Sabbatical in Slavery

(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.)

(Joe Doe has approved the appearance of Lindsay Williams, Sarah Hollister, and other characters in this story. Southwest Airlines and its ULL appear by permission of Natalie, Will, and their technical advisor, El Jefe.)

(

Lindsay Williams' Viewpoint

)

There's a new form of entertainment that is spreading rapidly in Southern cities--a clear plexiglass pool, almost a hot tub, mounted on the back of a flatbed truck to allow a group of young people to "party hearty" as they cruise the downtown. The pool or "tub" comes complete with water filters, heaters, and (because everyone is proven to be of age) a keg of beer--as I said, a self-propelled party vehicle.

The group of young adults with whom I was riding in downtown Dallas were enjoying themselves, but I was far from comfortable. That COULD be because they were all wearing swimsuits and had towels they could use to wrap up in the brisk winds of early fall, whereas I was butt naked and shivering. My real concern, however, was that my legs were bound wide apart while I was bent over with my head and wrists immobilized in a wooden pillory mounted on the truck bed next to the tub/pool. The five guys in the party were taking turns pounding both of my lower openings, while the three young women, far from objecting to my treatment, took turns diddling my clit and fondling the nipples on my dangling 38DDs. If you haven't put this image together, I was naked and helpless in full public view on a busy city street, being gang-banged and teased to distraction by eight strangers while anyone was free to look at or photograph me. Photographs would include my dripping twat, oversized boobs, and the Long Horn slave brand seared into my left buttock, but what I was most afraid of was someone photographing my face and circulating the image in Massachusetts, where I normally taught at the university. My body was having trouble deciding whether to send blood to my cunt, my anus, my breasts, or my blushing-red face; my brain lost, and I almost passed out.

The term for my position was "tub slut." In my case this was an appropriate term because my owner, Master Paul, had sub-contracted me out to work for SlutsRUs, infamous throughout the South for providing temporary slaves where sexual performance was a job requirement. Because slaves can't legally refuse sex, we were not restricted by morality laws; both my owner and SlutsRUs were within their rights to rent any of my openings for sexual use by any adult, including the five guys in the early 20s who were currently ravaging me.

If you haven't read the previous episodes of this humiliating story, you may wonder why a college professor was in this situation. The short answer was that it was my own damn fault. Because I taught slave studies and hoped one day to advise slave merchants in their businesses, I had concluded that I had to indenture myself for a year to understand better the psychology of these unfortunate women. OK: truth time. NOW I call any slave an "unfortunate" man or woman, but before I self-indentured, when I taught Slave Studies, I thought of all female slaves as contemptible cock-obsessed sluts with IQs of about room temperature. My very first day at the slave market, I had experienced the phenomenal psychological shift of losing my autonomy--not to mention my clothes--and realizing that I was completely vulnerable to whatever sexual depredation a free person chose to inflict on me. Long before I finished my "slut" training at the aptly-named Pearson Pussy Ranch, I had become just as horny as any of the slaves I had previously belittled. Getting LOTS of cock in my openings every day was now my principal objective as well as the only enjoyable aspect of being a pleasure slave.

In retrospect, I had probably been tempted, as are so many others, by the TITillating image, the sexual vulnerability of such a situation. I soon discovered, however, that being a helpless sex object gave rise to emotional and hormonal sensations that overwhelmed my well-educated mind. By now, five months into my indenture, I was addicted to being dominated and used by any guy with a stiff dick and enough money to rent my services--let's not mince words, to rent my ass, cunt, mouth, and boobs! Even in that pillory, under the stress of being bent over, assaulted, and humiliated by strangers, I was still VERY aroused.

