Learning Slave Psychology

(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)

On September 15, at the age of 24 and fresh out of medical school, I had taken an incredibly foolish risk. To qualify as a slave psychiatrist in Texas, I had voluntarily indentured myself for a period of 180 days under the state slavery laws. I thought I was prepared for the subjugation and humiliation of being a naked un-person who had no rights and had to kneel to every free citizen. For all my book learning, I hadn't realized emotionally how this helpless existence was designed to reinforce my sense of sexualized vulnerability, nor had I really recognized that my former cheerleader's body would make me literally "prime pussy." Through the intervention of several kind men at the slave market where I was processed, I had escaped being gang-banged and sold as a chained slut in a brothel, the likely fate for any attractive slave on a short sentence. Instead, my new owner, Paul Sousa, had outbid the brothels, paying an incredible $22,000 to buy my contract. He put me to work as a waitress and part-time submissive in his Fort Worth BDSM club. I didn't much like being strapped down, spanked, paddled, belted, and switched, but Mr. Sousa had kept careful tabs on me, preventing any serious injury. Compared to what his other employees suffered, I think I got off lightly. At least the sex that followed the pain was usually fun. Most of the staff didn't even realize that I was a slave rather than a paid employee. Overall, I had been quietly satisfied—my indenture bore little resemblance to the horrors I had expected six weeks earlier.

My contented life came to a screeching halt when Mr. Sousa called me into his office on November 1. Recognizing that I was still his property, at the door to his office I removed the long robe that I wore off duty. After he told me to enter in response to my knock, I stood respectfully in front of his desk in the position of "Present," fingers interlaced behind my neck, legs slightly more than shoulder-length apart, and eyes downcast, waiting for him to speak.

He leaned back in his desk chair and frankly admired my 35C-24-34 body for a few seconds, then asked, "How are you getting along, Nikki?"

"I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Sousa—or should I call you Master?"

"Well, for purposes of this conversation I suppose that 'Master' is more appropriate. You've done well here, but I want to expand your experience as a slave." [That almost sounded as if he knew that I had indentured myself as an educational requirement, and perhaps even knew who I was. I had already suspected this but tried to ignore it.] "Besides, one of my employees is coming back from long-term sick leave today, so I don't need you in the club for a while. Instead, I'm going to sub-contract you out to TempSlave, the temporary slave labor agency. Eventually, I'll bring you back here, but for now, you're going to the agency."

All the blood seemed to drain from my face. I was about to go from a comfortable, sheltered existence to fully exposed and exploited slavery, doing heaven knows what and being used sexually on a regular basis. Yet, I had no right to even object. A slave has forfeited all rights, even over her own body.

"As I told you when I bought you, Nikki, I think you're a survivor. Do whatever is asked of you and you'll be fine. Go see Cheri and she'll make the arrangements."

"Yes, Master," I relied, and dejectedly left the office, gently closing the door behind me. Scooping my robe off the floor, I shuffled off to find Cheryl Pierce, the woman who managed the club's submissive stable. At sight of my woebegone face, she smiled in sympathy and tried to reassure me.

"I see that Paul's told you where you're going. Try not to worry too much, Nikki—you have done great in the club, and I'm sure you'll do well at the agency."

Cheri had always been informal and friendly, but I decided that I needed to get back into the normal rules of slavery, including respecting her as a free woman. "May I please ask how long I will be there, Mistress?"

"He didn't say, and I think he wants you to just deal with it and not count days. Meanwhile, go ask the kitchen for a snack and take a shower; we'll leave at 1 p.m."

Before we left, she showed me a new, permanent slave collar for slut 663-74-3803, whose owner was Sousa Enterprises, Incorporated. That made me feel less abandoned—at least, Master Paul was not getting rid of me permanently. After installing the collar, Cheri told me:

"Reality time. From now on, we return to the ordinary rules for slaves because any special treatment would bring negative attention to you. You can wear a slave poncho out to the car, and I won't restrain you until we get to the agency. Then, however, it's a zip-tie on your wrists, a leash on your collar, and nudity in public. Your job is to pretend to be a happy, docile, bimbo and just deal with it, OK? Love ya."

