(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; 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.)
(Nikki's story, continued)
Early morning. Inside the Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas, the lights came on over the holding cages, accompanied by an annoying buzz on the loudspeakers. It was obviously time to get up for my second day as a slave, already classified as a pleasure slut. Today, I expected that I would be auctioned off on a real slave block and find out my fate for the next 179 days.
My name is Nikki Sheldon, and at the time of these events I was 24 years old. Why was this ex-cheerleader and recent medical school graduate a slave? Because I really wanted to be a slave psychiatrist, and one of the requirements to reach that goal was to serve at least 180 days in a collar, so that I would understand the trauma my patients faced on a daily basis. For the umpteenth time in the 20-odd hours since I had voluntarily indentured myself, I wondered what the HELL I had been thinking of. Just last night, five slave handlers on the night shift had tied me down and repeatedly probed all of my openings—at least they were gentle and used lubricant and condoms in my anus. Most of them made me feel good, actually, so I can't really describe it as abuse.
I had studied slavery as much as possible before I took this step, so I knew what was expected. Much as I wanted to huddle under my blanket, I wanted even more to avoid punishment, least of all a shock from my battery-operated slave collar. I rolled out onto the cold concrete floor. By the time an unfamiliar slave handler appeared to bind me and take me to the restroom, I was kneeling with my thighs wide apart and my fingers interlocked behind my neck, a position that caused my 35C rack (hey, I'm a slave—no namby-pamby language allowed) to display nicely. My nipples were erect from the chilly air. Did I mention that slaves, especially "fresh caught slave pussy," are usually kept naked? The only thing I wore besides my shock collar was a megaphone-shaped piece of pink and white plastic, stapled to my ear in the same way the Big D market once labelled beef on the hoof. Now I was one of their prize heifers. The megaphone tag was a marketing tool, intended to suggest to buyers that they could purchase me and live out their fantasies of shafting a cheerleader. In this case, I really had been a cheerleader for eight years of high school and college, but the slave handlers had just decided that I looked like one.
After toilet, enema, and a breakfast of stewed vegetables, I was given ten minutes with a toothbrush, comb, and mirror to bring some order to my appearance, especially my chin-length blond hair. A girl likes to look her best for sale! Then Bob, the handler who had led me around yesterday evening, appeared and took me off to another cage containing a low platform, a mock slave block. I'd been so carried away practicing my slave positions yesterday that, when an observer commented upon my ear tag, I had spontaneously done a handstand, split my legs wide to flash everyone there, and begged "let this cheerleader cunt entertain you, Master." I still blushed to think of it, but that scene was clearly on Bob's mind, as he kept calling me that with a twinkle in his eye.
"OK, cheerleader cunt. You know you have to perform later this morning. Luckily, we aren't overloaded for inventory, or you'd already be on sale. Before we practice the usual postures, I want to know if you can do any other gymnastic moves besides that handstand?"
"Yes, Master, but I'm really embarrassed that I did that, especially about what I said. I must have been slave stupid."
"You need to get over that embarrassment and instead market your skills. Genetics gave you a cute face and nice tits, but your muscle tone and coordination tell me you really were a cheerleader, or maybe a gymnastics student, am I right? Thought so, my sister was a competition cheerleader in high school, but you look like you did it in college as well." No question, just a statement, although I nodded agreement.
"Then, after years of training, for some crazy reason you self-indentured yourself for the minimum 6 months. That's when you were really slave stupid. I checked—no criminal conviction, no debts, you just GAVE that toned, trained, smoking-hot body to the State of Texas for FREE as if you were a cock-hungry whore."
He sounded quite disappointed, almost like my Dad except for the last three words which Daddy would never say. I started to hang my head but jerked up at his next statement.
"Which you are NOT, by the way. You put on a good act of being a sex-crazed bimbo, but there's too much confidence in your posture, too many brains behind your eyes, and you never make a mistake. The average slut who comes through here forgets to say 'Master,' or balks at an order, or thinks that she can get special privileges because she's pretty. You didn't. No—don't bother to apologize for the act. You're trying to get through this with the minimum of pain, and that's a good attitude."
He continued his quiet monologue, again surprising me: "That's why I went along with Doctor Matt and his cockamamy idea that you were about to go catatonic. I don't know why he said that. I mean, if he wanted your body he already had you spread out for examination. He could have just spent about 5 minutes running his hands over your hooters to check for lumps, if you know what I mean, and then given you a pelvis exam with his cock. From the INSIDE of you. I wouldn't have said anything, and your face told me you expected him to mount you right then. Anyway—I don't know why he came up with the story about your special condition, but I agree with him that you don't need, you don't deserve rough sex like that. You've been a cooperative piece of inventory, and that's all we should care about."
He sighed: "But, by GIVING your cute little ass to the state you made yourself cheap. Right now, the state and the slave market have only about $200 invested in you for shipping and handling."
