Learning Slave Psychology

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, women 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.)

(Nikki's story, continued)

At the time I had this experience, I was a 24-year-old ex-cheerleader who had just completed medical school. You would expect, therefore, that I was about to enter a residency program or, since I wanted to be a psychiatrist, the special training for that field.

Instead, I was suspended in the air by a rope tied to the leather cuffs that held my wrists together above my head. And I was stark naked, make that "slave naked"—absolutely all I had on was a heavy shock collar and a pink-and-white ear tag shaped like a megaphone, a marketing trick to suggest to buyers that I was a cheerleader whom they could buy and ravage.

Four 18- or 19-year-old guys (you have to be that old to work in the slave industry), had hooked me up like this. Although I cooperated fully, they of course took the opportunity to manhandle me by grabbing my "woman handles"—hands on both boobs and both rear cheeks, with two fingers thrust suddenly up my vagina and a separate one up my anus. Once I was secured, they cranked me high enough in the air to be clearly visible to the 30-odd visitors and prospective buyers who were watching over the observation railings above the Cattle Wash. As the name implies, the Cattle Wash had originally been built to wash livestock on the way to market. Now, the Big D Market in Dallas specialized in selling a different form of livestock: "Sandy Foot Girls," highly-rated human slaves and especially those pretty slaves designated as "pleasure sluts."

Why was I a slave? Because I really wanted to be a slave psychiatrist, and 180 days in a collar was a mandatory step to that goal so that I would understand the trauma of my patients. This was still Day 1 of those 180. The judge who authorized my self-indenture had taken one look at my official slave photographs (taken when I foolishly underwent slave grading at age 18) and decided that anything that "Slave Hot" had to be a pleasure slut. I alternated between intense regret that I had agreed to this indenture and strong arousal because the entire process, including this humiliating wash-down, was intended to make me sexually excited and submissive. I had studied the process and knew what to expect but hadn't anticipated just how massively the experience would affect me. More data for my future as a slave psychiatrist.

A high-pressure stream of cold water hit me, washing the sand off me but focusing on my groin. Despite my determination to remain impassive, I couldn't avoid an involuntary shriek. I could hear the spectators making derogatory comments. The older women, in particular, seemed to enjoy the sight of a young, pretty woman humiliated in this manner, cackling about the (choose your own epithet-slut, whore, bitch, skank, cunt) getting what she deserved. Seeing the megaphone ear tag I wore, some of them clearly channelled ancient antagonisms they had felt towards cheerleaders in high school.

After the cold water came a green stream of harsh carbolic soap, again intended originally for cattle. Once my body was covered with this gritty junk, the rope was lowered just enough for me to put my bare feet firmly on the ground with my wrists still above my head. The tension on my arms pulled my 35C breasts up so they showed to best advantage. I wish I could claim that my nipples were erect only because of the cold water, but by this time I had lost my goose-bumps, so the nipples were reacting at least partially to sexual arousal and erotic helplessness rather than temperature.

"Spread 'em, Blondie," said one of the guys in rain suits. Not wanting a shock, especially when I was soaking wet, I spread my legs until I was on tip-toe, at which point two of the "Slave wash attendants" hooked loops of rubberized cord around my ankles, holding me spread out at their mercy. Some of them used long-handled brushes to scrub me down like an animal, but one guy had the onerous "duty" of hand-scrubbing my genitals. A random thought went through my distracted mind: "Literally" is a much-overworked word, but this young man "literally" got his hands on more of what he might call "sweet young pussy" in a week than most guys touched in their entire lives. I wonder if the market paid him or he paid the market for this job?

That thought gave me enough respite from erotic overload to regain some mental control. I remembered that, to avoid attracting punishment, I wanted to appear as a cooperative, submissive bimbo. I immediately plastered an expression of glazed sexual excitement on my face—that was so close to the truth that it didn't take much acting, although I did pretend that the pimply-faced teenager fondling me so intimately was actually a handsome movie star.

After scrubbing and molesting me far longer than any requirement of cleanliness, the guys stepped back. One of them lowered the rope farther and disconnected it from the wrist cuffs. Another one, standing behind me and apparently noticing my megaphone-shaped ear tag, abruptly ordered me

"Bend over, cheerleader slut!" and reinforced the order with a slap on my butt. I promptly bent over, way down. Because I am so flexible, I could do this even with my ankles still tied apart, and I ended up looking straight back between my legs. The guy who had spanked me now put a new disposable nozzle on a smaller hose and smeared lubricant on the nozzle. I wasn't surprised when he suddenly thrust it between my legs, penetrating my anus. A flow of water, fortunately warm, flooded my rectum. After what seemed like a gallon had entered me, he jerked the hose back out quickly, almost as if he were starting a lawn mower. I had to struggle to retain the water, but a few minutes later two attendants released me, clipped my hands behind my back, and frog marched me over to a commode. There, in full view of the cleaning crew as well as the observers above, I voided my bowels. No modesty for slave girls. They repeated the enema process before rinsing me down with more cold water and declaring me clean. A blast of warm air struck me before Slave Handler Bob (whom I had to call "Master") resumed control of me.

