Repaying My College Loans

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, women are never 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.)

Locked in the darkened back of a truck, I was speeding down a Texas highway away from the slave market where I had been processed and auctioned to the highest bidder, which fortunately was my former boss, bank vice president Pamela Williams. At the age of 23, I was kneeling inside a locked dog cage, with a bit gag tied into my mouth, a zip tie holding my wrists behind my back, and a collar around my neck. My most attractive feature, a pair of 36D breasts, protruded until they touched the mesh door of my cage, nipples erect against the cool metal. I was completely naked, without even a hairclip or jewelry—what is known as "Slave naked."

After less than two full days of voluntary indenture to pay my debts, I was already accustomed to being slave naked and bound, even in front of free people who had known me before. The shallow tray on which I knelt was uncomfortable, and I was afraid I might have to pee into it and then wallow in my own urine for the rest of the trip. That was a disgusting thought, but not so disgusting as the taste of my gag.

Although gags were supposedly sanitized after each use, I knew why it tasted funny. Having once worked as a slave handler in the market where I had just been sold, I had several times noticed a young male colleague coming out of the rest room holding a handful of dripping gags. When I asked another woman about it, she whispered the explanation: Some of the more immature men who worked in markets and other slave handling facilities had the habit of jerking off to coat the gags with semen. They thought this was a great trick to demean slaves. In their twisted minds, this meant that any male slave who got such a gag was a cocksucker, while any female slave was indirectly giving him a blow job. Neither made any logical sense, but I had little doubt that my saliva was awash with dead sperm. It tasted too much like the four loads of semen I had been forced to swallow during my brief servitude. Although Ms. Williams had told me that I was being sent for training as a pleasure slut, at the time I had no idea how many more loads I was about to ingest.

I've no idea how long we travelled, but by the time the truck door opened again it was evening and I was desperate to pee. The loading dock area was far smaller than at HCI, but the procedures were much the same: a forklift unloaded our cages, a firm voice ordered us to crawl out of our cages, and a new shock collar went around my neck. Squeezing my thighs together, I only half-heard the usual warnings about being shocked if I tried to escape, but I think he said, "You are at the Pearson Pussy Ranch to be trained as a pleasure slut." Fortunately, whoever he was he recognized our needs, for he promptly led me to a restroom where I collapsed, with my wrists still bound, onto a toilet and unleashed a strong stream downward. Soon, he released my hands to allow me to eat some kind of vegetable mash, the first real food I'd had since I became a slave (kibble doesn't count.) The handler let me wash up before leaving me, unfettered, in a larger cage, with even a cot and coarse blanket for the night.

The next morning began, after allowing me to relieve myself, with installing locking bands onto my wrists and ankles. The handler then put me in the strappado posture—hands linked behind me, then pulled upwards by a rope to force me to bend over to reduce the strain. He kicked my ankles apart and brusquely thrust a lubricated tube up my rectum. What seemed like gallons of warm soapy water flooded my intestines, and I tried desperately to hold it in, knowing I would be punished for any mess. After an eternity that was probably only 5 minutes, he slowly released me and allowed me to discharge into the toilet. He repeated the process, telling me that tomorrow he would show me how to give an enema to myself, and I was required to do so twice each morning.

After a brief breakfast, I found myself kneeling on a mat—far softer than concrete—alongside three other female slaves. The slave handler in front of us, apparently (based on his suit) the manager or owner, introduced himself as "Mr. Harmon, but you can call me Master." Slave handler humor that I had heard hundreds of times. Ha-ha, I thought (but did not say). He told us that we would undergo an extended sequence of training, including deportment, daily slave yoga sessions, sensual dancing, restraints and sex toys, and "repeated opportunities to service our staff sexually."

The meaning of that last phrase took some time to learn. I only understood it fully years later, when Ms. Williams gave me a copy of my "transcript," the report of my training at the Pearson Pussy Ranch. It listed how many times I had participated in different forms of sexual contact—how many hours of cock-sucking and cunnilingus, how many times I had been penetrated anally and vaginally, how many times (7) I had all three of my orifices occupied simultaneously (sometimes known as making the woman "airtight"), how long I had worn clamps on my nipples and clit, and so on.

