Recovering Slut

Recovering Slut, Pt. 04

(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.

As always, this is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory. MrSmith27 has kindly permitted me to use the character and back-story of Mrs. Amelia Bedford; the full account of her collared experiences with her daughter Avery will appear in one of his future stories).

(Previously: Betsy Boyce was an average-looking young woman in Texas who had recently completed ten years of enslavement for debt. Once freed, Betsy entered the Longhorn Slave Market's Trusty program for the newly-freed, working in the cafeteria and sleeping on the premises for three meals a day and $18 per hour while she sorted out her life. Over the ensuing months, she tried to rebuild her life, advised by slave psychiatrist Nikki Sheldon as well as the Vice President for Operations of the Longhorn, Jesse Foster. Despite the best efforts of all three, Betsy was still troubled by her previous experiences. Her ten years of total submission and frequent sexual use had reinforced her pre-existing lack of assertiveness and self-esteem. Her father, whose business failure had led to her repossession as a slave, was still a slave himself with no assets to assist her. Having only a high school education and limited work experience, she finally decided to consider the difficult choice between a continuing marginal existence as a free woman or voluntary return to slavery. For all the horrors of the second choice, she hoped that she could sell herself for a retirement fund while having an owner who would ensure her personal needs, including regular, submissive sex. Betsy had neither the sex appeal nor the rich friends to arrange a lucrative future, whether as a true slave or a Free In Name Only contract servant, so the best she could hope for was a higher slave grading and sale for a few thousand dollars as an IRA in return for another ten years in a collar.)

(I deliberately ended the story at that point, without a specific resolution, leaving the reader to devise his/her preferred conclusion. Since some readers wanted more closure, the following represents ONE, perhaps improbable, alternative ending.)

(

Betsy Boyce's viewpoint

)

As the clock ticked down towards the end of my six months as a Longhorn "Trusty," I still had no permanent job and no resolution to my dilemma. I was mentally bracing myself for the humiliation of re-enslaving myself, this time voluntarily. I had already told Mr. Foster that, in such an event, I wanted it to be done at the Longhorn, because I trusted him to deal honestly with me even when I had surrendered all my rights and again become slave meat.

Then one day, as I was restocking the cafeteria line, I looked up to see Mr. Foster smiling at me.

"Betsy," he began, "I just asked Ben to let you off work at 1:30 today because I want you to meet with someone in my office. Don't worry—this is a good thing, a job opportunity. Mizz Amelia Bedford is putting together a team for a new effort, and I think your experience will fit in perfectly."

"Umm," I mumbled. "I really appreciate your concern, Mr. Foster, but does she know about my background?"

"Are you kidding?" He replied. "That's exactly why she's interested in you. Come on—it can't hurt to hear her out, can it? 1:30, my office, OK?"

Having little choice about the matter, I murmured "Yes, Sir," and went back to work. At least I'd learned not to call him "Master"!

*****

Mr. Foster's admin assistant, Wilma, welcomed me when I reported to his outer office, and told me to go inside. My boss introduced me to Ms. Bedford and then announced that he had to go check the auctions, leaving me alone with a very intimidating lady. Ms. Bedford was an attractive, confident blonde in her forties who must have been even more beautiful when she was younger. She obviously kept herself in excellent shape, and wore a perfectly tailored skirt suit that, to my eyes at least, looked incredibly expensive. Smiling, she urged me to have a seat on Mr. Foster's office couch. As she sat down in a chair opposite me, her poise and movements resembled a supermodel more than a middle-aged matron.

The plan she described was so amazing that I had difficulty absorbing it. Amelia—as she insisted that I call her—and her husband were setting up a not-for-profit foundation, a much more ambitious form of the Longhorn Trusty program to help former slaves re-integrate into normal life. They had already tapped a number of friends and raised an initial 12 million dollars. [I later learned that this included receipts from the tell-all movie "Here Cums the Judge, Too," based on the punishment of a crooked judge—but that's another story.] The Foundation would provide classes in subjects such as business computer systems, licensed practical nursing, emergency medical technician, and para-legal. Amelia's husband had bought a large building next door to the State Department of Agriculture office in downtown Dallas, so that newly-freed slaves could be welcomed as soon as their manumission was registered. Mr. Bedford already had a contractor renovating this building into a combination dormitory and training facility.

