Recovering Slut

These events occur in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations.

If you object to the basic premises of this story, I recommend that you find something else to read.

As always, this is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory and no one should ever be deprived of her or his free will, let alone used sexually without full consent.

Many of the best tales concerning this world, written by masters such as Joe Doe and GentlemanMariner, focus on the abrupt and terrifying conversion from freedom to slavery with its attendant loss of clothing, status, and control. This story looks at the other end of the experience, when a slave re-enters the world of free people. For that reason, there are only three episodes to it, including some flashbacks to the narrator's time in a collar.

What am I going to do?

My mind kept asking that, over and over, while I stared at the laminated ID card in my hands. It was headed "Texas Department of Agriculture," and included a photograph of my (confused) face as well as my description. "Boyce, Elizabeth R. DOB 6/17/XX. 67 inches, 124 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes." But the really startling part of the card for me was the last line: "Free citizen of the State of Texas" with the state seal. I had been one of the first to receive this ID, newly authorized by the Texas legislature to delineate those who had completed their servitude.

After ten years of slavery, I was free, but I had no idea what to do next. Other people had controlled my every decision for a decade, so how could I resume control of my life? Was I even capable of making a decision, let alone carrying it out?

"What am I going to do?" I hadn't meant to say it out loud, but this time I did—I must have, because the man sitting next to me, driving his pickup truck, answered me.

"I can't tell you what to do anymore, Betsy—that would be illegal," Master—I mean Mister—Kevin said, gently. "What I AM going to do is make a suggestion. We're almost at the Longhorn Slave Market, which runs a kind of half-way house for former slaves. I phoned them yesterday about you. It's entirely your choice, but they're willing to give you a job and a place to sleep until you decide what to do next. That's the best I can do for you, OK?" His face seemed genuinely concerned about me, which was predictable—he had been my last master, and unquestionably the kindest I'd ever had.

How did I get here? Long story, but in essence: Five months after I turned 18 years of age, my father's massive load of debt finally collapsed and he went bankrupt. You would think that, as an adult, the worst that would have happened to me when my Daddy went bankrupt was that I became homeless. Unfortunately, Daddy had convinced me that his business was just about to succeed, but he had no more assets for a short-term business loan. I'm sure he believed what he told me, but the net result was that, as a loving daughter, I had signed on the dotted line to pledge my body as collateral for a small loan—$30,000.

Before I did that, the bank wanted me to be slave-graded to establish my value for the loan. The trouble was that, even at that age, I was nothing much to look at. All I had going for me was the freshness of youth; I was (and still am) a mousy, hesitant girl with a plain face, A-cup breasts, and modest butt. When I went to a slave market for grading, I'd been so terrified about being naked, devoxed, and helpless on display that I was not aroused at all by the grading process, so I had been lucky to grade out as Select Minus—almost the exact middle of the seven categories of slave meat that range from Prime down to Cutter.

Of course, my terror had been even greater four months later when the bank foreclosed on my dad and me and I went back to the slave market in a poodle cage, collared, gagged, zip-tied, and again completely naked. I had heard all the urban legends of how young women were gang-banged in the slave markets, but I was so nondescript that none of the slave handlers bothered to use me sexually—what the handlers called "high-end pussy" was so common in that market that they hardly touched me except to walk me to the next stage In my progress into hell. I was sold in a job lot with three other terrified young girls; the whole group went for a combined price of $100,000, which meant that the bank probably didn't get its money back on me. Small comfort for the next ten years of servitude. And I had never heard from my father again after we were repossessed.

No time to think about my past right now; Kevin had pulled up at the main entrance to the Longhorn, and was waiting for me to go inside. For the first time in the three-plus years he had owned me, he held out his hand to shake mine.

"I'm sure you'll be OK, Betsy," he assured me, but his face mirrored my own doubts about the future. "Go on in there and you'll see a separate desk, labelled 'Concierge,'—you know, Cee Ohh Ennn Cee Eye and so on, and tell them you've just been freed. If you get in a jam, call me, OK?" he added, handing me a business card with his phone number. Then he stopped, obviously waiting for me to move. I was so used to pleasing him that I scrambled out and slammed the door, trying to smile and wave as my last piece of certainty, the last contact with my entire adult life to date drove out of the vast parking lot.

