(This is a fantasy occurring in an alternate world where legalized slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debts, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters in this story are over 18, which in this fantasy world is the minimum legal age for any enslavement or involvement with slave processing. In the real world, slavery and forcible sex acts are NEVER justifiable.)
I guess I'll never know how I instantaneously went from being a fully-clothed free citizen to a naked, collared slave. My new owner says it's Karma, which is probably true, but that still doesn't explain HOW I got here. Of course, I'm horrified and wish I could change back, but I have to admit the experience has been amazing and educational, to say the least.
I am (or I guess I was) Jim McNamara, one-half of the partnership of Aldrich & McNamara, Slave Merchants. There's the Karma right there: slave merchant becomes slave. Brent Aldrich and I started out, right after high school, as wranglers at the Longhorn Slave Market in Houston. After about six years working there, we had acquired all the appropriate licenses and learned the ins and outs of slave training and marketing but could see no opportunity for advancement at the Longhorn, so we departed on good terms and set up our own gig.
We had located a niche for both the source of our slaves and the market to sell them: smaller towns. In large metropolitan areas, enslavement had become almost a daily event, with people being sentenced for crimes or indentured for indebtedness, then shipped off to the big slave markets like the Longhorn for evaluation and sale. But in the sparsely-populated counties of rural Texas and Oklahoma, an enslavement or indenture might only occur a few times each year. A local sheriff or foreclosing bank would have to wait until the next time the circuit judge came to town to conduct trials and approve indentures. In Texas, at least, a low-level official of the Department of Agriculture's Livestock and Slave Division accompanies each such judge to record any enslavements. Like circuit riders in the old days, Brent or I would follow these judges and state officials around or simply search the internet for likely cases, then show up at the courthouse on the appropriate day. Ordinary (male) labor slaves rarely interested us and were often purchased cheap by their former creditors or bosses. For female slaves with some potential, however, we could offer more cash on the barrelhead than any local person was willing to pay. Initially, we had to borrow the money which meant putting ourselves up as collateral—to do that, we went through a slave market (NOT the Longhorn, where our co-workers would have made our lives hell), one at a time, to get ourselves graded so that we could satisfy the banks. (I would never admit it to Brent, but I got a perverse thrill out of being devoxed and chained on display for grading, especially when one of the few decent-looking female merchants decided to fondle my restrained body as she evaluated me. Plus, a female wrangler "handled" me in both senses of the word, which was kind of exciting by itself. My slave registration photos show me fully erect.) After the first three years in business for ourselves, however, we'd been so successful that we could pay off the bank loan and use our own money, which was a big weight off my mind.
Anyway, we usually worked with one of us (mostly Brent) going to rural courts while the other trained new inventory and/or displayed our wares for sale in department stores in the larger towns and smaller cities. Folks expect such stores to have slaves on sale when there's no slave market within 100 miles or so. The stores paid us a fee that just about covered our expenses to drive there; in return, the stores got a small percentage of the price of any slave we managed to sell. What did the store get out of this? Offering a service without having to tie up capital in slave stock or deal with the licensing hassles.
We got an additional perk out of this trade. On occasion, a local 18-year-old would pay us to do a formal slave grading, either because he or she needed it as collateral for a college loan or because, especially for the women, they wanted a thrill and the right to brag about how high they had graded. It's a nice to have an 18-year-old cheerleader walk into the store naked so that you can put her through her slave positions, expose her to other customers, and then enter her photos and data into the national registry while she stands beside you naked, collared, and cuffed! We never tried to enslave or otherwise trick such volunteers, although Brent was known to decide that a particular candidate needed to stay overnight because it was "too late in the day" to finish the grading. He kept them in a cage and didn't force them to have sex, but neither did he turn them down if they got so aroused by the situation that they started babbling the usual slave enticements (Master, please let me suck your magnificent cock, and so on; Most people practice such filthy come-ons as part of their slave yoga positions, because it helps excite the subject which in turn can produce a higher slave grading.) When released the next morning, these young women actually thanked Brent for giving them a slave experience they could tell their friends about, but I didn't think it was right to treat a free person that way. The most I would do is fondle a young woman slightly, which actually increased her arousal and hence her slave grade. We'd been instructed to do just that while working at the Longhorn.