To ensure that the Texas Freedom Foundation would serve the needs of its "clientele," Amelia was recruiting a staff who were themselves former slaves so that they could empathize with and advise the people they served. Most of this staff would live on site to aid the newly-freed. She'd already hired Cindy Jackson, another former slave who (to hear Amelia tell it) was my exact opposite—tough, determined, and without a single tinge of submission in her personality. Cindy was to be the operational head of the Foundation, and was already hard at work recruiting former slaves to make up most of the staff. That included a slave veterinarian and several para-medics as well as instructors and dorm supervisors. Eventually, the foundation hoped to hire a full-time slave psychiatrist to live on site, but such specialists were scarce in Texas. For the moment, Nikki Sheldon and her mentor, Harold Walker, would provide free services part-time. (Knowing how smart "Doctor Nikki" was, I was relieved to hear that she was supporting this project, which up until then had sounded like a pipedream.)

"Naturally, I called Jesse Foster to get his advice about the Foundation, since the Longhorn's program is somewhat similar. When I told him what we were planning, he described your dilemma. So, I wanted to come talk to you personally," Amelia concluded. "I'm asking you to be the manager of our cafeteria—the job pays $60,000 a year with benefits including free room and board. I can tell by your expression that you don't think you're qualified, but don't worry—we don't need to start the cafeteria up for another month. Meanwhile, Jesse has agreed to let you stay here and understudy with your current supervisor—I think his name is Ben Kingston?—on how to run the Longhorn's cafeteria. Once we begin operations, Jesse will send Ben over once a week to answer your questions and help you estimate how much food to order."

Amelia continued her rapid-fire delivery. "This job offer is not charity, Mizz Boyce—we really need people like you who have gone through the double trauma of slavery and re-entry. If you don't mind, I think I should tell you a little about my own background. Believe me, once you hear about me I think you'll see that you and I have a lot in common."

I couldn't imagine having ANYTHING in common with such a poised, articulate, and obviously rich beauty, but on the other hand, I lacked the nerve to argue with her, so I nodded, still feeling bewildered, but asked her to call me Betsy.

She drew a deep breath, hesitated, and then plunged onward, blushing a little. "Betsy, when I was barely 18 I was enslaved for debt, just like you. My first owners liked my looks, and sent me to the Venus Academy." [Gulp. The Venus Academy was a famous facility that taught female pleasure slaves how to give maximum enjoyment to masters and mistresses, no matter how slutty the process. And, when she modestly said that someone "liked her looks," I knew that even to attend Venus she must have been slave graded as Prime, or at least Choice Plus.]

Amelia gathered her thoughts, and continued. "I'm sure you can guess that, with a background like that, I've got a large 'V' branded onto my left buttock, not to mention all kinds of nipple, navel, and vaginal piercings. For seven months I was the ultimate slave whore. You name it, I did it, working in a gloryhole, a BDSM brothel, gangbangs, pony girl training, and lord knows what else. Some of the sex was enjoyable, but overall I was ashamed and miserable. At one point, I was rented out to a sadist who tried to break my mind along with my body. Then I got lucky—I met my future husband Glen, and he sent me to the Broadstone Etiquette Academy. Glen eventually freed me and gave me an incredibly fulfilling life including four children."

"For me, however, my slave past was so embarrassing that I hid it from everyone. I enjoyed submitting to Glen in private, but nobody else had any idea of my background. In those days, slavery was far less common than it is today, and people assumed that ANY slave, let alone a Venus graduate, was the lowest kind of sex-crazed slut imaginable."

That I could understand. "I've encountered a lot of the same attitude myself," I murmured.

She gave me a sad little smile. "Then you understand why I hid my past—I thought you would. Unfortunately, last year it all came out in the most humiliating manner possible. My oldest daughter, Avery, got into so much trouble that a conniving judge, Ledbetter" [she spat the name out as if it were an obscenity] "gave us a choice. He was going to send Avery off to full slavery, beginning with putting her into a public stocks where anyone could use any of her openings! The alternative would be to divert her to attend my old school, Broadstone, as a slave consort, but he would ONLY allow this if both my daughter AND I agreed to spend 30 days in his local jail, including public and officer atonement sessions."