Now, before you imagine a continuous orgy, let's recognize that most guys, however virile, can only climax so many times a day and can only maintain an erection for so long. The handlers all appeared to be in their twenties or thirties but not some kind of sexual supermen. So, how did the staff (pun intended) of the Pussy Ranch accomplish all this sex with multiple trainees? Two obvious steps: careful scheduling and what might be called "bait and switch." Although the instances of intimacy seemed random (and randy) to the individual slave, it was carefully scheduled so that each male handler had several hours to recover between bouts—which meant that any one master might only climax 2 or at most 3 times per day, with 2 days off per week.

In between these climaxes, I might, for example, be ordered to fellate or screw a master, but he would use any mistake in my technique as an excuse to terminate the session and sentence me to "practice" on a suction-cup dildo or a motorized fucking machine. Alternatively, a female staff member (a double pun) would take over, using a strap-on dildo to penetrate one of my openings so that the male could save his erection for other uses. Most of the women were gentler and kinder, if only because they could imagine what they were doing to us, but on the other hand their strap-ons were bigger than many actual penises and they never lost their erections! Thus, although the gender ratio was about one-third mistress to two-thirds master, we probably spent more time being stuffed by women than by men, not to mention having to service a woman orally to multiple orgasms.

This scheduling and switching encouraged the trainee slut to improve her technique and try to surprise a master into an unintended, rapid ejaculation. At first, I did this just to get a respite, since ejaculation seemed clear proof that I had learned my lessons. I never learned to like the taste of sperm, but at least swallowing halted matters for a few minutes. Over time, however, it became a game, with me trying to see how well and how quickly I could satisfy a male. They achieved their training goals and I got to rest my tongue, anus, or whatever.

As I became more skilled, they sometimes ordered me to see how long I could keep a master or mistress excited without achieving orgasm, a tease that could be fun for both of us. Combinations were more challenging. I have a vivid image of myself in the middle of a bed, wrists connected to ankles so that my head was down and butt raised high, with clamps on my nipples. I'm having great trouble fellating the guy in front of me because I'm distracted by the clamps and even more by the thick strap-on pumping rapidly between my labia. But I managed, and even got off on the subjugation.

Every part of the experience was designed to reinforce our training. From the first day, we had to use special water fountains, most of them mounted close to the floor, that were tipped by dildoes. Want a drink? Suck on the dildo to release the water. I imagine this might be particularly humiliating for male slaves, but when I was there the "students" at the ranch were entirely female.

Self-administered enemas and douches were another instance of this training. You guessed it—there were dildoes protruding horizontally from the shower room walls. We had to crawl backwards, forcing the invader into the appropriate orifice, and then flex our muscles to trigger the flow of water. Do that twice a day for each opening (on separate dildoes, of course) and it reinforces the habit of being penetrated doggie-style and then milking the penetrator by contracting muscles in a way that was sure to be pleasurable to a free man.

I may have given the impression that this was all cruel, detached, and unemotional—insert tab A into slot B, and so on. Not at all. After the first week, when it was clear that I was cooperating eagerly, one staff person became my primary trainer and we became very close. In my case, it was Mistress Sylvia (I was probably given to a woman because my owner was a woman.) She was a lithe, tall blond with the beauty of a model and the mind of a domme. My relationship with her closely resembled what (I imagine) the relationship would be between a trainee service dog and its trainer/owner. (You can see the double-entendre of "service"; I could just as well have said "comfort animal.")

I've already remarked how the treatment of a slave resembled that given to a dog (collar, leash, cage) but this resemblance ramped up during my training. Sylvia let me out of my cage in the morning, penned me up at night, and walked me on a leash for most of the intervening time. For a while, every morning after my enemas she would install a plug into my anus, with a short brown tail sticking up between my cheeks to reinforce the canine image—I had to spend the day like that, usually on all fours, except when it was time for vaginal sex. Sometimes she used scrunchies to form my hair into two drooping pigtails, reinforcing the dog image. Even after she let me walk upright, I still spent much of my time on my knees, giving or receiving pleasure. If I performed poorly, she would give me a quick spank on my ass and express disapproval (Her most devastating critiques often began with "Elizabeth, you stupid bitch" in an exasperated voice.)

The sense of having disappointed her became stronger as time passed. Or my Mistress would encourage me ("

good

slut" she would coo, just as Ms. Williams had done on my first day) if I performed well. She might also give me a peppermint or some other small treat as reinforcement. Her tone of voice was so similar to how one might talk to a dog that I half expected her to call me "Pretty Girl." Part of the reward was for her to stroke my hair, twiddle my nipples or (if I were very good) play with my clit—something I was forbidden to do. I knew this was operant conditioning—that I would associate sexual performance with approval, happiness, stimulation, and treats—but I went along with it eagerly. You've already figured out that I was a natural submissive, and anyway I decided that the sooner I learned, the sooner I could get out of this "school."

Some of the other trainees tried to resist and suffered accordingly. Clumsiness was punished with having wrists connected on a short chain that wrapped through the collar. This meant having to crawl around and stick your face into a bowl to eat, without utensils. I saw one really rebellious woman strapped into a pony girl outfit, with bit and reins, butt plug tail, tight corset, hands restrained behind her back in a single sleeve, and heavy boots ending in horseshoes. She was then used to pull a little sulky, laden with staff people or even other slaves, around a rutted track in the Texas sun. If she stumbled, she ran a real risk of falling, and she spent the night tied upright in a stall so she had to sleep standing up, filled with vibrators that went off on a random schedule. For a break, her helpless body was bent over a wooden fence and tied there so that the staff could come by and work her over sexually but leave the poor girl short of an orgasm, frustrated. A few days of this convinced the woman to cooperate.

I mentioned the peppermints—those rewards were the only sweets that trainees got. Our stomachs were always full, but most of our meals were vegetable mixtures, with fish or chicken added a few times each week. Lots of Americans, like me, were in the habit of eating too many fried and sweet things, so this change in diet in conjunction with vigorous slave drills not only made us crave the rewards but also helped slim us down to lean muscle and thin waists.

You've all seen the recent craze in slave yoga classes, so I don't need to say much about our morning drills, learning to respond instantly, on voice command, and spring into yet another exposed or humiliating position. Along with the dog treatment I've already mentioned, these drills seemed like a canine obedience class. Eventually, we were also expected to assume various facial expressions (lust, orgasm, adoration, fear), entreat our owners to use us ("please, Mistress, let me lick your beautiful body to orgasm"), and so on. This was not only good exercise but taught instant obedience and overcame any remaining inhibitions about exposing our bodies. Sometimes, Mistress Sylvia would take me aside after class and put me through my paces again; if I were really convincing and sexy she would "reward" me by allowing me to lick her or would hold a vibrator against my clit while she gently patted my head and praised my performance.

Just as culinary schools run restaurants so that outsiders can sample their wares, the Pearson Pussy Ranch sometimes hosted a cocktail party in which the almost-trained pleasure sluts were available to VIP visitors—another form of ware to sample. I went through several of these evenings after Mistress Sylvia decided I was ready, and each time she pretended that she was giving me a great opportunity. The only real privilege was that, instead of our habitual nudity, we started these evenings wearing a modicum of clothes, usually camisoles or short baby-doll night gowns that covered very little. Sometimes peekaboo is sexier than nakedness. Other trainees were tied to frames in exposed positions, naked statues for the guests to fondle or penetrate with various sex toys while chatting.

More experienced slut trainees performed as collared waitresses, offering food, drink, and themselves to the visitors. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to bend and offer a tray of snacks to one guest when another one unexpectedly massaged your breast or finger-fucked you. I almost spilled the tray the first time this happened to me. I usually ended the evening restrained on a bed while one or more of the guests used me thoroughly, which helped released my tension after being on display. At least guests had to use condoms for all penetrations, unlike the staff (staff and sluts underwent frequent tests for STDs and had anal sex only with condoms.) I assumed that the Ranch counted each of these encounters when compiling our sexual training statistics! At the second such evening, Mistress Williams appeared with a tall, muscular guy whom she introduced as her boyfriend, Master Jack Stone. Needless to say, I was particularly eager to please, spending much of the night licking her while Jack enthusiastically rammed each of my other holes. Since I was an investment for her, she probably used the entire evening as a business expense for tax purposes.

I woke up the next morning actually bruised from too much probing, but the pain was not in vain. One morning after enemas and breakfast, Mistress Sylvia pushed my head between her thighs for the last time. When I finished giving her three orgasms, she remarked that she would miss me, and told me I had met my training objectives. By ten o'clock, I was again kneeling in a dog cage, bound and gagged, in the back of a darkened truck. Nobody told me where I was going, but I hoped that I was bound to Mistress Williams and some kind of near-normal life. As a parting gift, Sylvia had installed a pair of vibrators inside me and set them for a random pattern. I had no idea whether they would stay on long enough to help me orgasm but at least this time no one had coated my gag with cum. I suspect that, per ranch policy, no one was allowed to waste any sperm on my gag. Slaves have to settle for small kindnesses.

(To be continued)