That's how she treated me, driving for 20 minutes and then leading me into a low building with the sign "TempSlave" out front. We ended up in the office of the manager—the nameplate read "Susan Roberts"—who was a plump, middle-aged blonde with a poker face that gave no inkling of her thoughts. On order, I knelt in front of her desk while Mistress Cheryl gave her copies of the slave records and purchase contract for Slut 663-74-3803, a Prime Pleasure Slave with 130-odd days left on her self-indenture. Cheryl had a power of attorney to lease me to TempSlave Incorporated for a daily rate that they did not discuss in my hearing.

I felt alone when Cheryl departed, but focused on pleasing Mistress Susan. I tried to be as humble as possible, assuming whatever position she ordered while she examined me with the eye of a professional slave merchant and handler. Finally, she spoke:

"We don't get very much prime pussy around here. It's bad for business, because too many customers and bystanders decide they want to screw the prime, making her late in performing her real job. Oh, well—it's not your fault you're pretty, and I may know another agency that can use your ASSets, pun intended. I'll start you out on the night cleaning shift at the hospital. Have to be there at 7:00 p.m. for a 12-hour shift, so you need to get some rest now." She put me in a cage with a rough bunk and a blanket and left me with a sandwich and a water bottle. The cage was much less comfortable than my cell at the club, but I managed to sleep a few hours. About 5:30 that afternoon, the sound of other slaves stirring awakened me, so I was waiting on my knees when a strange handler appeared to cuff and leash me.

"The name is Master Bill, slut. You'll figure out what to do as the night goes on."

And I did. The last time I had been in a hospital I was a medical student dealing with complex health issues; now I was a naked bitch mopping up vomit and disinfecting examination tables. I worked as quickly as I could and was making progress on the suite of offices I had been assigned. About 1 a.m., Master Bill gave me a break with water and another sandwich. When he led me back to my assigned area, however, he sat down on a padded chair in a waiting room and told me to get busy with my mouth. Having practiced for this role since college, I think I surprised him at the skill and speed I displayed sucking him off. On the one hand, this freed me to get back to cleaning, but on the other I became Bill's favorite stress relief and work break. By the fourth night as a cleaning slave, I had to bring him close to but not past his climax, then bend over an exam table while he rammed me fore and aft. Then, of course, I had to re-clean the exam table!

Once, a resident or intern came across me in the middle of the night and decided to take his pleasure from my body. Officially, the AMA disapproved of physicians exploiting slave patients because, like prisoners, slaves were unable to object to any treatment. But this guy didn't even bother with a condom, which was a serious breech of health precautions. I did my best to remain submissive but memorized his name and face—if I ever worked with him after I regained my freedom, he would find out that unethical behavior has consequences. (Years later, I was indeed asked to complete a 360-degree survey on him as an applicant to become the supervisor of a large clinic. Needless to say, he didn't get the promotion, and probably never knew why. If he would take advantage of a random slave, what would he try to do with female patients, nurses, and interns? I also contacted his fiancée anonymously and suggested they both be tested for STDs because I had witnessed him having unprotected sex with a slave on or about x date at y hospital. They both came up positive, which ended that engagement but saved the woman from future heartbreak.)

I guess you can get used to almost anything. After about 10 days at the hospital, I had learned how to do my job efficiently and regarded random sex as a hazard of the job. It was my next assignment that showed me why Mistress Susan considered pretty slaves to be too distracting.

A major football game brought an influx of visitors to Dallas, and one of the mid-range hotels contacted TempSlave to provide extra maids to clean rooms. For this purpose, we wore transparent aprons that still left our bodies fully on display.

Things got difficult on the very first day, when I was shadowing and helping one of the regular housekeepers. About 2 p.m., a guest found us cleaning his room, and apparently it was lust at first sight (at least from his view. I thought he was a creep.) I didn't mind giving him a quick blowjob, even though his personal hygiene could use improvement, but then he bent me over the back of a padded chair and had his way with the other two openings. At least I kept him distracted so that the regular housekeeper could finish remaking the bed, changing the towels, and emptying the wastebaskets. When the would-be lover departed (leaving me unsatisfied, of course), I apologized profusely to the housekeeper because I hadn't done my share of the cleaning, but she realized that I was innocent.