(I silently thought about all the "handling" I'd been getting in the showers and on the night shift.)
"So today," Bob pointed out, "The market can afford to sell you cheap and still make a profit. You're only in for 180 days, so whoever buys you won't waste time training you. Because you're young, cute, and Anglo, one of the slave brothels might pay up to $5,000 for you. Then the owner will chain you to a bedframe and let sleezy guys with bad breath fuck you any way they want for $50 an hour, 12 or 14 hours a day. Everybody gets their money—the judge, the state, the market, the brothel—and all the Johns get their kicks while you literally get the shaft. What do you think you'll be like, mentally and physically, after six months of that?" (I winced; I had been warned that might happen. If I survived this experience, I had to convey Bob's analysis so the school comes up with a better cover story for future slave psychiatry students.)
He went on in a low voice, almost as if he read my thoughts. "That's what WILL happen if you mount the block and freeze or try to retain some modesty. Instead, you need to show off your cheerleader skills and your cheerleader body. Find a way to make your price too high for the brothel owners. You've got a chance to make a real impression so some high roller will buy you, or at least so that your price is high enough that your new owner takes care of you as an investment."
"Think of it as a cheerleader competition—stay focused and ignore the audience while you do your routine. I want you to do a cartwheel onto one end of the block, then forward and backwards somersaults lengthwise along the platform. Can you do that? After that, I'll run you through some normal slave postures while you display the usual slave expressions and begging. But when I say 'Handstand,' I expect you to do about what you did yesterday—arrange yourself so you're standing on your hands, facing the audience but upside down so gravity makes your knockers really stand out. Then do a split, first with one leg forward and one leg back, then bring them both back together over your head, and finally split yourself sideways, showing them all that muscular thigh and soft flesh while you loudly announce 'let this cheerleader cunt entertain you, Master.'"
So that's what we practiced. After two run-throughs, he paused to let me drink some water. He warned me that the actual slave block was higher off the ground than this little platform. Then, I hesitantly asked him why he was investing such an effort in me. He gruffly denied any good intentions, saying that he wanted to maximize the profit margin, but I privately thought he was really kind. I didn't object even when he began to gently fondle my boobs and cunt. I knew he was just trying to maintain the arousal I felt after slave postures so that I would be "slave hot" for the next step. If he had a little fun in the process, so what?
That next step was to put me on display for prospective buyers and any other creep who wanted to feel me up. Have to let the buyers examine the merchandise. I'd undergone something similar when I was slave graded at age 18, and the Big D Market followed roughly the same procedure. Emphasis on roughly. A can of Devox took away my voice, making me feel still more helpless even though no slave's protests could ever change her fate. Then I and the other merchandise (about a dozen women and two men in the first batch of the day) were strung up against restraint poles, with my cuffed hands above my head, a magnet holding my collar to the pole, and my ankles tied to rings on the floor, forcing my feet about 30 inches apart. As he abandoned me to the human "wolves," Slave Handler Bob tweaked my nipples and clit to keep me excited, whispering "Be hot and be brave, cheerleader cunt."
First came the gawkers. Slave markets required anyone entering to prove that he/she was at least 18, but some of these guys (and a few gals—I wonder if they thought of themselves being strung up like that?) seemed only two weeks beyond their birthdays. Mauling my tits, thrusting fingers up my two lower holes, you name it—almost anything short of actual intercourse was OK. After about five minutes, I was overwhelmed mentally and was very thankful when the market's attendants told the tourists to move on. Then came the real slave merchants, who were detached and quiet, almost polite by comparison. Most of them scanned the barcode on my collar or the lot number on my cheerleader tag, thereby accessing my file electronically. The file didn't give my name, but did include my birthdate, measurements, previous grading of Prime Minus, length of indenture (6 months), reserve price (Bob told me it was $3000) and so on. Following Bob's advice, I made eye contact with each merchant and smiled brightly at them while panting softly to cause my boobs to rise and fall.
Two merchants forced my mouth open to check my teeth, as if I were a horse for sale—the Big D livestock brand continues. (Brand? Ouch. Legally, I was not a convict slave and would not normally be branded, but some owners used their own, private brands anyway, either out of sadism or to emphasize their dominance. Recently, there had been some instances of slave rustling so perhaps branding made sense, but I sure didn't want my butt burned.) Anyway, three of the merchants finger-fucked me gently. They didn't show any enjoyment about the opportunity, and I imagine they did the same thing to hundreds of slaves each year (thoughts like that certainly depressed any pride I might have in my looks.) They were probably checking for level of arousal. Fortunately for my price, if not for my self-respect, I knew I was slave hot and well juiced that morning. (I'm not going to be embarrassed about that. Just imagine you'd been through the process I've described and then someone strung you up, slave naked, and let strangers paw and invade your body while you wondered which one of them would buy you. Your only choices are turned on or catatonic in shock.)
