The Rivalry Pt 01

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This is a pure fantasy, written to specifications and plot provided by

Jay Hughes

).

(

Leslie Scott's perspective

)

I was incredibly fortunate growing up—not only was I born as a middle-class Caucasian girl in Texas, but I had loving parents who cared enough about me to insist that I be polite and kind to everyone I met. Without them, and especially my Mom, it would have been easy for me to become incredibly arrogant and entitled. Why? From the time I was four years old, everyone who met me told me that I was the cutest girl in the world—blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and flawless skin. I know I sound conceited, but I'm trying to describe, as objectively as possible, why it would have been so easy to become obnoxious—only I did my best to treat everyone the way my Mom had taught me. When I reached puberty, the same genes that made me cute also gave me a voluptuous body—five feet eleven with long legs and an hourglass figure (I'm talking the classic 35C-24-36.) Despite the wind resistance from my chest, I was pretty good in cross country events, and all that running only improved my muscle tone. In high school, I did my best to stick to my studies and not push myself forward, but the cheerleading coach INSISTED that I join the squad. Of course, that just put me in the spotlight, so that everyone in my school knew who I was, and some of them—including the raven-haired rich girl Janey Bowers, who decided that I was a threat to her own popularity—hated me. I tried to treat Janey in a friendly, respectful manner, but she wouldn't reciprocate. The cheerleading coach claimed that the vote for squad captain was a tie, so she decided that Janey and I would be co-captains, yet everyone except Janey deferred to me even when I attempted to keep her involved in decisions.

Growing up in Texas, most young people and especially most young women are acutely conscious that, once they turn age 18, they will go to one of the major slave markets for a voluntary slave grading—for 8 to 36 hours, the 18-year-old is naked and subject to control by the wranglers who work in such places, and during that period they have to undergo a series of embarrassing steps culminating in being strapped down, spread-eagled, voiceless, and completely helpless, for an hour on public view. The really blush-worthy part of that exhibition is that anyone who ever knew you (and who is aged 18 or more with 50 cents to spend) can come see the temporary slaves on display, with the visitors jeering at and fondling their schoolmates. In theory, this humiliating exposure to people who know them further arouses the young people in temporary collars so that they appear as sexy and attractive as possible when the professional slave merchants examine them immediately after the public display. Each merchant assigns a rating based on the USDA meat grading system (from Prime and Choice down to Cutter and Canner, with each grade further subdivided into plus, minus, and average).

Why would any young person voluntarily strip down and submit to such treatment? First, as a practical matter, in a United States where the 34th Amendment legalized non-hereditary slavery, your slave grade determines how much you can borrow (for college, car, or home loans) with your body acting as collateral. If you default on such a loan, the financial institution literally "owns your ass" and can auction you off as a slave for up to seven years, using the proceeds (minus 10 % fee to the slave market that processes you) to pay off your debts. Second, especially for the young women, getting a high slave grade (Prime, Choice, or perhaps Select Plus) gives you (and your boyfriend or girlfriend) bragging rights about how hot you are. And third, something which NO young woman would ever admit is that she is secretly thrilled by the idea of being treated like a sex slave—nekkid, collared, and cuffed while being fondled and manipulated by (often hunky) slave wranglers. This is a cheap and socially accepted thrill, provided, of course, that at the end of the day whoever you trusted to hold your ticket at the market will take you out of there, remove the fetters, and allow you to scramble back into your clothes. (There are urban legends about young women, legally free but temporarily bound and helpless, who get blindfolded and gang-banged by the wranglers at a slave market. In reality, of course, such an event would lead to a huge investigation with possible criminal charges. But the simple possibility of being treated like a sex slut makes many young women cream their jeans, or at least helps them pretend to be aroused during the grading process.)

*****

So, in the spring of my senior year I was secretly looking forward, with a mixture of arousal and apprehension, to turning age 18 and being slave graded. But if my life had followed such a script, it wouldn't be worth writing about. What actually happened was much more horrible, blighting the next few years of my life.

Daddy was an honest small businessman, making a respectable but not huge income as a minor contractor. During the winter of my senior year in high school, the project site on which he was working "mysteriously" burned down, leading to a lawsuit that alleged such criminal negligence on his part that the Texas version of a limited partnership was breached, and Daddy was found PERSONALLY LIABLE for $377,000. That was heartbreaking enough, but the jury reached this verdict on the very day of my 18th Birthday, and those moronic legislators (redundancy alert!) in Austin had just passed a new law that, in cases of such personal liability for damages, both the spouse and the 18- to 21-year-old dependent children of the perpetrator were considered to be "available slaves" to help their adult parent(s) pay off the debt.

In plain language, I found out on my 18th birthday that I would be going THAT SAME DAY to a slave market not for a titillating one day pretend servitude but rather for seven years of full and complete slavery! Picture me, the blond, innocent, virginal (yes, really) cheerleader, being stripped in court before dozens of people, then collared, cuffed, and led off to my fate. I didn't even have the limited support of my Mom and Dad, who were treated similarly but shipped to another slave market for sale, again for seven years of servitude. My older brother had to come home from the Army to straighten out their affairs, selling most of their other assets to appease the creditors.

By the time I stopped crying and (almost) stopped shaking, I was in the vast entryway of what I later learned was the Longhorn Slave Market in Houston. Kneeling on a hard concrete floor, still collared with wrists cuffed behind my back, I had my thighs spread wide in what I knew was the appropriate posture for a kneeling slave, called "slave spread." I heard two women speaking in low tones, apparently about me, because I heard someone say "repossessed to help pay her father's debts." A few seconds later, two heavy black combat boots appeared on the floor in front of me, and a gentle hand stroked my hair.

I ventured to look upwards, and was both astonished and impressed by the young woman smiling down at me. She appeared to be taller than me, over six feet tall and far from fragile—her body was well muscled, weighed maybe 200 pounds, and built like me only on a larger-than-life scale. Not an ounce of fat, but muscular legs supporting a curvy body with, to be crude, fantastic boobs and a shelf-like butt. Even her curly dark-red hair, gathered in a sloppy ponytail, was unique, and her nametag read simply "Willow." Beyond that, she was wearing what I vaguely realized was standard clothing for a wrangler. In addition to the steel-toed combat boots, she wore an equipment belt studded with large and menacing objects, jeans, and a dark blue polo shirt displaying the logo of a longhorn bull—head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. And her voice rumbled in a throaty contralto when she spoke:

"Ease up, little sister," she said in the tone a mother uses to comfort a crying child. To hear such a dominant figure speak so reassuringly was oddly comforting, and I leaned against her leg like a dog asking to be petted. She continued in the same tone. "I gather you've had a hard day today, and I'm not gonna lie to you—the rest won't be easy for anyone to go through. Still, I suggest you try to get control over yourself. The bad news is that you're about to be sold in a slave market, but the GOOD news is that you're the best-looking young woman to come in here this week. Whoever buys you will have to pay a high price, which means he or she has to take care of you if only to protect their investment."

Bless her heart. Mistress Willow gave me the courage to continue through the inevitable processing at the Longhorn: medical examination (including birth control, which was disturbing for a helpless virgin), obscene block moves with a crowd of other slaves, inscription of a Slave ID number inside my lower lip, inserting a computer chip between my breasts, and humiliating photographs of every inch of my naked body, photos that were included in my National Slave Registry entry, an X-rated data base.

What I dreaded the most was being temporarily deprived of my voice (by a spray) and then bound on my back, spread-eagled and helpless, for public view before the slave merchants came to grade me. As I had feared, the news of my enslavement had spread like wildfire through my school. At least 40 of my peers (or should I say former peers?) played truant to come see me in my hour of defenseless exposure. I was surprised and pleased that MOST of these people were actually very kind. OK, the guys couldn't resist staring at (and occasionally fondling) my breasts, but even those guys and certainly most of the girls talked to me, encouraging me to be brave and complimenting me on how beautiful and sweet I looked. I began to hope that this experience might even be survivable.