"Come along, cheerleader cunt," he ordered with a smile on my face, leading me over to the medical station. There stood a slave veterinarian in a white lab coat with the nametag "Dr. Matt Swenson" on it. I found it rather ironic my slave processing should include an examination that I myself was qualified to do—I had mailed my application for a license as a slave veterinarian just this morning, when I was still free (the state didn't care about residency for this field). I knew it would go to a completely different office of the Agriculture Department, so that Becky Lou Bundy would never connect the ditsy bimbo who had foolishly self-enslaved herself with Nicola Sheldon, MD.

Bob released my wrists and told me "Climb on the table, cheerleader cunt—assume the position." The table was a modified OB/GYN rig, with four Velcro straps to restrain not only my raised ankles but also my wrists.

"Why did you call. . .?" began Dr. Swenson, before he noticed my ear tag. "Never mind, I get it." With Bob helping him, the physician had all four limbs spread wide and restrained, leaving me helpless for examination—or anything else he wanted to do.

I had to tell my body to relax, that I couldn't do anything to defend myself. In fact, if the veterinarian DID choose to ram into me, my tense body would suffer more damage than if I simply accepted him and told myself I was happy about it. Thank heaven I'd studied yoga. I wonder if this spread-eagle position could be designated as a new yoga position—"Slave Surrender" perhaps?

He stuck the usual cold instruments inside me, looked around, and took various blood and fluid samples for STDs. The IUD he inserted wasn't really necessary, but I had no problem with it. Then, however, he began to open a sterile package containing an ominous-looking fluid obviously intended for sub-cutaneous implant. Crap! I'd forgotten that some slave markets implanted timed-release hormone mixtures to make new pleasure slaves hornier—although to judge by my own emotions, no new slave needed any help with that. And I hadn't checked the Physician's Desk Reference to see if those hormones might interact with the implant I'd had installed to suppress my menstrual cycle! This was bad, but how could I warn him?

Noticing that my slave handler, Bob, was a few feet away staring at his tablet, I urgently whispered to the veterinarian:

"Please, Master, may I speak? It's important."

He looked annoyed but seeing my concerned face he nodded his head.

"I have an etonogestrol rod implanted."

"So?" He asked, impatiently.

"Please Master, that might interact with the hormones in that capsule."

His expression changed dramatically. "What are you, a nurse?" I shook my head. "A doctor?" He asked, incredulously.

I didn't want to out myself, but this was an emergency. I nodded and looked at him, imploring him.

"Now I've seen everything." He said after a moment. "I don't even want to know what a physician is doing as slave pussy, although you certainly have the body for it. But OK, no hormones for now." I tried to say thank you with my face.

Bob had finally noticed the conversation, and butted in: "Is this little bitch arguing with you, Doc?"

"No, Bob, she's too horny to think straight, let alone argue. Right now, I bet all she wants from me is a good fucking. You've really done a good job bringing out the juices in this one."

Anyone likes to be told they're doing a good job, so Bob observed with a smile "I think so, too, but it was easy—she's got a calling for the collar."

Then, Dr. Swenson continued: "Well, that's just what I'm thinking. You know, I ordinarily give all pleasure sluts an implant to increase their horniness. But if I do that to this one, she's likely to blow her top and perform poorly at the auction tomorrow, and that would be bad for her sale price. So I'll just leave the implant out. That reminds of something else. Are you going to turn her over to the night shift?"

"Yeah. Lucky dogs, having all night to play with a cute one like this. She's probably the finest piece of ass I've seen come through here in the last two months." (Why was I strangely pleased by such a crude compliment?)

The doctor replied, "Far be it from me to spoil their fun—hell, if I had time, I'd like a piece of that cheerleader ass myself." He winked at me, silently apologizing. "Thing is, if they give her their usual wham-bam treatment, if might have the same effect as if I inserted the hormones, you know? It might push her over the top and make her a zombie at auction. I've already had to patch up a few sluts after the night crew played too rough, and this one is right on the edge already. I'd hate to be the one who had to tell Mr. Henry that we screwed up the merchandise." (This was all pseudo-medical bull____ but sounded to me as if Swenson was trying to protect me from a full-on gang bang. To keep up the act, I smiled vacantly and, when Bob's head turned away, gave my fellow physician a wink back.)

"You're the doc—but what should we do?" Came the reply.

"Oh, by all means tell the boys to have their fun, but just be gentle, you know—fondle her a few minutes before penetration, use lots of lube on that tight ass, give that sweet little pussy time to adjust when they first push inside her, and so on. And don't go at her too long, so she can get some beauty sleep afterwards. Think they'd mind doing that?"

"All right, Doc—I'll pass it on to Jeff on the night shift, but I don't have any authority over him."

"That's all we can do. I don't want you to think I'm going soft about a pretty cunt—just want to protect my bonus this month. There's bound to be another big-boobed slut come in who isn't so easy to over-excite, right?" By this time, they had finished unstrapping me from the table.

"Absolutely. Follow me, cheerleader cunt." Said Bob. He had taken to calling me that ever since I had described myself that way while he put me through slave postures. As I turned to walk away, the doctor remarked, "But she is a hot one" and slapped my ass.

Thanks to this "professional courtesy" from a fellow physician, my first experience of slave sex was a lot more pleasant than it might otherwise had been. After feeding and caging me, slave handler Bob talked earnestly to a muscular guy who looked to be in his mid-40s, apparently passing on the fake "warning" from the veterinarian. About an hour later, the muscular guy, whose nametag read "Jeff Talbert," came for me, cuffing my hands and leading me into a back room. There, he ordered me to kneel while he strapped me down onto a padded platform that left both my head and my rear exposed at about waist height for a man.

Over a period of about two hours, five guys (I think; may have lost count) had me, usually beginning in my mouth and finishing in one of my other two orifices. I think my body absorbed eight loads of semen, although again I was rather distracted at the time. But they were genuinely gentle about it, either because of Swenson's warning or because they were gentlemen anyway. I know, that's an odd description for a bunch of guys forcing themselves upon a helpless slave woman. Still, if you accept my job description—pleasure slut—as a given, they treated me quite well. Each of them stroked my hair, fondled me gently, and praised my appearance. (While firmly mounted in my vagina and leaning over my back, one guy whispered that he had "always wanted to fuck a cheerleader" but that I was "more beautiful than any of the girls where I went to school.") Those who chose to sodomize my rear first packed it full of water-based lubricant and then using lubricated condoms when they penetrated me. I'm sure no bunch of guys would consciously do this, but somehow it worked out that the better-endowed guys took me later in the session, after I was already stretched and lubricated.

Since they were being so nice to me, I tried to reciprocate. I knew that a guy gets a real thrill when the person fellating him smiles around his prick and stares worshipfully at his face—so I did that. I also clenched my well-developed Kegels and other muscles around their shafts when they penetrated me down below. Both of these techniques accelerated their ejaculations, which was an advantage to me, but I think I gave them more pleasure than they would have gotten with a more passive, reluctant woman.

It wasn't entirely a love fest, of course. The typical guy speeds up when he feels a climax coming, and one pair of guys reached that point simultaneously while they were—(just say it, Nikki!)—spit-roasting me. It was hard to breathe for a few minutes, and I began to worry that my tush and vagina would get bruised by the constant banging of an anxious young man's pelvis and prick. Not really bad, though; I've had guys slam me harder when I was in college and grad school.

If you've read this far, you know that sometimes my mind went in ridiculous directions in the heat of all this sexual attention and domination. That first evening, I remembered an old-fashioned phrase sometimes used by journalists to praise a particular entertainment or social event: "A good time was had by all." In this case, I needed to modify the statement so that it read "Nikki Sheldon was had by all, but she had a good time anyway." Several quiet orgasms and so much stress relief that I was limp by the time they finished.

When Slave Handler Jeff released me, I could barely stand, but I murmured a respectful "Thank you masters" to him and the other guy, a very well-endowed young Asian man who had just finished reaming my ass. Jeff half-carried me to the shower, let me brush my teeth, and put me back in the cage with a blanket and a bottle of water. Humm. My first slave sex was so much better than I had feared that I was optimistic about the next 179 days of servitude. An idea sprang, full blown, into my mind, another academic paper to write with my dad for the Journal of Slave Psychology: "The effects of positive multi-partner sexual exploitation of newly-enslaved sex workers on the subsequent performance and job satisfaction of those workers." The authors would be Theodore L. Sheldon (my dad) and Slut 3803 (my formal designation for the next six months.) Giggle. I was definitely too tired to think straight. Time for sleep.

(To be continued)