But as I said, I kept telling myself that I needed this experience for academic reasons. I was blessed because my friend and counselor, the famous slave psychiatrist Nikki Sheldon, had persuaded her businessman husband Paul Sousa to buy me off the auction block and periodically--in between leasing me (including all of the above sexual parts) to SlutsRUs or having me act as a submissive in his BDSM club--allow me a few quiet days in their home while I wrote up my observations about slavery. Besides, while I was still worried about someone photographing my face, I thought I was unlikely to be identified as an Associate Professor at U Mass Amherst who was having her ass rented, piece by piece, in Dallas, Texas. I'd signed up for a year as a slave because I had a sabbatical (actually 14 months, counting the two summer vacations) off from teaching to do research, and I REALLY needed to up my game intellectually. I hadn't expected to become addicted to submissive sex, still less to grow a bra size (from D to DD) because of the hormone injections intended to render me a more docile, eager bimbo (got to admit they did THAT, too). The experience of the past five months had almost been worth the pain and humiliation, as I now had a much greater comprehension of slavery than I could ever have gotten from books or interviews. Now I just had to survive the rest of my indenture without being outed as a slave back home, THEN figure out how I would satisfy my growing addiction to dominant cock once I regained my clothes and freedom.

Despite the public humiliation, being a tub slut was actually the best part of my weekend because it maximized my contact (physical and social) with virile young men. Weekends were often periods of high demand for us slave whores, but many of the customers were repulsive. I had to work a double shift that evening, chained on my knees sucking (mostly inadequate) dicks in a glory hole, followed by two evenings street walking in Dallas--but NOT the nice part of town where the tub truck had driven.

*****

After that weekend, thank heavens, my first lease to SlutsRUs was up and Master Paul came to get me--a rare mark of personal attention (Nikki had told me privately that Paul was a softie. Having been one himself, he cared deeply about any slave and especially a female slave with whom he had sex, but he tried to act like a tough guy, telling me that having exploited slaves I could expect nothing better for myself.) For the next week in their home, I was able to relax and catch up on my writing and analysis--and when I got too horny, Paul and/or Nikki would oblige by dominating me sexually. The climax was kneeling on their bed with my face buried in Nikki's moist snatch while Paul pounded my slave brains out--again!

At the end of that week he took me back to work at his BDSM club. Master Paul told me to expect to spend several weeks there, but also warned that I might be leased out again to (pardon the pun) "broaden" my experience as a pleasure slut.

It may sound strange when I tell you that a Ph.D. professor enjoyed being a waitress, flirting with all the "members" as they felt me up and activated the three vibrators attached to my leather shorts, two of which vibrators were stretching my lower openings. Of course, what I REALLY enjoyed was being a submissive, tied up, dominated, and fucked senseless by the doms (including Paul on one occasion.) So, I was really enjoying myself at the club until mid-November, when, one late afternoon, Master Paul suddenly told me that he was delivering me himself for another contract that would run for "several weeks." I didn't think much about it, but dutifully obeyed instructions, stripping off my leather submissive costume, putting on a clear plastic poncho (it was, after all, November outside) and placing my hands behind my back to be cuffed.

Master Paul walked me, thus scantily attired, out to his Mercedes AMG-SL where he moved my hands and cuffs to the front and belted me into the shotgun seat. I was just pleased to be under his control, getting his attention, as we talked idly. Eventually, I noticed that we were headed towards the airport rather than the downtown office of SlutsRUs. At first, the submissiveness trained into me discouraged me from questioning our route, but I was worried when we pulled up to a large warehouse with a discreet sign reading "Southwest Shipping."

Paul could see the confusion in my face; I was still so in awe of my owner that I could barely ask him what we were doing here, rather than at SlutsRUs.

His response was calm, almost cold. "I thought I told you that I wanted to give you different experiences as a slave--this is one of them. I've contracted you out to travel, along with five other Choice- or Prime-rated pleasure slaves, to fill in for a temporary shortage up north. Come on, let's go inside."

Gulp. Being a slave slut in Texas was risky enough, but being shipped somewhere up north, where people might recognize me??? I obediently climbed out of the car and did not resist when he walked me into the building, removed my poncho, and re-cuffed my hands behind my naked back. "Where am I going, Master?" I asked meekly, my heart racing.

He must have realized that his next words would terrify me: "You're going to Boston, to work on the cruise ship

Yo Ho Ho."