I shivered at the thought of that—there were urban legends about the gang rapes that occurred during atonement sessions, and the idea of being at some crooked judge's mercy for an entire month was horrific. I don't know much about the law, but having the mother suffer along with the adult child couldn't be legal. Still, Texas judges had gotten away with other travesties, so I believed her story.

Amelia was blushing bright red by now, but seemed determined to finish the entire story. "I can tell by your face that you know what that meant, but I couldn't let my baby become a full-up slave, so I had to agree. Long story short, I had to strip down right there in the courtroom so that everyone could see my brands from Venus and Broadstone, not to mention removing all the metal piercings from my body. After that, the slimeball judge had Avery and I take turns caning each other and shoving oversized plugs up our rear ends." She looked like she was about to throw up.

"I'm not going to tell you everything that happened to us that month. I understand that you were once a slave sex worker, so you know how cruel and perverted men can be. Eventually, Ledbetter got what was coming to him and I regained my freedom. But, in the process of my second slavery I met women who couldn't transition from slavery back to freedom, who really needed help that I could provide. There was one older woman named Hannah, a fellow graduate of the Venus Academy who had been repeatedly enslaved and exploited. Each time she finished a term of indenture, she was unable to find a job as a free woman because she had no job skills. So she had to re-indenture herself. Yet after all this suffering and failure, she still tried to help my daughter and me. I realized that I had to use my influence and my husband's money to help all these people who have suffered during and after slavery, and my husband agrees. Now do you see why I need your help?"

We were both on the edge of tears, but I had no choice but to agree to her incredible offer.

*****

(

Cho Park's viewpoint

)

When I awoke, I hurt all over, so badly that at first I couldn't bear to open my eyes. I became aware of a soft beeping in the background, which I eventually identified as the sound of electronic heart rate and blood pressure monitors, like you find in a hospital. I'd heard THAT sound before, and the explanation of what I was doing in a medical facility came back with a rush. For the third time in five years (so far) of slavery, that son-of-a-bitch Marvin Reamus had beaten me so badly that I had to be hospitalized. He knew how much I loathed and despised him, so he was always trying to pound me into submission. It had begun as usual, with him demanding that I beg him for the "privilege" of sucking his tiny dick, after which he tied me over a coffee table. The last thing I remember was him pounding my rear bud with an oversized dildo—his own equipment was so small that I wouldn't have even felt it back there—in between giving me 20 strokes with a cane, some of which strokes had apparently broken my ribs.

It was bad enough that he had framed me to cover his tax evasion schemes, but using me as both his bookkeeper and slave whore had rendered my life almost unendurable. At least, while I was in the Samson Medical Clinic I got a rest from the revolting necessity of servicing him sexually. The only thoughts that kept me alive were my plans to expose him . . .

I became aware that there was someone—make that two people—sitting in the room with me, even though they were both being very quiet. When I opened my eyes a slit, I saw two young women, a generously-endowed brunette and a thinner, taller blonde. I didn't recognize either one, but they were both wearing business suits and reading what appeared to be textbooks. The moment I stirred, however, the brunette gave me a look of concern.

"Oh, good—you're finally awake. Cindy, would you do me a favor and tell the nurse? But take your time about it—I'm sure Cho has some questions," she said. The blonde left the room quietly.

"I guess you already know that you're in the Samson Clinic, right? My name's Shirley, by the way. But, first things first—you don't need to worry about the moron who put you in here."

My heart leapt, but it sounded too good to be true. "But he owns me . . ."

