Repaying My College Loans Pt 04

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, informed consent is always MANDATORY. The story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author. The HCI slave market appears by permission of Gentleman Mariner.)

(Elizabeth's story, continued)

I was kneeling on the concrete floor of HCI Incorporated, the slave market where I had worked until a few months ago. Only now I was there as part of the inventory, not part of the staff. At the encouragement of my current boss, Ms. Pamela Williams, I had voluntarily accepted an indenture of up to 5 years to pay off my overdue college loans and avoid lifetime enslavement. She had rushed me into stripping in front of a judge and giving him a blow job in return for accepting the deal. After that, she hustled me across the street to an office of the Texas Department of Agriculture, where I swore myself into bondage. Next, I was again stripped naked and paraded through a crowded office before being shipped off to HCI for processing and grading.

That's why I was in my current position—naked, gagged, dildoes tied into my vagina and rectum, with hands cuffed behind my back and a shock collar strapped around my neck. To make it worse, I was wildly aroused by my subjugation. My nipples were erect and a sticky, aromatic fluid seeped between my thighs. But my horniness came to a temporary halt when I realized that the slave handler looming over me was my former partner at HCI, Cindy Jackson. She had just given me the standard spiel about being punished for resistance, ending with a question. I was so shocked I did not immediately reply.

"I say again—do you understand me?"

Trying not to make eye contact, I nodded my head and mumbled around the gag, "Yes, Mistress."

That's when her voice suddenly changed and she gave a delighted giggle. "Hey—it's Beth! I always thought you'd end up at the other end of a leash. Guess you finally got horny enough to live out your dreams. This will be just like old times, when I trained you in slave positions—only this time you get to spend the night in the holding pens, which you were always too chicken to try. Won't that be fun?"

Cindy was my opposite—extrovert rather than introvert, sleek body with short blond hair rather than curves and long brown hair. Worst of all for my present circumstances was her delight in humiliating and degrading the inventory. She would whip or shock at the least provocation, and frequently accused slaves (of both sexes) of being natural sluts who craved cock in all their holes. She was smiling rather than haughty and seemed to have fun playing with her charges. When I had asked her why she was so mean, she replied, with complete sincerity, that she thought it was actually merciful to treat new slaves like this, to overcome their arrogance or false modesty. "If you're going to be a slave anyhow, throw yourself into the role to avoid suffering. It's easier in the long run." Her words echoed in my head now.

She had even treated me that way, in private, when our supervisor, Ms. Steiner, told Cindy to help me practice slave positions and commands. Cindy's method for doing that was to insist I strip naked except for a training collar and assume the various postures while she called me suggestive terms—slut, whore, bitch, cocksucker, skank, and so on—to demean me. She also struck me with a whip, just hard enough to discourage any mistakes. Once we were done, re-dressed, and drinking in a bar, I had confessed to her that the fantasy of slavery turned me on, to which she giggled and replied that she already knew that from my aroma.

Now I looked up at her pleadingly while she gently poked fun at me. After a few seconds, she decided to remove my bit gag, but the moment I opened my mouth to say "Please, Cin-" she cut me off with a hard swat of her electric prod across my boobs, catching both nipples squarely. Although it stung me, I knew she was actually being kind, as she should have whipped or shocked my body.

"I can't believe you were about to address a free woman by her name! You know better, slut! One more syllable and I'd have to devox you. Show some respect."

I looked down, feeling like a tiny child who had disappointed her Mommy. "Yes, Mistress."

She clipped a leash to my collar, ordered me to stand, and pulled me over to an intake station.

"Kneel, slave" she ordered, then attached my leash to a ring on the desk. With my hands cuffed behind me, I would never be able to unclip that leash. I was immobilized, again treated like a dog. After scanning the chip on my collar, she called up my file.

"Your slave registration number is 445-21-8276; you may be referred to as 8276."

I parroted the numbers back to her, not forgetting to add "Mistress." Then she read farther into the file.

"Let's see, how did you get here? Oh, I see—indenture for college debt as a pleasure slut? Well done, Beth! You must have really impressed some judge to get that classification." That comment brought back a flood of memories about slave posturing for the judge and then sucking him off. Cindy must have seen my already-blushing face get even redder, as she suddenly grinned. "I thought so, girlfriend! Good for you. And then [referring to my dual plugs and shipping seal] the killjoy who owns your ass decided to keep it locked up so the boys in back can't try you out. You really missed out there—I've heard several of them remark how much they'd like to fuck you. Don't worry, the instructions don't forbid oral sex. Anyway, I'm sure at the end of your five years you'll be so used to this life that you'll come right back here and voluntarily enslave yourself for life." She led me through the first, familiar steps of in-processing, including the almost-painless tattooing of my slave number inside my lower lip.

Another step put me on a gynaecological table, specially modified for restrained women. There was a recess for my bound hands, a magnet that connected to my collar, and Velcro straps to hold my widespread, upturned ankles in the stirrups. A guy in a white coat, who I remembered was a real M.D. working for HCI as a slave veterinarian, first removed my shipping seal and extracted the two dildoes from my body. Then, he stuck the usual cold instruments inside me, looked around, and took various blood and fluid samples, presumably for STDs. He inserted a long-release capsule under my skin; I knew it was filled with a hormone concoction designed to keep me highly aroused—as if I needed any encouragement with that! Finally, he inserted an IUD and slid two new dildoes into me, wrapped up the webbing, and noted the number of a new shipping seal—all in less than 10 minutes. I'd had gyno exams for over a decade, and as a slave handler had witnessed this process hundreds of times but being spread out like that in front of a handsome guy in the power guise of a white lab coat filled my mind with BDSM fantasies. I was actually sorry when that step was over.

Every time we saw one of my former co-workers, Cindy—my ex-partner and now my handler—would get excited, drag me over to them and announce, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear:

"Look who I've got! You remember Beth, don't you? Now she's where she belongs."

With my wrists pinned behind me, I had no means of covering my privates in these humiliating moments. When she led me in front of Bill Madison, the 6-foot-something Black ex-football player, I wanted to die all over again, especially when Cindy blurted out the crush I had had on him. He replied immediately that

"Gee, you should have told me that, Beth. I always knew you were cute, but this body is even sexier than I thought. Great tits and ass! Maybe now I'll have the chance to give them a test run." He embraced me from behind, hands hefting my boobs while his thumbs gently stroked my nipples. He simultaneously kissed my neck while my bound hands encountered his substantial erection. It felt so good that I wanted to melt into his embrace, but he suddenly let go and stepped back from me. Looking up, I saw why—his supervisor, Hannah Steiner, had just appeared on the processing floor. But Cindy was irrepressible, and loudly repeated her exhibition of me:

"Ms. Steiner! I think you'll want to see our newest piece of inventory. You remember Elizabeth Sullivan, I'm sure."

A rare smile crossed Hannah Steiner's face as she stood back and looked me up and down, evaluating me as a piece of slave meat. "Elizabeth! I must say you're looking well, or at least, looking as you should. But you are a little pungent."

"Yes, Mistress." I was blushing, but also basking in her rare approval.

She turned to Cindy and asked where I was in the process. Cindy displayed her tablet.

"OK, Ms. Jackson. Do the next three steps, then get her a shower and leave her in my office about" (she looked at her watch) "5:30. I'll have the swing shift bed her down. I'm sure you'll want to finish processing her first thing tomorrow in time for grading and auction." ("Auction?" my brain screamed; I'm not supposed to be sold, just graded! But I knew better than to argue.)

One of the remaining steps involved Cindy freeing my hands and then putting me through my paces, just as she had when training me a year ago. Moving as quickly as I could between slave positions, I lost whatever remaining embarrassment I had retained as I exhibited my entire body to Cindy and other, passing handlers. She called me all the nasty names she had used last year, but this time they were accurate—I really was a slut, slave, cunt, and so on. This got me so heated that I was dripping by the time she took my official photos (the pink shots) for the National Slave Registry. The two main poses required me to squat down and hold my labia apart for a front view, then kneel, legs splayed and forehead on the ground, holding my butt cheeks apart while Cindy took a rear-view (pun intended) photo that displayed both of my lower orifices. I'm sure my labia and channel glistened in the photos. A year ago, I had been hesitant to photograph slaves in these demeaning positions, and I could never have imagined actually exposing myself like that. Now, however, even the humiliation of such exposure contributed to my sexual excitement.

After that, I needed a shower. A grinning high school senior (he had to be 18 to work here) wearing a rain suit fondled me intimately while pretending to lather me with a soapy cloth. Once again, I thanked Ms. Williams silently for the uncomfortable dual shafts that inhibited what he could touch—he didn't even try to give me the usual enema. It was as if my boss were my guardian angel (or perhaps just protecting the bank's investment!) After fingering my nipples and clit, the pimply-faced kid [I had yet to think of him as a master] hooked my handcuffs to a section of metal mesh behind me, stood back, and hit me with a pressure hose of

cold

water. I was left wet, miserable, and clean but still aroused by the ease with which all these clothed people manipulated and mastered my nude body. A blast of hot air to dry me, and then Cindy towed me across the floor and up the steps into Ms. Steiner's office.

"Kneel, slave," she ordered, pointing to a spot just in front of a restraining pole. This allowed her to secure the back of my collar to the pole with a magnet, holding me immobile with my back straight. After hours crouching in the shipping cage and then on the concrete floor, the office rug felt marvellous on my toes and knees.

Now that we were alone, Cindy finally softened towards me. Pulling out a pocket comb, she began to arrange my hair while whispering to me. "Look, Beth—I know this is tough. Becoming a slave is traumatic for anyone, and you were always so bashful that it must be even worse for you. You can get through it, though. You have an advantage over every other slave who came through here today, because you understand how and why this place works. We're here to bring the slut out in every new slave, in order to get top dollar on the block. That means it's OK if you get turned on—you're supposed to! Just remember to cooperate fully and don't resist when they grab you or use you for sex." (Gulp!)

"I'm not trying to insult you," she continued, "but I think slavery is more than just a fantasy for you—you have a real calling for the collar. Since Ms. Steiner spoke to us, you've been practically prancing on the end of your leash—head up, tits thrust out, stiff nipples, knees lifted high, and a shy little smile on your face. You look like sex on a stick, and you seem more alive than I've ever seen you. My advice is just go with it: leave your inhibitions behind and enjoy your collar. After you regain your freedom, we'll have to meet for drinks so you tell me all about it. I'll see you tomorrow." She kissed the top of my head as if I were her child and left, closing the office door behind her.

Could she be right? I knew that I had enjoyed my previous experiences of yielding power to others, including allowing Cindy and Ms. Steiner to order me through slave positions while they belittled and punished me. The reality of today, being slave naked and exposed, shipped and leashed like a dog, casually restrained while people I knew debased me had seemed horrible, and yet I realized that I had been at a constant simmer of arousal all afternoon. Of all the embarrassments of the day, perhaps the greatest was acknowledging that I enjoyed being a submissive little animal who existed to please and entertain her betters. The twin rods that Ms. Williams—my owner!—had casually stuffed up my sex and ass were a constant reminder that I could be penetrated in any hole and at any moment. Despite my chill after the harsh shower, the thought of my vulnerability warmed me up and even restarted the moisture between my thighs.

I had just reached this conclusion when the imposing Ms. Steiner returned to her office, locked the door, unlatched my collar from the pole, and sat down on a sofa, looking at me. As usual, she was all business:

"What's your number, slave?"

I rattled it off, "445-21-8276, Mistress." She made a show of looking up the number on her tablet even though she had already recognized me. But Ms. Steiner was always a stickler for procedure especially when that procedure placed others in a subordinate situation.

"OK, 8276. A month ago, Ms. Pamela Williams called me to ask about your job performance when you worked here. I told her that you always tried hard, but that you were more qualified to be a slave than a slave handler. She agreed, and we had a long talk. She called me again today to tell me you were coming and to ask me to start training you."

"Training, Mistress?"

"Yes—you know that the processing and grading protocols will make a start on teaching you obedience and submission, but she also wants to get a head-start on pleasure training. She particularly said you were disappointing when you tried to fellate the judge who approved your indenture. "

I hung my head. "Mistress, I have almost no sexual experience. I expected to service some free people as a slave, but I thought Ms. Williams wanted me to work on IT in her bank. I guess I was naïve."

Ms. Steiner chuckled ominously. "To use the vernacular of your generation, Duh! She intends for you to do some computer work, but she needs to make use of your other talents to justify the indenture. We'll begin today: how much experience do you have giving oral sex?"

"Mistress, the judge was only the second man to take my mouth, and I've never had lesbian sex."

"It's not lesbian sex if you're a slave, because you don't have the free will to choose to pleasure a woman. A slave is just a living fuck-toy. Let's cover the basics—crawl over here in front of me."

As I did so she stood up briefly, casually pulled down her trousers and panties, and sat back down with her neatly-trimmed pubes a few inches from my face.

"Whether you're servicing a master or mistress, the principle is the same—convince the dominant person

and yourself

that you are overjoyed to have your mouth used. It doesn't matter if you find the individual disgusting—you're a slave! Embrace your inner slut and enjoy the degradation of fellating someone you wouldn't even look at if you were still free—the happier you appear, the quicker it will be over, at least with a man [chuckle]. Start by looking eagerly into the free person's eyes, smiling as brightly as possible and licking your lips until you get permission to start." I tried, feebly, to do that.

"You'll have to develop your own techniques," she continued, "but I'll give you a simple one for women: I want you to use your tongue to write out the alphabet—in capital letters—inside and around her labia and vaginal opening. Don't spend too much time inside her canal unless she tells you to; everyone has different hot spots. When the woman indicates that her arousal is beginning, alternate the alphabet time with increasing focus on sucking the clitoris. Pay attention to what really gets her and focus on that at the climax. Now—you try it on me."

I went through all the steps she had told me. For a few minutes I got no response but eventually her respiration increased, and she forced my face into her lubricating crotch. I don't think she reached full orgasm, but she described my effort as "not bad for a beginner" as she rearranged her clothing. Restored to her usual cool appearance, Ms. Steiner unlocked the door and summoned another handler. She told him to follow the protocol listed on "8276's" file.

Most of that was familiar—he released my hands, let me wash my face, and gave me water to drink and kibble to satisfy my rumbling belly. But then he took me into another restroom, donned latex gloves, made a big show of aiming a video camera, and ordered me to bend over in the "Display" position. He cut off the shipping seal that connected the web of thin cords holding two dildoes into my lower openings and extracted them—the front one slipped out easily, but he had to pull hard to break the suction in my rectum. He tossed both shafts into a sink. Next, he announced that I had exactly 12 minutes to relieve myself, use a pre-packaged enema to clean out my anus, and wash off and reinstall the dildoes. The time limit and video were apparently intended to make it difficult for someone to have unauthorized sex with me. I barely finished in time, giving a little yelp as I forced the rod back into my anus. He quickly rewove the cords and installed a new seal, number noted on the tablet. Then he handcuffed me again, marched me to an overnight cage, released my wrists, and gave me a blanket for the night.

I thought the traumatic humiliation of the day would keep me awake, but instead I fell asleep, exhausted, within minutes.

(To be continued)