Sabbatical In Slavery Pt 02

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture.

All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older

. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(

Lindsay Williams' Viewpoint

)

The beeping forklift transferred my cage and two others like it from the back of a panel truck to an unfamiliar loading dock. I heard the different "beep" of a scanner recording our arrival to the new location, reinforcing the idea that we were so many caged animals, so much property to be owned, sold, and used by free people. Each of us three women was kneeling, gagged, cuffed, collared, and bound naked to the dog cage in which she had been imprisoned for the past several hours, since departing the Long Horn Slave Market. I heard or sensed someone roughly cutting the three zip-ties that had anchored my ankles and the chain of my handcuffs (bound behind my back) to the cage walls. Then the cheap padlocks that closed our cages were unlocked, and a forceful male voice ordered each of us to crawl forward to the yellow line on the loading dock floor, stop there and DO NOT MOVE. Even if I were not cuffed, gagged, and naked on my knees, I would not have risked angering that voice.

The commanding voice came from a muscular, clearly athletic young man wearing boots, jeans, a logoed shirt, and an equipment belt bristling with devices such as handcuffs, a taser, and a long leather strap. As a professor and consultant on slave business matters, I had often dealt with (but largely ignored) slave wranglers like him. Now that I was a slave myself--more on that in a moment--my initial in-processing and auction at the Long Horn had aroused a monumental desire to please and sexually service men--all men really, but especially muscular handlers like him. My half-erect nipples and moist snatch awoke to the possibility of sexual use, making me eager to persuade him to spear me with the massive dick visibly pressing against his jeans--by preference, I hoped that he would fuck the brains and/or the crap out of my two lower holes, but at least allow me to tongue his magnificent dick and swallow the yummy discharge of that probe. I'd already swallowed three cocks and three loads of jism on this, my first day in a collar, but I was so uncontrollably horny and servile that I lusted after another round. Then the commanding voice gave me what I had already learned to regard as a standard warning to newly-arrived sluts:

"You are at the Pearson Pussy Ranch for training as pleasure slaves. I am required by law to tell you that the collar you are wearing can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Pearson employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"

How did I get here, you may ask? My own ambition and stupidity. I had been an associate professor of slave studies at U Mass Amherst, but realized that I needed to better understand the psychology of slaves if I wanted to get tenure and above all to have slave merchants take my ideas seriously. So I stupidly self-indentured for a year in a collar. Nikki Sheldon, noted expert on slave psychiatry, had told me what she had been required to do to acquire HER knowledge of the subject: indenture herself for six months of sale and sexual use. She'd been fortunate enough to fall into the hands of her future husband, businessman Paul Sousa, and she'd apparently asked Paul to buy ME in the same manner. By the time I realized how unbelievably DUMB my plan was, I had allowed myself to be enslaved, stripped, auctioned, and painfully branded on the ass, all while the Long Horn Slave Market manipulated my mind into the appropriate mental outlook (read cock-obsessed bimbo) to be a slave. I had worked around slaves for years but was astonished at how easy it was to overpower my independent judgement so that I succumbed to Sudden Enslavement Syndrome. SES could best be described as slave mind on steroids. Slave mind develops over time from the mental conditioning inherent in slave yoga, as opposed to SES that came from the sudden loss of clothing when enslaved, processed, sold and branded like livestock. As a professor of slave studies I knew what was happening to me as my subconscious responded to the sudden transition from free woman to slave, but I was helpless to prevent it.

Paul had taken my desire to understand slavery at face value, shipping me off in a poodle cage to Pearson's for training as a sex slave. He had promised me future opportunities to record my discoveries, interspersed with being pimped out in all manner of ways including (shudder) being a whipped submissive at the BDSM club he ran in Fort Worth. This morning I had been an up-and-coming, highly educated young academic who felt some pity and a LOT of contempt for slave whores, regarding them as brainless sluts driven by their hormones; now I was one of them, a bound and naked cunt with a throbbing rear end and a drive to get as much COCK as I possibly could inside every opening of my body. I had happily sucked the shaft of the slave wrangler who processed me, even though he resembled one of the uncouth undergraduate youths I regularly tried to enlighten in Massachusetts. Right now, I could still taste the fat shipping clerk who used my "dick-sucking lips" before stuffing me into this cage. In the back of my mind, I was mortified by the ease with which I had become just another collared bimbo, another set of moist holes eager to entertain men; How the mighty had fallen! Worse still, I had not fallen, I had enthusiastically leaped feet first into my new existence as a slave chasing tenure.

*****

My ignominious situation became even worse after different slave wranglers took charge of each of us, cutting the gags, releasing our wrists, and then marching us to sit on toilet seats or straddle pee grates and relieve ourselves as they watched (no dividers or other privacy). The guy who controlled me was kinda cute, so as soon as I overcame my shame at urinating in front of him, I began to smile while thrusting my boobs towards him; once he ordered me off the seat and down onto my hands and knees, I tried to rub myself against his jeans as if I were a cat in heat, almost begging him to use me. I thought I had reached rock bottom when I brazenly came on to him like that, but I was even more chagrined when he refused! He reached down, patted my head and groped one of my large breasts, saying

"Yes, I know you're a horny little bitch, but we don't have time for that now. Be a good girl, and tomorrow you MIGHT get fucked if you've earned it." His tone of voice was condescending, as if I were just a brainless bimbo begging for a treat she couldn't have--trouble was, he was right!

I blushed, not just because I had been so blatant but also because he had refused. Intellectually, as a professor of slave studies, I understood the need for orgasm denial as an obedience tool for horny pleasure sluts like me. The problem was that for the past dozen years, muscular guys like him had fallen all over themselves begging for my attention, let alone my sexual favors. I know that I'm going to sound really conceited, but back in Massachusetts I could have my pick of guys in any social situation. Part of my social power, of course, was my well-endowed and toned body, which was now completely on display and available to my temporary master. More than that, though: prep school had taught me the self-confidence, poise, and fashion sense that made a guy's dick visibly stand at attention if I deigned to even LOOK at him. All that education had exercised my mind, so that I could crack jokes, hint at possible intimacy, and yet discourage any man from being too familiar with me. Up until today, that had been my only challenge in sexual politics--how to tell good-looking men that I did NOT intend to sleep with them, all without hurting their feelings or provoking a fight between (male) winners and losers? I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have a guy turn me down.

Later that night, lying alone in a cage with a sore ass and an unsatisfied cunt, I realized that not only was I a slave, but I also had lost all my sexual leverage in dealing with men. Clothes, confidence, poise, and the ability to flirt verbally had all been taken from me. Instead of me having my pick of men, the only ones I met had unlimited access to hot and cold running (or at least juicy and dripping) pussy, ass, and mouth. (The very fact that I used terms like slut, cock, cunt, pussy, and ass, which previously I had rarely even THOUGHT let alone said, should tell you how immersed I was in the slave situation.) Now

I

was the horny thing, driven by hormones and vying for the precious attention of the other gender, a gender that had become bored, jaded with controlling and fucking Prime- and Choice-rated women. They were no longer competing for my approval; now I had to compete (and often lose) for scraps of THEIR attention.

Recognizing this transfer of sexual power, a seismic shift in supply and demand, gave my ego some reassurance, but after a day of jilling off and submitting to clothed, all-powerful males my libido still craved fucking. Hell, I even hungered for another mouthful of cum, a disgusting jelly that I had always avoided swallowing as a free woman. It's human nature to want what you can't get--or at least can get only in limited quantities. I had just joined the ranks of the horny, cock-obsessed sluts that I had so frequently sneered at when I was still free. (Fuck, to use a central word in my new vocabulary--Nikki Sheldon had been correct; less than 24 hours in a collar and I had a greater understanding of what motivated slaves than I had acquired in a dozen years of academic study. What do they call that in Education courses--experiential learning? Now all I wanted to experience was a good shafting. Nikki was also right about something else--that bitch Sarah Hollister MUST have been through what I had just experienced, if not more, to become so expert at manipulating slave sluts. Comparing her self-confidence to my current bedraggled, subjugated state, I took what comfort I could from believing that at some point she must have been a horny slave--probably used in every opening and branded like me--to be so effective. I just wished I knew the details, so as to mentally equate her to my new, helpless self.)

*****

The next morning, a different wrangler whose nametag read "Harry" cuffed me, walked me to a pee grate to relieve myself, and then bent me over, ankles tied apart with my wrists pulled up behind me towards the ceiling. Next, he flooded both of my lower passages with warm water, leaving me struggling to hold the water in for several minutes before he released me to void myself in the toilet. At least HE took the trouble to grope my boobs, ass, and clit while I hung there, which did a little bit towards restoring my pride and a LOT towards distracting me from the pressure in my cunt and rectum. He pointed out two nozzles, mounted two feet off the floor, which he told me to back into on future mornings to clean myself out without wasting his time.

After a tasteless breakfast--identical to the "supper" of the previous evening--of slave kibble and water, consumed on my widespread knees with my hands still restrained behind me, Master Harry walked me to a separate room with a Red Cross and the words "Veterinary Treatment" on the door. There, some guy who claimed to be a paramedic very gently peeled off the bandage over my brand, sprayed it with disinfectant and painkiller, and put on a new dressing while giving me another pair of ibuprofens with a swallow of water. He also gave me a shot of "horny juice," a cock-tail (pun intended) of estrogen and other organic chemicals that, as the name implies, helped make a female slave aroused and compliant. As if I needed a shot when I was already crazy with need. (When I taught Slave Studies back in Amherst, I tried to entertain my students by describing this injection of hormones as "Whore-Moans;" I didn't find that so funny now that the shots caused ME to be the moaning slut! When I measured myself a few weeks later, I found that my boobs had expanded from single to double-D; perhaps they would earn me more popularity from snotty undergraduates without the double-entendre about the injections?)

The paramedic repeated the same process morning and evening for the next two weeks until he adjudged my skin to be healed and my arousal to be full-blown [another intentional pun]. From my point of view, the best part of this pro-forma "medical treatment" was that the paramedic--who was NOT a licensed slave wrangler even though he wore similar clothing--took every opportunity to grope and fondle my helpless body; once my butt stopped hurting during week two, he often took the opportunity to briskly fuck me while I was bent over his bench!

For the rest of the staff, the genuine slave wranglers, a hard fucking--or at least discharging themselves in one of a slave's three openings--was the ultimate reward for good behavior as a slave cunt, and even then the slut in question had to EARN that jism by demonstrating superior muscular control (over throat, birth canal, or anal sphincter) to entertain the almighty COCK that had graciously invaded her.

A piece of slave candy constituted a lesser reward--it wasn't very tasty, but ANY sweetness was desirable when we lived on a bland diet of slave kibble with occasional vegetables and nuts for balance. (Almost the only good result of going to this school, besides my larger bra size, was that the limited diet slimmed my waist down.) Sometimes, when my oral performance was almost-but-not-quite-good-enough, the wrangler would withdraw his magnificent shaft from my mouth and spray all over, a little on my smiling, upturned face but mostly in a bowl of kibble, telling me to enjoy a "hot meal" on him (which was odd, since part of that hot meal was on ME). It was at times like that, when my subservience and arousal drove me to gobble up the revolting mess, that I reflected on how low I had fallen, from articulate professor who occasionally bestowed her attentions on a fawning young man to a naked, bound, kneeling whore eagerly eating up every drop of jism gifted to me by an all-powerful MALE slave wrangler who controlled me completely, and could earn my undying gratitude by fucking any of my holes any time he chose to do so.

In addition to hour upon hour of slave yoga, I and the other "pussies" on the ranch were completely subjugated, kept constantly aroused (by fondling as well as Whore-Moans), and drilled to be mindless, instantaneous sexual servants of every slave wrangler on the ranch. Sometimes, we had to lick some of the female wranglers to orgasm, but most of the time they wore strap-on dildos to give the slaves more practice in being shafted. To reinforce our subservience, we spent most of our time on hands and knees, with buttplug-attached tails dangling between our legs. Anywhere a man could insert a penis, we were expected to clamp down on that penis, rhythmically massaging it. Almost the only words we were allowed to say was "Yes, Master, No, Master, Yes, Mistress, or No, Mistress." (To be fair, we were also taught to stand, walk, sit, kneel, and lie down in a way that exuded sex appeal. I had thought I knew how to entice a man, but Pearson made that attitude second nature, so I was a crawling sex magnet.)

I was excused from SOME of this training, especially being sodomized anally and fucked doggy-style, for two and a half weeks until my wounded left butt cheek had healed sufficiently. When it came to discipline, I of course couldn't be whipped across my LEFT cheek, so instead I got twice as many strokes on my RIGHT rear end or boobs! Sometimes, I thought that my right buttock must be as red and sore as my left. To make up for this shortfall in my "training," I got the privilege of spending more time on my knees sucking cocks and straddling a wrangler, bouncing up and down on his cock (or her strap-on) while flexing my kegel muscles. Three other members of my "slut class," all branded with the cursive "D" indicating they were Prime-rated Sandy Foot Girls from the Big D Slave Market, got similar exclusions, discipline, and training.

Once my horny paramedic declared me healed, my special status disappeared. In fact, the slave wranglers tried to make up for my previous "easy time" by giving me, as they so delicately put it, "all the butt-fucks and air-tights" I had missed in my previous "training." (If you're not familiar with the term, being "air-tight" describes a woman whose three openings are simultaneously filled with pricks or, in our case, pricks and strap-ons; there simply weren't enough male wranglers to provide three dicks per slave, especially because as human beings those wranglers couldn't keep it up 16 hours a day.) Perhaps it was another symptom of my subjugation, but I remember feeling thankful that my "doggie tail" butt plug had stretched my anus in preparation for all those large shafts pumping in and out of my colon (!).

Some of this explanation for my "advanced training" I got from Sophie, who was my trainer, disciplinarian, and den-mother. She was a tall, cool, poised blonde; except for her hair color, she reminded me a great deal of myself before I had so stupidly indentured myself in the interests of "research." Fortunately for me, Mistress Sophie had apparently concluded that I was fully committed to being a Pearson slut, as eager and horny as any slave bimbo I had ever seen (To borrow a phrase from the board game "Clue," I cannot disprove that suggestion). She took a benevolent attitude towards me, although I had to spend a lot of time "practicing my oral skills" on HER crotch. Apart from her clothes and equipment belt, one of the noteworthy differences between Mistress Sophie as a wrangler and Slut 6627 (me) as a slave was that she had retained her pubic hair. While I brought her to several orgasms in a row, Sophie quietly explained why my training had shifted once my butt healed. Apparently, the Pearson management had a standard minimum number of dickings that each graduate had to experience in each opening before she was declared "worthy" of graduating as one of their slave bimbos. They even recorded all these figures on a "school transcript" given to the slave's owner. Just what I needed after 21 years of school, another series of A's--or should that be O's for orgasm?

Towards the end of my fourth week at Pearson, the management held one of its periodic open house cocktail parties to show off their wares (or should that be whores?) to high rollers and potential customers. The stars of these parties were the long-term trainees, who spent months learning to be polished courtesans, able to compete--or at least so Pearson claimed--with the graduates of long-term consort academies such as Broadstone. I and the other members of our "quicky" month-long course were so much window dressing, serving the guests and trying very hard not to attract criticism (for which we would pay dearly after the party). Instead of getting a make-over and glamorous evening clothing, I felt fortunate to get my hair trimmed, a few strokes of mascara and lipstick to decorate my face, and a see-through plastic apron that revealed every inch of my figure while preventing me from accidentally dripping my juices on the food. In a place where they regularly shoved unclean dicks into my mouth and ass, worrying about food sanitation seemed odd to say the least.