Brent's little trick to keep cute girls overnight was an indication of the difference in our personalities, a difference that we used to train new slaves before selling them. Call it the bad cop-good cop routine, with Brent playing the role of bad cop. When he had custody of a new slave, he would be very strict, shocking or paddling the slave for any hesitation or failure in obedience. We had agreed not to use a whip both because it would damage the merchandise and because I found it ineffective. He was also in a hurry to introduce the new acquisition to slave sex—he usually used condoms with lubricant but didn't much care if he caused some pain shoving his rather large cock into various openings. I didn't think that Brent was a real sadist, but he believed that a tough approach would convince most slaves to cooperate and obey instantly.
Even our vehicles reflected our different approaches to training slaves. I had an air-conditioned, enclosed van where the new acquisitions could recover from the shock of enslavement, crying quietly in their bonds while I drove them to the remote, derelict ranch we used as a base. I also used this van to transport our inventory to the various department stores we frequented, believing that a calm, relaxed slave was most likely to fetch a high price. Brent, on the other hand, drove a big pickup truck with four or five slave cages sliding around in the back, so the newly-naked slave was completely helpless and visible to her former peers as he drove her out of town! He did install a shaded cover on the cages to avoid heat injury, but it was a lot less comfortable to travel like that than in my van.
Let me tell you how I "broke in" a recent acquisition. Trust me, this part of the story is useful as context for what's happened to me in the past few days. The girl's name was Susan. She was about 25 years old, with a plain face (not ugly, just unremarkable) and shoulder-length brown hair that had a natural curl. Her body, however, made up for her face: about 5 feet 7 inches tall, 36C-25-35, with soft, smooth skin and wide, dark areolas and nipples. She weighed maybe 15 pounds more than a runway model of the same height, but that just made her look cuddly and appealing. She was so hot, at least by the standards outside of the big city slave markets, that she might have been graded Choice if she had been properly aroused. Instead, of course, she was deeply depressed, almost in shock, and clearly not in the mood for any kind of sex. She'd been sentenced to four years of enslavement for shop-lifting at a convenience store and then driving off without paying for her gas. Predictably, she later told me that she'd been framed by a guy who'd been trying to get in her pants since high school. She was also an orphan with no one to look out for her, let alone purchase her expensive enslavement contract.
When I first saw her, Brent had just returned to our ranch early one evening, having bought her in Hobart, Oklahoma, that morning and then driven her back into Texas. I could tell by her dishevelled appearance that he'd already used a shock baton and face-fucked her, coming all over her tear-streaked face. He mumbled to me that her performance wasn't as good as her appearance would suggest—he had obviously hoped she would be both skilled and passionate, whereas he'd done very little to help her enjoy herself. I bit my tongue—I knew what Brent would say if I questioned him about this. She was naked except for a collar, of course, but I manacled her wrists in front of her with about ten inches of chain between them so she could wipe herself off with the damp towel I gave her. That finished, I let her use the toilet. Our lead girl, Annie, set Susan up with a plateful of stew from the crockpot and a large glass of ice water. Brent scarfed his own meal down along with two beers, burped loudly, and went to bed because he had to leave early the next morning, trying to hit enslavement hearings at five courthouses in the next three days.
(I can see I need to explain two things: (1) All female slaves are called girls, regardless of age—it's deliberately demeaning, but the alternative terms include cunt, bitch, and so on. Similarly, all male slaves are boys or assholes. Some terms such as slut and whore can apply to either gender. (2) When Brent brought Susan in, we had four other girls, including Annie. Annie was well past the age of 40, and not particularly marketable. I'd taken her as a $1000 trade-in for a younger, prettier model two years earlier. Brent told me I was dumb to do so, because we'd never make a profit on her, but her previous owner had obviously beaten and terrorized her, and I couldn't just leave her with him. I told Brent I'd pay for her out of my share of the money, and Annie was so grateful for her escape that she became a loyal, eager-to-please assistant who made the ranch run well without ever getting uppity about her status. Besides her age, the only sign that Annie was different from the rest of the inventory was that I let her wear a bra that matched her skin color while being semi-transparent. It's one thing to teach fresh-caught slaves to display their tits without shame, but long-term property needs a bra like that which, without really concealing anything, gives her support. It's a health matter, and besides, unsupported boobs tend to sag after only a few months.)
When Susan finished eating, I asked if she was still hungry or thirsty—she looked surprised but shook her head.
"You know better," I said in a mild tone—what's the proper response to a question?"
