(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, women 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. The HCI slave market appears by permission of Gentleman Mariner.)
(Elizabeth's story, continued)
As I fell into exhausted sleep in the HCI slave market, where I used to work as a free woman, I couldn't help re-playing the first day of slavery in my mind. Despite my D-cup breasts and curvy body, until today I had a low self-image and shied away from any contact, so I had very little sexual experience for a woman in her mid-20s. That was changing fast. To avoid lifetime bondage for non-payment of my college loans, I had let my bank supervisor, Ms. Pamela Williams, persuade me to petition a court for the "opportunity" to voluntarily indenture myself (for up to 5 years) to the bank. To get this so-called deal, I had to strip, perform various slave postures, and then worship the judge's cock. I was still coughing from trying to swallow his shaft and semen when Ms. Williams hustled me to an office of the Livestock and Slave Division for the Texas Department of Agriculture.
There, I formally indentured myself, after which I was immediately stripped, collared, and gagged with my hands zip-tied behind my back. The staff of the office had a lot of fun taunting and fondling me while my new owner led me by a dog leash to the loading dock. Forced into a metal cage intended for a French poodle, I certainly felt like a prize bitch being trucked to HCI. Only a real dog doesn't have to wear zip-ties on its wrists and fake cocks in both openings. When I got to HCI, I experienced probably the most embarrassing in-processing ever witnessed there—because I was led around by my former partner, Cindy, who gleefully showed me off to my former co-workers. Cindy was convinced that I was "called to the collar," and in a strange way I got a sexual thrill from being belittled, felt up, and generally subjugated by my former acquaintances. I learned to my dismay and excitement that everyone who knew me privately thought I belonged as a slave. Finally, I was put to sleep in a dormitory cage. In order to establish my value to my new owner, I needed to get a high price when I was graded tomorrow.
I didn't get much sleep. I had no means of measuring time, but it felt like midnight when I awoke to the sound of handlers shoving two other young women, both bigger and apparently stronger than me, into the same cage. Feigning sleep, I listened to them talk, or rather, argue. I gathered that the two had a history of assaulting weaker teenagers, at first as school bullies and later as robbers. But they had both turned 18 since their last apprehension. This time, an El Paso court had sentenced them to ten years' slavery as adults, and one of them was angry that the other had ratted her out in a vain attempt to avoid that fate. Their argument escalated to shouting and fighting. I cowered on my bunk, knowing that the night security crew would not tolerate such disturbances.
The cage door banged open and four fit young men in khakis and boots stormed inside. I knew the drill, and immediately slipped off my bed onto my knees, thighs wide apart, hands behind my neck with downcast eyes. The other two girls were not as submissive and paid for it. In short order, the two found themselves shocked, gagged and cuffed, spread-eagled against the cage wall where they each got twelve lashes across their backs and buttocks. For good measure, the staff gave me the same treatment, without the electric prod and with only two lashes. They didn't really hit any of us hard. Nothing broke the skin, although even those two strokes were painful. By the time they released me, the guards—for that's what they really were—had bent the other two sluts over their bunks and re-cuffed their hands behind their backs. I got about the same treatment but ended up back on my knees; apparently they had realized that I wasn't part of the disturbance.
I began to worry what else might happen. Think about it: here were four strong men with all the tools of bondage and punishment, looming over three young, naked women who were handcuffed. The guys were irritated and there was no one else around in the middle of the night. Things could get really bad here.
I had heard rumors of the "discipline fuck," in which guards forced themselves on recalcitrant slaves to ensure order. Of course, slave market corporations did not acknowledge anything that harsh, and HCI in particular kept their employees in check. Still, there were those urban legends. One even more improbable story concerned a free woman, held overnight as part of her grading, who panicked and got a discipline fuck in response. The guy who told me this claimed that the poor woman enjoyed the rough sex so much that she enslaved herself voluntarily a few weeks later, but I always thought that was male chauvinist wishful thinking. Abuse is abuse.
Fortunately, the leader of the guards suddenly recognized me.
"Beth! If I'd known you were here, I'd have come to visit you earlier. Always wanted to get to know you better. What brought you back here?"
Mousy Elizabeth Sullivan would have been overcome with embarrassment naked on her knees in front of a former co-worker, but the newly-liberated Slut 8276 decided to risk flirting a little bit: "A shipping cage brought me here, Master James."
"Ha!" Thank god he was amused rather than angered. "You know what I mean—why are you a slave?"
"Repaying college loans, Master."
"Well, that sucks." He said, briefly empathizing with my plight. In the ensuing pause, I suddenly thought of a way that might both defuse the tension and release some of the horniness that had built up in me all day. I was amazed at my own daring:
"Umm, speaking of sucking: Master James, I'm sorry these two acted up on your shift. Is there something I can do to make it up to you and your crew?" I hung my mouth open, licked my lips, and winked at him. Fortunately, Ms. Williams had put a seal on my lower openings, leaving only my mouth available.
"Well, since we're here . . . You're sure you don't mind?" He really was a good guy, offering me an out when he could have just forced me. I shook my head in response to his question, smiling and looking hard at his groin (which was also getting hard).
"Guys, Beth here used to work at in-processing. You can see what a little hottie she is. Anyone else interested?"
One after the other, starting with James, three different men offered their pricks to me. They didn't force me, but once I took them in they began pumping faster and faster. I remembered Ms. Steiner's instructions, looking lovingly up at each one, licking my lips lasciviously, and smiling as much as possible around his prick. Once I learned each one's personal rhythm, I found I could breathe a little each time he pulled back. Two of them even encouraged me, bending over to squeeze my breasts almost gently and say I was a good little cocksucker. I became a willing participant because the sense of subordination and manipulation thrilled me.
By the time they were done, I was exhausted. The other two girls were left handcuffed and moaning softly, but James released my hands, gave me a drink of water to rinse out my mouth, and let me curl up to sleep again. I had been enslaved for less than 24 hours, and already my mouth had serviced four men and a woman. At that rate, I would have several thousand oral encounters before I regained my freedom! Being a slave literally sucks, except when it blows. Perhaps my helplessness had twisted my thinking, but I had enjoyed the encounter, only regretting the lost sleep.
It seemed like only a minute later when harsh lights came on and buzzers sounded to awaken the inventory—I knew that meant it was 6 a.m., so I rolled out of bed onto my knees and assumed the position. The floor was cold and hard, but I wanted to minimize the chances of being disciplined. An unfamiliar handler re-cuffed me and led me in one direction while the two girls, visibly subdued, went another; I never saw them again, even though I may have saved their asses, literally. By the time I had waited my turn for urination, another shower by hose (this time warm, thank goodness), and more kibble and water for breakfast, Cindy came to find me. It seemed almost normal and appropriate to be led around, slave naked, by my former friend, and I realized she was right—I
was
sort of prancing, docile and eager to get on with my new life and depart HCI.
She led me to Preferred Preparation, where I learned that Ms. Williams had again given me a gift, paying to have me groomed and prepared for better grading. This was not quite the level of Premiere Grading, where free women paid extra for a package that included real food and being held in private cages before viewing, but it still meant that HCI beauticians washed, curled, and combed my hair, put on more makeup than I'd ever worn in my life, and selectively re-shaved parts of my body even though I had shaved everything 36 hours ago. Whenever the beauticians worked on me, their free hands also fondled my breasts, ass, neck, and so on, beginning the process of arousing me so that I would look hot for public display.
