It was a smaller slave dealer located in a failing strip mall several miles from campus, but Sara Gemstone had chosen it carefully. It was about a 3 hour drive from her house, far enough away that she wouldn't run into anyone she knew but close enough for her to be home in time to meet her husband Bill at the Country Club for dinner.
Her husband Bill was the reason she was there, or to be more precise about it, the disgusting slave slut who Bill had purchased as part of his midlife crisis. The slave meat was young and pretty, to be sure, but even at 38 Sara knew she was far hotter and better in the sack. Even Bill conceded as much.
"You're a way better lover than she'll ever be, Sara," Bill had explained, "and I love you. But she's a SLAVE. There's something thrilling about having a naked girl in a collar who has to please you that I can't explain. It's just a guy thing."
"A guy thing." As if her husband fucking a juicy young slave slut he kept in their garage was something she could overlook. She was relieved that her son Steve was off at college; she couldn't imagine explaining her husband's hot slave tail to her son. She though Steve would be as angry and disgusted with his father, unless of course he wasn't. That would be even worse.
Sara was nothing if not calculating and carefully weighed all her options. A number of her friends were experiencing the same dilemma. Some had sold the slave without their husband's permission, but that only led to another fight when the new slave girl arrived. There was divorce, but Sara didn't see why she should have to compromise her luxurious lifestyle because her idiot husband couldn't keep his pants zipped.
"She's GRADED," Bill would say. "Grant you, it's only B Prime, not Grade A, but that's so hot. There's nothing hotter than fucking graded pussy. I can't explain it. It's a guy thing."
"A guy thing." The phrase drove Sara crazy, but fortunately at 38 Sara was still hot enough to fight fire with fire.
Sara decided she was going to be graded. The only question now was where.
The grading room looked very much like a doctor's office, complete with an examination table and white paper. Sara had opted for an official grading; it cost more but Sara had more than enough money and it would be worth it to get a genuine certificate. Sara smiled as she imagined her husband making his nightly pilgrimage to the garage to discover the disgusting slut he had been fucking was gone and now his beautiful wife Sara was in the slave cage, naked except for her slave collar.
"How may I please you master?" she would say. Her gobsmacked husband would pick up Sara's framed grading certificate resting on the top of the cage, read it, and smile.
Sara didn't sit on the white butcher paper of the examination table, option to sit on one of the other chairs. She had never liked sitting on paper in a doctor's office and she liked it even less here. Sara was not looking forward to her slave grading, but reasoned the result would be worth the embarrassment.
Sara hadn't asked for a female grader as she knew this was a small shop and most graders of female flesh were male. She reasoned it didn't matter much; a professional grading meant a professional grader, no one would know her at this remote location, and it would all be over in an hour or two. The butcher paper would be a distant memory and only the precious grading certificate would remain.
Sara was surprised at the youthful appearance of the young man in the white butcher's coat who entered the room, and even more surprised that he was black. She had driven far pretty far south and was now in farm country. In fact there weren't many colored people in her ritzy suburb, and those that were there usually had a broom or hedge clippers in their hands.
"Mrs. Gemstone?", the black man said. "It's nice to see you again."
Sara's mind went black. The lanky boy in the white was tall, young, skinny, and very black. Did she know him? She ran a quick check in her head; the silver haired janitor at her health club was black; the groundskeepers at her house and club were Mexican; the guy who cleaned her pool whose name she could never remember was Indian, or maybe from Iran or someplace like that, but not black.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"I'm Jamal. I'm a friend of Steve's. You've been driving me to practice since I was 10."
"Of course!" she said, suddenly recognizing him. "You were on Steve's soccer, basketball, and baseball teams. I remember you: the Negro boy who was so naturally athletic. Steve liked you a lot."
"Yeah, Steve was a great guy. How are things at Stanford?"
"Oh, he's doing well. I think he's comfortable there. He's meeting all the right people. And how are you doing?"
"I'm doing well. I got an athletic scholarship at the college here and I'm working on my degree."
"Oh, that's nice," she patronized. "I wish someone would pay for Steve's education but all the money goes to you people, I suppose. The less fortunate, I mean."
Sara paused, noticing Steve's white coat and pants, which reminded her of something a butcher might wear. "So what are you doing here?"
"I'm here to give you your slave grading," Jamal said cheerfully. "I'm getting a degree in slave animal management offered through the College of Agriculture. Working here is part of my program."
"Oh, that's wonderful. I'm so glad they make opportunities like that available to you people these days. Of course... and I hope you won't take offense at this... I think I'd rather have my slave grading done by someone else. Someone more... professional."