He caught me as I started to collapse in shock. "Come on, Lindsay. You know this will be an essential experience for you to understand slavery." I started to babble my fears and protests, but he stopped me. "This is going to happen, girl. I know you're worried that someone up north will recognize you; that's always a risk, I agree, but you KNOW how to act like a good little whore; just do what you're told and try not to make eye contact. Think how much this will help your research," he ended with a slight smile.

As he talked, he had been walking me over to a massive aluminum box that appeared to be in a U-shape, as if it could fit into the bottom of a widebody jet. I had heard about the ULD-40, designed to transport six slaves while using less space than just stacking as many poodle cages, but I never expected to ride in one as a naked slave! A guy dressed as a slave wrangler with "Southwest Shipping" embroidered in his shirt was already prodding other bound females of various hair colors--presumably the rest of my select group--into the structure, each in a separate, wired-off segment of the frame.

The wrangler looked at us, and remarked, "If she's going to argue or struggle, we'll just gag her and add ankle chains for the flight."

Master Paul looked at me: "Your choice, slut. You're going on this trip one way or the other. If you argue, you can spend the entire trip gagged and bound hand and foot. What's it going to be--will you cooperate?"

My heart was beating a mile a minute and for some reason I was even lubricating down below, but I decided not to make myself more uncomfortable by fighting, which wouldn't make any difference in the outcome. "Yes, Master."

"Good girl," he replied, smiling, and handed me to the wrangler, who guided me backwards up the ramp. Like a police officer, he pushed down on my head as I crouched low to inch backwards through the metal opening. I had to step down about six inches on the inside to the cool metal floor. The wrangler held me by the collar with one hand, a small object in the other.

Beep! I'd been scanned, once again just another piece of inventory. (Of all the procedures used on slaves, the bar code might be the most dehumanizing, rendering us just livestock without even the thrill of sexual domination.) I stared as he closed the door, the latch closing with a clunk. There was a second beep as he assigned my collar to this compartment of the ULL. Light filtered in through what were apparently ventilation openings, but little enough of that. Not having enough space to stand upright, I began to crouch lower, where a window opened near the top of the door.

"Have a good trip, Lindsay; I'm sure you'll gather a lot of useful data," said Paul.

"Yes, Master," I replied softly; my sense of isolation and helplessness only increasing as the little window closed. Cuffed, naked, caged, and unable to see anything, I was lost in terror as I felt the ULL moving, apparently on a conveyor belt. A few minutes later, echoing sounds suggested that the box was inside a more restricted space, probably the aircraft that was going to take me back to Massachusetts! A series of bangs and clicks suggested that the box was now secured in place; fortunately, a few tiny LED lights and even a small heater came on to split the darkness.

*****

I had been in some frightening situations since self-indenture, but now I was completely terrified. Eight months earlier, I had sailed on the

Yo Ho Ho

, but on that cruise I had been managing the slaves on board, gleefully whipping and using them as part of my effort to convince slave merchants that I was a credible business consultant. Now, not only would I suffer all the humiliations and sexual assaults of a slave whore at sea, but at any moment one of those powerful slave merchants or bankers might recognize me, ending my life as I knew it.

When the other slaves tried to talk to me, I attempted to be friendly but told them, truthfully, that I was afraid of where we were going, so after a while they left me alone. They did tell me the rumor that, for some unknown reason, some of the northern "sluts" [no sense sugar-coating our speech) who should have been on the

Yo Ho Ho

were unavailable, hence our last-minute shipment from Texas. (Much later, I learned that the student debt slaves of Boston's colleges were taking final exams.) The flight went far too quickly for my taste, and before I knew it the ULL was coming off the aircraft and we were released from our aluminum coffin. A quick chance to relieve ourselves (straddling a grate, another dehumanizing technique with which I had become accustomed) and swallow some water, and we were all sitting, still cuffed and slave naked, on a van headed for the docks. I was so worried by our destination that I almost (not quite) failed to react when other vehicles in traffic noticed the bare-breasted sluts on the van and began honking their horns and calling out obscene comments. The sight of naked slaves was so rare in the North that we almost caused a riot. At least, I told myself, they were all looking at my tits rather than my face. That was also my only hope to avoid being recognized on board the ship.