But then SHE appeared over my head, mocking me and viciously tweaking my most sensitive parts. That's right, Janey Bowers couldn't resist gloating and tormenting me, making remarks to the general effect that I'd finally ended up in the correct place, flat on my back with my legs wide apart, the perfect pose for a pleasure slut. As she spoke, she viciously tweaked my nipples and clit, finger-fucked my labia, and then (when her fingers came out wet) proclaimed loudly that only a total skank would enjoy being spread and waiting to get fucked by whoever rented me out. Truth to tell, the combination of being helpless and terrorized with someone playing with my sensitive parts really DID excite me—somehow, my fight-or-flight response to a dangerous situation got crossed up with my sex drive; I guess I'm weird. In the meantime, the devoxing spray prevented me from even replying, and I dissolved into tears before—thank heavens—a group of my true friends dragged her away, leaving me to recover my nerve before the slave merchants appeared with their electronic tablets to grade me. They said very little out loud, but a few of them whispered to each other and kept writing down something about me.

Finally, blessedly, the last spectators and merchants departed the large, chilly exhibition space, leaving me along with two dozen other naked individuals, still restrained on metal tables and completely vulnerable in a suddenly-quiet room. Mistress Willow appeared promptly to release me from this particular form of bondage, all the while crooning to me and encouraging me, saying how brave and sexy I had been. Then she walked me back to a wire mesh cage, just one of dozens of such cages that we passed. She sprayed down my throat to counteract the Devox, and left me with a bottle of cold water to slowly regain my voice. The "good news," according to her, was that (despite my fear and depression) the slave merchants had apparently seen my potential to be an attractive sex object; my average grade was Prime Minus, only two steps below the highest possible score.

Left to recover for a few minutes, I thought bitterly about that grade. If, as I described at the start of my tale of woe, I had received such a grade and been freed to return to school the next day, I would have struggled to conceal an unbecoming pride in such a formal evaluation—I may not have been the most beautiful slave in Texas that year, but I was at least a finalist for such a category. Had I been at the Big D market in Dallas, such a grade would have earned me the dubious honor of a full-frontal nude photograph in the market's flier, designating me as a "Sandy Foot Girl," one of the "finest pieces of ass in Texas." Even at the Longhorn where I was sitting, a Prime Minus was unlikely to end up on her knees sucking six dicks per hour at a glory hole. But whoever bought me would undoubtedly use me as a sex toy with bragging rights, which meant both public humiliation and a probably-painful loss of my virginity. What I wouldn't give to go back to English 12 in my high school—who would ever have expected to long for that?

When I heard a pair of boots echoing on the hard concrete outside my cage, I again assumed the correct slave spread position for a slave, with hands behind my neck, eyes downcast and thighs apart, a docile and completely exposed slut. I could tell by her face that Willow was trying to reassure me, but I was still nervous as heck. I knew what would follow was an experience that routine 18-year-old slave grading did NOT include—being displayed on a block, slave naked and showing everything, and auctioned off to the highest visitor. Still, she tried to explain that it was in my and my dad's best interest for me to sell for as high a price of possible, to help pay his debt—and THAT price, in turn, meant that I had to come across as the horniest little whore that ever walked the earth! (She didn't use such crude terms, but the meaning was clear.) The good news, she said, was that my Prime Minus grading would attract a lot of attention (and money) from the audience—"all" I had to do was work myself up into a sexual frenzy so that everyone who saw me on that auction block would believe that an innocent virgin high school girl was actually a superb courtesan.

That sounded impossible, but Mistress Willow helped talk me through it, showing an amazing understanding of how a slave girl can arouse herself—in fact, she confessed that she had placed herself into that helpless, subordinate position with her husband several times. It was astonishing to see such a huge (if shapely) woman walking, fully clothed, yet exuding sex at every sway of the hip. She had me role-play simple poses on the auction block, all the while arousing myself mentally. This treatment continued as we waited in line for the auction block—me fondling myself and humping her leg like a female dog in heat, her urging me to think of myself as a total cock-hound who would explode if I didn't get rammed in every hole (which was really superb acting considering that at that time I had never even SEEN an erect penis in full daylight, let alone had one inside of me.)

All that said, I have no real recollection of what happened on that auction block—it was like one of those dreams where you're naked but everyone else was clothed, only this time I knew it was reality. I couldn't see the audience past the bright lights in my eyes. For five minutes I acted as if I really were the most lascivious courtesan ever sold at auction, prancing and winking until the gavel fell and I was sold for $81,000 to a bidder—number 177?—whose identity was unknown to me. I was about to learn that identity in painful detail.

*****

(

Janey Bowers' perspective

)

I've had a grin on my face all day, to the point where my mom was worried that I might have suffered a stroke. Naah—I'm just overjoyed that little-Miss-perfect, I'm-staying-pure-for-marriage, Head Cheerleader Leslie Fucking Scott has finally gotten what's coming to her—or I guess that, now she's a slave, I should spell that "cumming INTO her!" Not only that, but guess who is the new owner of that skanky bitch? That's right, ME! Two months ago, when I turned 18, Daddy (who is a professional slave merchant) had promised me to purchase the slave of my choice to serve me at home and when I went to college. (He could afford to do that because I earned an academic scholarship to UT, and I know he had already saved money for my college that he could now spend elsewhere.) I think Daddy was afraid I might buy some boring boy with a big dick, but I can get those for free any time I feel like flirting a little. Instead, today I cashed in my birthday present, insisting that he take me to the Longhorn Slave Market to purchase Leslie Fucking Scott. Even Daddy was impressed by how much that blonde whore cost at auction, but when he saw her, all Daddy asked was whether I might let HIM use HER once in a while. "Sure thing, Daddy—how about for YOUR birthday next month? Only trouble is, you're going to have to get permission from Mom." He didn't seem too happy after that, but I intend to convince Mom that Leslie has to live up to her new middle name, and Dad would be a great choice to "break her in" before I let the boys in our high school class bang her.

Anyway—I wish I had a picture of Leslie Fucking Scott's face when I came into her cage after finalizing the purchase price. She was, of course, butt nekkid, collared, and kneeling with her hands behind her haid, spread wide open so that the wrangler and I could see everything she used to hide so modestly (ha!) in gym class. And when I told the new slut that I was her new owner, she turned white as a Yankee on Spring Break and began to cry.

My next surprise was to show her the video of her auction performance, a video I had made on my phone (phones are usually forbidden in slave markets, but Daddy got some kind of professional exception.) There she was, her face looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth while that mouth was begging the audience to fill all her slut holes, while at the same time she was twisting and turning to show off her skanky nude body!

The first command I gave my new slave was for her to bend over the bench in the cage and use her mouth to slave-tip Don, the wrangler who had led me there, to orgasm. As I asked, he jerked out of her mouth at the end and painted her face with splooge. Since she was already bent over, I took advantage of her position to fill her starfish with the brand new, 10-inch dildo I had just purchased in the gift shop. Because Daddy had warned me not to damage the merchandise, I DID put some lube on the huge shaft before I worked it into her. I'm no monster, just want to start preparing her for her new role (or roll, as in roll in the hay?) in life.

Throughout high school, this girl had humiliated me without even being aware of what she was doing. I would have one (or sometimes more than one) of the bigger, more muscular male students talking to me, mesmerized by my smile and my boobs. Then they would all get whiplash when skank Leslie pranced by, their eyes shifting from my chest first to her hooters and then, after she had passed by, to what looked like two animals wrestling inside her tight skirt! Now I got to watch Leslie Fucking Scott, completely nekkid with her hands cuffed behind her back, squirming down the hall before me in an effort to keep that dildo inside her fat ass. She looked for all the world like she was trying not to defecate in public, but damn if the men she passed didn't STILL stare after her.