* * * * *

Unlike my two previous visits to the Longhorn, when I had been slave naked, this time I was clothed, after a fashion. Before he took me to the Agriculture Department office that morning , my master—as he then still was—had told me to put on the only clothes I had seen in the past several years: a plain white blouse, faded blue jean skirt, and cheap sneakers. He'd bought all that for me at a thrift store the week before, and I was thankful to have it. Underneath the blouse was one of the see-through bras he usually had me wear to support my tiny breasts, as well as a white pair of panties. Before today, I'd worn those panties only every six months, when my birth control implant expired and I had an horrendous period for a week or ten days. (Note to self: Kevin had reminded me that my current implant would expire four months from now. Yet another aspect of my slavery was that, unlike every other adult woman, I had lost the habit of tracking my menstrual cycle and birth control. Owners worried about that, since slaves had no control over their bodies.) Around my neck was the strap of a brand new purse, which contained my ID card, his business card, and about $30 he had shoved at me. I also clutched a small string bag that contained the remainder of my "wardrobe," several more bras and pairs of panties plus a pair of flip-flops, a toothbrush, and a hairbrush. It could have been far worse, I reflected—Kevin could have just left me butt naked at the door to the Ag Department office, since he had no legal obligation to me once my period of servitude expired. But, for a slave owner, he had always been a sweetie, making my last few years of servitude much more bearable than the first ones even if he was a horny old coot who wanted me to suck and fuck him almost every night.

It still felt strange to have most of my body covered while my neck, which had been collared for a decade, was now bare. As I stepped through the glass doors into the slave market, my reflection told me that my overall tan was marred by the white band of skin on my neck. Anyone who saw that would instantly identify me as a recently-freed slave, if not a runaway.

A long semi-circle of standing customer service desks, mostly empty in the early afternoon, met my eyes. Opposite them, against the front wall, was a single desk with a sign hanging over it. Since I'd rarely had to read in slavery, I was glad that Kevin had reminded me how to spell "Concierge." This was obviously my destination, but I hesitated a moment; not only was I trained not to bother free people, but the woman standing behind that desk was imposing—at least six inches taller than me, with a voluptuous body and long red hair. The polo shirt she wore bore the stylized logo of a Longhorn's head, plus a nametag that read "Willow." Then she smiled at me, and that friendly face gave me the courage to approach her.

"Welcome to the Longhorn," she practically gushed. "Are you Elizabeth Boyce?"

"Yes, Mistress." (Damn! I blew it the first time I met someone as a free person.) "I mean, yes, ma'am."

"Relax, Elizabeth—is it OK if I call you that?" she continued. I had never before had a slave wrangler speak so kindly to me, and it took me a moment to realize that I had to answer her.

"Umm—I'm sort of used to being called 'Betsy,' ma'am." I replied, almost whispering.

"Betsy it is, then. So, are you interested in coming to work here?" The towering woman asked. I nodded, uncertainly, as she continued. "You don't have to if you don't feel comfortable. The first rule for the Longhorn staff is that nobody can MAKE you do something you don't want to do, OK? You're a free person. Any time you want to quit or leave, just let someone know so we don't worry about what happened to you. Please wait a minute while I get someone to help you."

She murmured into her phone, then smiled, nodded, and turned to the tall guy, dressed as a slave handler, standing next to her. He had to be 18 just to come in the door here, but he looked like a kid to me. Willow gestured at him, and told me, "Jared's going to take you to get some lunch in our cafeteria—tell the cashier Code 46 to pay for her meal. Ruth will be down there in 20 minutes or so to process you into our merry band of misfits."

"Would you come with me, Ma'am?" the kid asked, for all the world as if I were a valued customer instead of a hesitant, almost penniless, ex-slave. The whole transaction only added to my sense of unreality about being free.