"Not anymore, girl. I'm sure you don't remember, but we shared a cage at the Longhorn on the day you were sentenced and branded, and you told me how he had framed you. It took me a while to locate you, but nowadays my husband runs the Longhorn, so he put a watch on any transactions involving a slave named Cho, and your name popped up when Reamus beat you up again. Some bastard once put me into a slave ER so I can imagine how you feel, although my injuries were much less severe. My father-in-law was so angry when I told him about you that he hired some attorneys to investigate what happened. Because slaves have no medical privacy rights, we were able to construct a record of systematic abuse such that our lawyers convinced 'Mister' Reamus that he'd better sell you to us, cheap, if he didn't want to be charged with abusing livestock." Whoa! This woman must have some serious pull; the livestock abuse law was rarely enforced in slavery-friendly Texas.

"Anyway," Shirley continued, "As soon as he agreed to sell, we registered the sale. Unfortunately, because of your criminal conviction, it may take a while to get you freed, but we're working on that, too."

"I can help you with that." I replied, flinching when I moved the wrong way. "I can prove that he set up the scam that I got convicted for, and he's still running a similar game. But, I need to get at a computer and download the records before he remembers to end my access to his files. Please, help me!"

An hour later, I had downloaded 15 files and taken multiple screen shots of both past and present deceptions. Most of them showed my former owner as logged on. Marvin was such an idiot that he never changed his password, which was his own birthdate, and he apparently forgot to change my access as well. Maybe he thought I was still unconscious.

By this time, the nurse had insisted on an examination to ensure I didn't have a concussion, then later got permission to bump up my pain medication. As I drifted off into oblivion, Shirley promised to talk about my future, including a job offer, after I had a chance to rest.

Two weeks later, I was out of the clinic and Reamus was indicted for tax evasion. I tried to thank Shirley, who insisted that she was just a graduate student, but her husband's family—not to mention the Bedford family that was trying to help slaves—had a lot of political influence. They must have, because the district attorney had reviewed the evidence that Reamus had framed me, and had endorsed a request to the governor to set aside my conviction and enslavement, transferring the balance of my enslavement sentence to be added to whatever penalties Reamus got. I wonder if I can get an atonement session with the bastard after he's convicted. I don't want to sound vindictive (much!), but it would be great to fuck HIM in the ass, just once. He's buggered me so often and I keep thinking of him as "that asshole," so it's only natural that I want to use that opening!

By the time he was arrested, I'd gotten to know my new boss, Cindy Jackson, who had explained the Freedom Foundation to me. Cindy, like me, knew a lot about accounting and personal finances, so she wanted me to teach all of our new clients how to handle their money and avoid future indebtedness. In the long run, I might teach bookkeeping to our clients. At the moment, however, Cindy needed a general deputy, someone who understood the trauma involved as we in-processed former slaves. For doing all this, I got room, board, and a salary almost twice what that asshole used to pay me before he trapped me. All this, and I got to help other unfortunates like me? Sign me up.

*****

(

Betsy Boyce's perspective

)

It had been four months since Amelia Bedford offered me that new job, four months of working flat out, ninety-plus hours a week, to set up the program. At first, it was really difficult for me to make and implement all the decisions involved in setting up the cafeteria, but the sight of the miserable, often naked people who walked in the door after they were freed motivated me to keep going. With Ben's help, I hired two full-time and two part-time cooks, with most of the rest of the staff being new clients learning on the job, just as I had originally. Eventually, the cooks begun to train former slaves as sous-chefs, and I was able to take a day off once in a while.

One afternoon, Cindy Jackson called me in for a quarterly performance review. Most of what she said was very complimentary, and her criticisms were constructive and justified. At the end of our conversation, she asked me if I had any concerns. I sat mute, afraid to tell her what was bothering me because it wasn't really connected to my job.

After a long 60 seconds of silence, Cindy broke the ice. "Betsy, I know you've been working harder than anyone else around here, but . . . what about your social life? All work and no play, you know."

Sigh. "Yeah, that's a problem. At first, I was too busy to think about anything but feeding all these folks. Lately, though, I sort of miss the . . . sex I used to get. You know?"

She snorted, but not unpleasantly. "Yup, it certainly is a sudden change from sex slave getting plowed every day to free person hunting for a date. Myself, I got enough sex as a slave to last me a lifetime, so a vibrator takes care of most of my stress. But you may be one of those who misses the intimacy, maybe even the submission. So, why don't you take advantage of the Foundation's intimacy program?"