At first, it seemed as if I might get away with it. We were all lined up, kneeling with hands cuffed, bent over with our heads down (staring at the deck) and butts high as the passengers came on board. Any number of people fondled (and commented upon) my moist cunt and the Longhorn brand on my rear end, where the letter "P" identified me as Prime (actually Prime minus, but still the highest grade of slave meat.) One of the passengers had to explain to several others that the different brands were from different slave markets, but "A prime slave is still a prime, regardless of where she was graded.")

Even after I was ordered to my feet and led to a stateroom to be used, my boobs got a lot more attention than my face. The next four days run together in my memory. In addition to being screwed in all my openings (not to mention between my breasts and thighs), I was belittled, spanked, whipped, fondled, bound in different positions, dropped overboard (with a rope secured to my wrists) for a cold North Atlantic bath, and made to gyrate through endless rounds of Block Positions (AKA Slave Yoga), all while loudly repeating the most obscene and degrading mantras imaginable ("Please ram your monster cock into all my openings" was one of the milder mantras.) I remembered gleefully inflicting these humiliations, most of them planned by my arch-rival Professor Sarah Hollister, on the slaves aboard the same ship on another cruise last spring--now I was actually experiencing rather than directing them. Once again, experiential learning is much more effective than just observation. I was doubly embarrassed, first because I regretted doing these things to other humans, and then because I was constantly exposed while fully naked, not to mention being forced to climax repeatedly until I passed out on several occasions. I won't even mention the intentional "de-lousing" baths where slaves were sprayed with burning chemicals, nor the role-playing where passengers would pretend to be pirates or school teachers while they stripped me of scanty costumes, then spanked me and used all my openings. Truth to tell, I enjoyed most of those episodes--not the de-lousing but the sexual use. As I said, I'd become addicted!

Most of the time, the passengers and staff were focused on my cunt, ass, tits, and so on. More than one man seemed to enjoy using me for a Clinton--inserting and rolling his cigar inside my well-lubricated birth canal before rubbing the cigar under my nose and then smoking it in front of me. I know that Jake Henry, the owner of the Big D Slave Markets (of Dallas and Boston) and a major slave merchant whom I hoped to impress, used me that way at least once. Still, he was focused on my labia more than my face.

The one experience I feared the most was having to give a blow-job. I no longer objected to sucking a guy off--in fact, I'd become rather addicted to licking, sucking, and swallowing cum. No, the problem was that a good cocksucker is expected to smile around the dick and stare adoringly into the master's face, trying to convince him that the sucker was honored and overjoyed to service the suckee. On the second day out, I had to blow first Jake Henry himself and later the investment banker Bill Markup, both of whom knew me fairly well and had seen my face at close range on the previous voyage. The whole time I was convinced that they MUST recognize me, that my shameful secret MUST have been out, but neither one said anything, not even much later that night when Markup did his best to pound the brains out of my cunt and the s____ out of my ass. He clearly got off on inflicting pain, so I dutifully squeaked and moaned even though his dick was too small to harm even the cocker spaniel he resembled. Seriously, as a graduate of both Pearson's Pussy Ranch and the Sousa BDSM club, I had learned to ENJOY being reamed by a large-caliber cock driven by a masterful male, but this guy was so small I was tempted to commit the unforgiveable sin of asking "is it in yet?"

As for Jake, who almost never complimented a slave, I heard him tell someone that I was "a good piece of ass--Prime, just like her brand says. I don't know how much she sold for, but I bet we could have got more selling her at the Big D."

*****

The real danger was Professor Hollister, my arch-rival. Not only was she more observant than the average male (who only wanted big boobs and a moist hole to fuck), but just before I left for Texas she had published a paper on the difficulty that people experienced recognizing an acquaintance in a slave collar. So I did my best not to attract her attention on the ship. Once, when someone had made me climb onto a bar table in "Slave 4s" position, I did my best to turn my head away from her side of the table. The downside of turning like that was that she found my branded ass irresistible; if she wasn't teasing my needy cunt she was whipping my butt.