* * * * *

It never occurred to me to NOT follow instructions, docilly walking with Jared to a large, airy cafeteria. Embarrassed to have someone else pay for my lunch, I took only a few items from the long serving line. When we sat down together, however, I suddenly felt ravenous and devoured everything on my tray in 10 minutes flat. Who knew where my next meal would come from? The only reason I took that long was that Jared kept trying politely to make conversation with me.

Just as I finished gobbling, a grey-haired lady in pink blouse and khaki pants appeared, walking briskly up to my table; Jared introduced her as "Ruth from Human Resources," and quickly excused himself.

I had expected a bureaucratic, matter-of-fact in-processing to my new life. I got the in-processing part, all right, but only after Ruth had talked with me for half an hour, gently drawing me out of my shell. By the time we left the lunch table, she had elicited a lot of basic information, such as where and when I was born (to get a birth certificate), that I still remembered my social security number (not always the same as a federal slave ID number), and that I had just graduated high school when I was repo'd. She zeroed in on my one work experience as a free woman, washing dishes and doing food prep in a submarine sandwich shop. It seemed a logical step from that information to inviting me to work, at least at first, at similar tasks in the cafeteria. Before she led me away for in-processing, she introduced me to Ben, the cafeteria manager, a middle-aged Black guy who told me when to come to work the next morning.

In a little over an hour, Ruth got my signature on requests for various documents, including a birth certificate, a new social security card, and a copy of my high school transcript. A Longhorn ID card and nametag came next. She also gave me the road rules booklet to study for a learner's driving permit, saying she would make an appointment for me at the Department of Public Safety. The Longhorn would provide me with appropriate operator's insurance and even give me a chance to practice driving, but I couldn't take the road test until I had a valid social security card and birth certificate. For the same reason, she would pay me in cash every two days until I had a card to verify my number, after which I could open a bank account. Meanwhile, Ruth walked me to the "Veterinarian" station of the slave market, where an equally-friendly young woman in a lab coat checked my vital signs, drew a blood sample, and ensured I had no immediate medical problems. She also scheduled me to have my slave chip removed, under local anaesthetic, several days later.

The incredibly-efficient yet kind Ruth then took me to the storekeeper, who issued me various sets of coveralls—in white, because I would be working with food—as well as other basic items of clothing and bedding and even a padlock to secure the locker I was assigned. That locker was next to a bunk in a clean if small double bedroom across a corridor from the female staff showers and restroom.

I had just finished arranging my sparse possessions in the locker when my new roommate, who identified herself only as "Lorraine," appeared. Ruth had suggested that, at the Longhorn, asking someone's slave grade or price would be impolite, but Lorraine had to have graded out as at least Choice—blonde hair, blue eyes, hourglass shape and a smiling, positive attitude. Ruth had apparently told her a little because she was happy to welcome me. In a few minutes, I felt as if I might have found a new friend. Lorraine worked as a clerk restocking the Longhorn's combination souvenir and sex toy shop, but compared to me she seemed so self-confident and attractive that I assumed she would soon move on to bigger things.

She told me that she had had been enslaved for six years because of unpaid college loans, and had worked "everywhere" including, apparently, as a lap dancer in a strip joint and a naked desk clerk in a hotel. In return, I felt I had to explain that I'd also had several jobs as a slave, but had spent the past few years as a cook and bedwarmer for an older guy.

"Some of those guys are constantly horny—bet you're glad THAT's over with," Lorraine remarked.

"What? Oh, you mean being a slave? Yes, of course," I replied.

"Well, that too, but I meant you must be tired of having to service some old guy every time he wants sex." She replied, still smiling but looking sympathetic.

"Oh," I hesitated, "Yeah." In fact, I had adjusted to Master Kevin, who made a habit of ensuing that I got some pleasure from being used. He had always been gentle and clean, and I suddenly realized that I kind of missed the familiar pattern of blowing him every night before he pinned me down and filled me up. It suddenly occurred to me that I'd have to traverse the dating rituals—which I'd had zero experience with even when I was in high school—if I wanted any more intimacy. Yet another social situation about which I lacked knowledge and self-confidence.