Subsequent days, when I had to clean rooms on my own, were more difficult. On the fourth day, another guest Lothario found me alone in his room, where I had just finished changing the sheets and remaking the bed. He promptly secured my wrists behind me, put me on my knees, and demanded oral service. I gave him one of my 3-minute specials and had almost brought him off when he pulled out, tossed me on the bed, and began fucking me doggy style. Hard. Of course, he came in seconds, leaving me unsatisfied as usual. Then he grabbed the belts from the two robes provided in the room and proceeded to hogtie me. He left me there, promising more attention when he returned later. For two hours, I was unable to reach the knots and untie them. Finally, the housekeeping supervisor discovered and released me, but by that time I was far behind schedule. I had to redo that room and another five rooms I was supposed to have finished that afternoon.

At 6 p.m., the housekeeping supervisor and my TempSlave handler decided to teach me "not to lie around when there's work to be done." They bent me over my room service cart and secured me that way by hooking large clamps over my nipples and the cart frame. Then each of them gave me 10 lashes with his belt. Only my club training as a submissive enabled me to handle this abuse, and I was still weeping quietly when they finished. The handler had me fluff him with my mouth, after which he thrust into my defenseless cunt while the supervisor took his turn fucking my face. They spit-roasted me while I tried desperately to breathe. After the handler climaxed, the supervisor declared that he didn't want "sloppy seconds." That was my only warning before he plunged between my still-throbbing butt cheeks, trying to sheath himself completely at the first thrust. Fortunately, I had anticipated something like this and made sure his rather large prick was well coated with saliva. It still hurt, though, as they intended. It was another half-hour before they release my wrists and my numb nipples, and the marks on the latter showed for a week thereafter.

For the next several days, I worked as fast as possible, trying to clean a room as soon as I saw the guests depart so that they wouldn't catch me alone. I managed to dodge most of the guests, although both the supervisor and my handler developed a taste for my mouth and vagina. Not a lot of fun, but I got through it, or rather they got through me. (In case you're wondering, TempSlave gave me weekly tests for STDs; how I avoided infection I'll never know.)

About a week into the hotel assignment, I returned to TempSlave, very tired, after a long day of making beds and swallowing cum. Mistress Susan took my leash (all of her slaves were transported to and from jobs with wrists cuffed and leashes attached) and led me to her office. As soon as she released my wrists, I assumed the Present position and waited for instructions. Was I in trouble with her?

As if she were reading my mind, she came right to the point. "Don't worry, 3803, you're not in trouble. Unlike most pretty sluts, you don't act like a princess, but just do whatever you're told, which is the right attitude. However, as I warned you when you arrived, Primes attract too much attention from the customers, interfering with doing their real assignments. So, since you seem to get fucked every time you go on a job, I decided to find jobs where that was your assignment anyway. I'm lending you out to SlutsAreUs, who have more experience with pleasure slaves. Someone will pick you up in about four hours to work tonight, so you need to get a shower, a sandwich, and a nap in that order. And yes, I've informed your owner of the subcontract."

Oh, great, I thought, as I hurried to take a shower. As the name implies, SlutsAreUs was a temporary agency that provided a higher class of pleasure slave in a world where slave sex for hire was not considered prostitution. Working for them was probably better than being chained to a bed in a slave brothel but might not be much fun overall. Although I couldn't prove it, I suspected that Mistress Susan was pulling a fast one on my owner—paying him for my services as a general labor slave and then pimping my ass out for a higher return as a prime pleasure slut.

By 8 p.m., I was sitting (as usual, naked, cuffed, and leashed) in a nondescript car driven by Master James Oglethorpe, a supervisor for SlutsAreUs. He talked about my assignment as he drove:

"I try to treat my slaves decently, beginning with names. Tell me your first name, 3803."

"It's Nikki, Master James."

"OK, Nikki, here's the deal. My agency provides pleasure slaves—mostly Choice and Prime grade—for use in a variety of sex work. I'll probably use you in various roles. For the next several nights, you'll be filling in at a local strip joint. The headliners in this place are truly sexy free women, although you could give them a run for their money. With the amount of naked slave pussy on display these days, a headline stripper has to be something special, because some guys who think with their dicks are more excited by the thought of fucking a free woman instead of a slave, which is why headline strippers still get well paid. However, the lesser talent in the strip joint, including girls who dance in the side cages and provide lap dances for hire, are often slaves rather than free women. Bringing in new faces like you keeps it interesting for the customers. Questions?"

