an audience that saw her as a particular type of "pussy" such as arrogant liberal college girl, stripper slut, debtor, and so on.
I'd heard a rumor that Dr. Hollister had recently gone undercover, allowing herself to be processed through her own system at the Big D while posing as a slave slut. I had initially discounted that rumor, inquiring why such a brilliant woman would permit herself to be humiliated and manipulated by situations she had devised to exploit others. The dust jacket photo on her latest book showed a tall, beautiful, supremely-confident woman who would never accept such treatment. In her writings, she spoke so contemptuously of bimbos like me who allowed themselves to be enslaved that I was sure she didn't want the Big D Market to make a "profit" on her personal "pussy," even in the name of research. The thought of her naked in the middle of that market, performing slave positions or strung up for a cattle wash while wearing only an ear tag and a shock collar, seemed absurd. Now I realized that I myself was about to have the same experience, so I could understand how she might do this as book research, just as I needed the experience to help slaves psychologically. It still seemed stupid and frightening. If Dr. Hollister really did become a Sandy Foot Girl, I guess I'll be in good company. Remind me to buy her next book when she publishes it, assuming either of us ever regains clothes and money to write or purchase books.
Mentally categorizing my feelings, I had to admit that there was one more sensation: arousal. I was not naturally a submissive, although I understood the concept and sometimes enjoyed surrendering myself in bed to a strong guy. I knew in advance that the treatment I received in my first day of indenture was deliberately intended to make me feel vulnerable and eager to have a master or mistress control and exploit me. I was surprised only by the intensity of the sensation, something else I had to categorize in my preparation to be a slave psychiatrist.
Enough analysis for now. Since the system had done its job of making me helpless, subservient, and aroused, I might as well enjoy one of the few benefits of being a slave—fulfilling some of my more extreme fantasies. Isn't there an old, male chauvinist epigram to the effect that if it's inevitable anyway, you might as well lie back and enjoy it? My bound hands couldn't reach my trigger areas, but I found that rubbing my thighs together, pushing my nipples into the openings of the wire cage, and clenching my kegel and other muscles rhythmically, as if I were copulating (hell—getting fucked) brought me off quickly. The second and third times took longer, but after that I was filled with endorphins and sufficiently relaxed to dissipate my tensions and think more clearly. (My apologies for the stilted words in this paragraph but remember I had just finished medical school and really did use terminology such as rectum and endorphins.)
Anyway, I had returned to my mantra of happy, willing, obedient bimbo by the time the truck backed up to another loading dock, at which point the driver slid my cage down a ramp onto the dock. He scanned the bar code on my cage and had a bored-looking young woman sign for me. This woman approached my cage and recited the standard warning used by slave markets throughout the state:
"You are at The Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas, Texas. You are here for processing and sale as a pleasure slut. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Big D 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. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"