My roommate dragged me off to supper at the cafeteria—plain but good food, enlivened by meeting four other ex-slaves. No one identified themselves in that manner, but their pale necks, plain coveralls, and slight social awkwardness all signalled their common background.

Three of these folks, like Lorraine, were young, good looking, and full of life, so without meaning to do so they intimidated me somewhat. The fourth was Roscoe, a man probably in his late 30s or early 40s wearing the coveralls issued to janitors and handy men at the Longhorn. I guess I identified with him not only because of his greater age but because, like my Dad, he had been collared for a period of 12 years after his business went bankrupt. Roscoe was amusing in his conversation and flattered me without seeming to pressure me. Besides, he had been working at the Longhorn for longer (about four months) than the others, so he had a lot of useful information about my new environment.

The next week went by quickly. At first, the instincts of slavery often betrayed me: I barely stopped myself from kneeling when my new boss, Kevin, met me at the cafeteria the next morning. Several times, I found myself addressing one of my fellow employees—the cooks and cashiers of the cafeteria—as master or mistress. No one tried to embarrass me about these slip-ups, instead quietly correcting me and treating me as an equal. Yet, I still was a little hesitant, uncertain even when I knew what needed to be done next.

Even though I worked and lived in a slave market, I had almost no contract with slaves, which was good because just the sight of a collared and cuffed human being brought back nervous memories. I was still working at adjusting my mind, and every little achievement seemed to help me. One evening, for example, Ruth showed up when I finished work to let me practice driving a car around the huge parking lot as a first lesson for eventually regaining a driver's license. I thought it was a success when I didn't hit anything!

* * * * *

And then the following evening I had an embarrassing experience. Roscoe and I had lingered, talking, over the remains of a late supper, until I realized that I needed to turn in my dishes and tray so that the cafeteria could close for the evening. After that, Roscoe and I ended up watching TV in the tiny staff lounge. I still don't recall how it happened, but the conversation gradually became more explicit. Before I knew it, he had urged me down onto my knees in front of him. I knew what he wanted, and it seemed natural to try to please him, so I ended up with his erect shaft in my mouth while my hands gently stroked his balls and the base of his cock. For almost the first time since I'd regained my freedom, I knew what I was doing, and I started to get as excited as he was. Roscoe was very considerate and thankful that I was entertaining him. It didn't matter to me, so why not make him happy? I closed my eyes briefly, and imagined I was servicing Master Kevin again. It just felt . . . normal, familiar. His prick grew steadily in length and rigidity while he began to pant and I anticipated getting a mouthful.

And then a huge, muscular Black woman looked into the lounge and found us. I had only just learned that three sisters worked in different positions as slave handlers at the Longhorn; considering it was late evening, this was presumably Josephine, the night manager. She didn't yell or throw a tantrum—heck, when you're that big, you don't NEED to throw a fit—but she clearly disapproved of what she saw.

"Give the girl some room, Roscoe," she chided him gently. "I know you're horny, but she's so newly freed that she'd probably do anything you wanted, and you of all folks should know how unfair it is to take advantage of that."

To be fair, Roscoe did look somewhat sheepish. He mumbled an apology and left promptly.

"Are you Betsy?" she asked. I nodded, feeling like a teenager whom the cops had caught letting a guy get to second base—not that any guy had WANTED to feel me up in high school. "Well, look," Josephine said. "If you really wanted to blow him, that's your business. But I bet he just talked you into it, and you're so used to servicing men that you didn't even hesitate, right?" Another nod—now I was even more embarrassed.

"Thing is," Jo pursued, "most female slaves get too much sex, while male slaves almost never get off while they're collared. Some of the guys have to wear chastity belts for years at a time, which is what I call cruel and unusual punishment. Naturally, male ex-slaves like Roscoe want to make up for lost time after they're freed. He knew he was taking advantage of you, even if you didn't much care. One of the things I hope you figure out while you're at the Longhorn is just how much sex you want as a free woman—and don't give it away without deciding whether it's what YOU need, not just what the guy wants, OK? That attitude only applies when you're married, and not always even then." She chuckled gently in her gravelly voice.