"I'll do my best, Master, but I don't know anything about this kind of work. Can you tell me what you want me to do or not do?"

"Mistress Harriet runs the talent here. She'll set you up with some makeup and a skimpy outfit for the stripping. When you're not on stage, you circulate among the customers with a bunch of condoms in a pocket and a locked cashbox hanging from your collar. Unlike lap dances back in the day, the customer IS entitled to touch and screw you any way he wants so long as he doesn't seriously injure you. $20 for a blowjob, $50 to ride his prick, and $100 if he wants to assfuck you. If he wants you for an hour in a private lounge, Mistress Harriet makes the arrangements, and the room will be monitored for your safety. Got it?"

"Yes, Master—but you know that I can't force a free man to pay me. What do I do if he pays $20 and then wants to shaft me in the rear?"

"Nobody expects you to argue with the customer—just do what he tells you and let Mistress Harriet and the bouncers enforce the prices. I shouldn't tell you this, but Mistress Susan tells me that you work hard and already have a reputation as a fantastic cocksucker. That plus your body should be enough to succeed. I'm sure you'll do fine."

"Yes, Master." As I've said before, slaves never get the good lines in dialog.

In preparation for self-indenture, I had read a lot of erotic literature, including some of John Norman's long-running and long-winded "Gor" novels. Norman would never win a Pulitzer prize, but his descriptions of how female slaves—Kajira—existed in the pseudo-medieval world of Gor had really lit my fire a few times. When I first read Norman, I had disagreed with his basic mindset that all women were secretly submissive. Now, I found myself living out the Gorean fantasies as a tavern slut Kajira, complete with the metal cashbox for men to rent out my body without my having access to the proceeds. Of course, the actual customers in a Texas "Gentlemen's Club" bore no resemblance to the Alpha males in Norman's books. Most of my customers were aging and out of shape, frequently suffering from bad breath and inadequate hygiene of their genitalia. I mentally gritted my teeth and tried not to inhale deeply, while outwardly smiling lasciviously and pretending to be impressed by their physical endowments and stamina. I remember hearing the unofficial slogan of the U.S. troops in the Iraqi conflict—"Embrace the suck." In this case, that was literally my job! Or maybe it was "suck while embraced." Believe it or not, in that disgusting job I actually preferred to be butt-fucked rather than screwed or face-fucked, because with my rectum engaged I was facing away from the guy and didn't have to smell or taste him. If he wanted a blowjob and had not washed recently, I applied all my practiced moves to bring him off during a single 3-5 minute song. The revolting nature of my temporary "masters," none of whom I would have dated as a free woman simply because of their hygiene, actually reinforced the sense of submission when I had to let them use me. Was this some kind of weird sexual Stockholm syndrome? Another thought to file away for my future as a psychiatrist.

I survived several nights of this strange existence, and actually got good meals from the bar at closing time, after which Master James took me off to the slave kennels of SlutsAreUs. These were adequate and included the chance to shower and sleep, but I still missed my comfortable cage at the BDSM club.

On the second night, I made a mistake that could have been serious. When I finished my stint as a pole dancer in a cage, I heard more than just polite applause from the audience. Everyone likes to be appreciated, even if it's just applause because you've let them see every inch of your face and body while you gyrate in a lewd manner. As I stumbled backstage, however, the sudden change in lighting caused me to bump into Randie Diamond, the current headliner stripper, who was about to go on stage for her second show of the night. I apologized profusely, but Randie went ballistic. She ordered me to "kneel, slave," and spent the next several minutes using every demeaning, insulting term she could think of, generally suggesting that I was an ugly, untalented skank who had no business being on the same stage with beautiful free women like her—all I was good for was a bargain-basement fuck, preferably in the ass. I began to be afraid she would kick me in the face or cunt, and I was not allowed to defend myself against a free person. Finally, Harriet intervened and reminded her that she was overdue on stage. Randie stormed out leaving me locked in the kneeling position, shaking with fear that Mistress Harriet would punish me or at least blacklist me with the agency. Instead, she smiled at me: