Nobody wants to be enslaved, but my shy personality and low self-worth made the prospect almost unbearable. The reason was simple—my breasts had blossomed early, starting in 5th grade. All my girlfriends shunned me, while I nervously avoided boys. I withdrew into myself, wearing over-sized clothing to conceal my chest and legs. I kept my long, brown hair in an ugly bun on the back of my head. I tried to be invisible in class, never asking or answering questions I might avoid. The only human contact I had was with my loving parents, but they died in an automobile accident two years after I finished high school, leaving little except debts. After I turned 18 and entered college, I tried dating a few times, but the habit many men had of talking to my chest rather than my face only reinforced my feeling that I was a freak. I had only one serious boyfriend in college, and he eventually gave up on me because I was so shy.
As part of high school gym class, all seniors who had reached the age of 18 had to practice assuming slave positions and responding instantly to commands. The official purpose of this practice was to give students a practical understanding of slavery as well as healthy exercise. As I shuffled rapidly between various demeaning, subservient positions, I imagined with a shiver what it would be like to be on display nude rather than wearing my gym clothes. On the other side of the gymnasium, a class of 18-year old boys bombarded us with catcalls and crude comments about how much they would enjoy having us as slave meat. (When parents complained about such harassment, the school board replied that the experience should instill in us a healthy fear of breaking the law. Yet late at night, in my bed, I used the class to fuel fantasies of being a chained slut. I don't think I was alone in such fantasies—the recent popularity of Slave Yoga classes attests to that.)
Anyway, I grew up trying to minimize interaction with other people and especially with men. My lack of assertiveness and self-confidence helped explain my B-minus average in school as well as my poor performance at job interviews. Despite being a business major, the only job I could get out of college was doing IT at the HCI slave market in Houston. For a few months, I felt safe, working in a back office and earning enough money to at least pay the interest on my loans. Then the HCI management decided that all employees must undergo a six-month rotation as slave processors in order to understand the business. This was a nightmare for me—I had to take a firm grip on myself when dealing with slaves, many of whom were larger than me and frantic about their desperate plight. Several times, my partner had to take over, shocking a recalcitrant piece of inventory into obedience when I hesitated. Moreover, one of the supervisors, Ms. Hannah Steiner, required all new processors to learn basic slave commands and positions. She insisted that we perform for her while wearing training collars that she used to punish any clumsiness or hesitation. I learned to obey commands blindly, and for once Ms. Steiner was pleased with my performance. Otherwise, she was frequently disappointed. At the end of my rotation Ms. Steiner recommended that I be discharged from HCI for a "lack of assertiveness." I couldn't argue.
After that, I moved to Fort Worth and landed a job working for the XYZ bank. I found myself in a crappy efficiency apartment and driving a worn-out car, making barely enough money to eat. After Ms. Williams spoke to me, my mind ran in circles all day, trying vainly to solve my indebtedness. I didn't accomplish much on my job. Five minutes before my appointment, I logged off and straightened my drab clothing. Dreading what was to come, at 4 p.m. I knocked timidly on Ms. Williams' office door.
Invited to enter, I closed the door behind me and stood in front of her desk, my hands clasped together in front and my eyes downcast like a child about to be scolded. Instead, the vice president shifted to a warm, caring tone of voice and urged me to sit down. When I ventured to look at her face, I saw a smile of concern.
"Elizabeth—may I call you Elizabeth?—you know why I asked you to see me. Let's consider your situation. I get very good reports about your job performance, but how do you plan to repay your college loans?"
I tried to explain my failure to repay, but after a few halting sentences she gently interrupted me,
"It doesn't look as if you'll ever be able to repay this debt, does it? I should tell you that the bank recently bought up all your loans. So, what do you think will happen when you're in arrears for another few months?"
I blushed furiously and again looked at my shoes. "I'll be sold to reimburse the bank—and I doubt that my slave price would pay off the loans anyway. I'd probably end up at hard labor, picking cotton or something."
