Trying on a Collar

Trying On a Collar, Pt. 02

(This is a fantasy set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place 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 be involved in slave business operations. In reality, slavery, even if a person enters into it voluntarily, is an abomination. This episode includes a guest lecture by Professor Sarah Hollister, arranged through the kind offices of Joe_Doe_Stories.)

I'm Shirley Thompson: 5 foot 6 inches (just barely), brown hair and eyes. At the time of this story I had finally tightened my body so I thought I was presentable but certainly didn't feel very attractive. I was 19 years old and just starting my sophomore year at the toughest female college (heck, any kind of college) in the country. And I had to find a way to stop fantasizing about being a slave.

The 34th Amendment had repealed the 13th Amendment, thereby making non-hereditary slavery or indenture legal in the U.S. Growing up in the North, I'd never given much thought to it, except to think how terrible it would be to lose all your rights and be at the mercy of someone who could do anything he or she wanted to your naked body.

College is supposed to expose you to new ideas, but this was ridiculous! My freshman roommate from Texas, the gorgeous and dynamic Pamela Foster, had introduced the topic of slavery to my consciousness. She had shown me a video of a woman being enslaved by parents because the girl had tried to do the same thing to her own sister—the image was horrifying yet fascinating. My roommate had persuaded me to practice slave yoga positions and told me stories about her own experience being "slave-graded" when she turned 18. Even though she was very assertive, she confessed to erotic day-dreams about being controlled and ravished. And suddenly, all I could think about was how terrible

and how sexy

it would be to lose all your rights and be at the mercy of someone who could do anything he or she wanted to your naked body.

I knew it was insane. I have no desire to give up my freedom or even risk becoming a slave. But, for some reason—maybe my lack of self-confidence, my lack of friends, or my lack (with the exception of my parents) of people who loved me—I'd become fascinated with the idea of belonging to a guy. Not for life, you understand, but for some undetermined period in which he would fuck my slave brains out at least three times a day, and in between keep me as his naked, bound toy. Somehow having someone who wanted to control me physically made me desirable—I know, it's crazy. Whether in my dreams or during slave yoga exercises, I get excited about the idea—erect nipples and clitoris, dampness between my legs.

Shirley and I had signed up to room together again for sophomore year. When we were alone, after we finished moving our stuff into the room, I sat down to talk to her. I told her she was my best friend forever, BUT—could we please take a break from the topic of slavery? Even for a month?

"You know I'm fascinated by the idea, but the reality is terrifying. I don't mean to insult you or the way you grew up, but I've got to stop thinking about it, or at least make myself more objective about the topic. You're so strong-willed that I guess YOU can fantasize without going off the deep end, but that's not me."

Pam: "I know, Shirl—sometimes I feel the same way about slavery. It's a great fantasy but a lousy reality. I hope you'll still come to visit my family over Christmas vacation, and with my brother Jessie working at a slave market the topic will be unavoidable then, but for now I promise to give it a rest, OK?"

Pam was as good as her word, and I was able to focus on studying (except late at night, when I daydreamed about slave sex to release tensions!) Yet, within a month of resuming school, the topic came up in the classroom.

*****

Pam and I had different majors—political science and chemistry, respectively—so most of our classes were now different, but for fun we had signed up together for an elective in gender studies. I should have seen this coming, but I suddenly realized that one of the topics in the course was—you guessed it—slavery. Seems that slavery, with its extremes of power exchange and submission, is usually classified academically as a sub-set of gender studies. Not all slaves get used as sex toys, but that's a significant part of their existence.

Picture a medium-sized classroom with about 20 students and the instructor—all female. The guest lecturer was Doctor Sarah Hollister, Professor of Slave Studies at Harvard. She was a tall, beautiful, supremely-confident woman, the exact opposite of my fevered images of a submissive female slave, but of course she discussed the topic as an academic and a business consultant, not a victim. Most of her remarks were about the business of slavery—she had published several books with titles than made me blush, such as

Profit Per Pussy: The Art and Science of Slaving

. She also covered some of the societal aspects of this strange institution:

"Let's face it, ladies," she admitted, "It's impossible to make a moral or ethical justification for this denial of human rights. Except that, somehow, it works. In the state of Texas, for example, slavery has been a fact of life for the past 33 years. During that time, the amount of violent crime and especially sexual assault as a proportion of population has declined 27 percent in the state. Default on debts, especially college loans and mortgages, is now less than 9 percent of outstanding loans as compared to 32 percent two decades ago. Even homelessness has declined—It seems immoral to use enslavement as a means of reducing poverty, but that's what has happened. In the state Department of Agriculture files for the past five years, I found more than four thousand cases in which destitute individuals indentured themselves, although they may have been coerced into doing so. And I would hasten to add that the state has begun spot checks to ensure that these self-indentures are not being abused—or at least, not abused more than the average slave! Plus, there are virtually no pimps or prostitutes in Texas or Louisiana because they can't compete with slave brothels and call-girls. Big city vice squads have been cut in half for lack of sex trafficking cases."

When Professor Hollister invited questions, Pam was (typically) the first person to raise her hand.

"Professor Hollister: I recognize that your work has focused on the business aspects of the slave industry. Can you tell us about any studies concerning the psychological effects of slavery? How badly are slaves traumatized by their experiences?"

The professor replied: "You're correct, of course, that the slavery experience can have profound effects. I would refer you to the new survey by two Texas psychiatrists, Walker and Sheldon, titled

Psychological Impact of Slavery

. The book contains several chapters that I believe you'll find quite captivating." (she smirked in a condescending way about the pun she had just made.} "These include such topics as the trauma of initial indenture, the submissive orientation of slave sex workers, and so on."

She continued. "As a business consultant, I have to take psychology into account when designing the best methods for processing and marketing slaves. The slave merchants want the merchandise to be docile but desirable rather than catatonic. Based on my observations, I can assure you that the experience of going through a slave market, especially being stripped, processed, and sold at auction, is profoundly humbling. The new slave loses not only her clothes and her freedom but also any distinctions she may have had such as education, profession, social class, or inhibitions. It's the ultimate transfer of power. What's left is a pure sexual animal, disoriented but eager to please her new owner."

"In a way, losing all your rights and free will helps clarify the value of being a citizen. Freed from the behavioral standards expected of citizens, many of these women, especially the high-end females, begin to identify with the interests of their new owners. They turn into brainless tramps who enjoy exhibiting themselves naked, even masturbating to excite prospective buyers."

Another sophomore, one who had already established herself as a strident feminist, interrupted in shocked tones. "But, surely, Professor, any female who behaved like that would be showing herself to be an irretrievable slut, a complete piece of slave meat unworthy to be considered a woman?"

Startled, Professor Hollister stopped in mid-sentence and actually blushed. REALLY blushed, for some reason. "Well, of course you're right as a matter of principle. It's politically incorrect to say so, but some of these slaves are such clueless bimbos that they allow themselves to be tricked into slavery by signing documents they haven't read—they really are better off in a collar than pretending to be autonomous people. Any free woman would feel horribly embarrassed and degraded to act this way, but in a female slave such behavior maximizes her value on the block, so she's at least performing her economic function. It's not unknown for a slave to achieve climax just from the experience of being sold as human cattle, a naked whore prancing on a leash. And the whip even excites her more." A slight smile crossed her face and she looked into the distance, as if remembering something, while for a moment her hand strayed up to the tight necklace she wore.

Visibly shaking the thought off, Professor Hollister came back to the class at hand. Like a good instructor, she turned the questions into a Socratic exercise. "Many Southern free women have at least a limited experience of what the enslavement process feels like." She focused on my roommate. "I think I heard a Texas accent in your voice, Miss—have you been graded?"

I'd rarely seen Pam blush, but she did that day, acknowledging her experience. Needless to say, Pam said little about her erotic feelings at the time, although she did try to convey the sense of helplessness she experienced.

One other student, from South Carolina, had also been graded, in her case at the re-created slave market of Charleston, complete with iron chains—only nowadays much of the "inventory" was Caucasian while most of the slave handlers were African-American! The Northerners in the class were fascinated, and the rest of the period passed quickly in a general discussion.

That evening, Pam went on-line to order copies of

Profit per Pussy

and

Psychological Impact of Slavery.

She offered to let me read them when they arrived. I only half heard her as I waited eagerly for my roommate to fall asleep, while Professor Hollister's description of arousal at the slave market ran through my mind over and over and made my panties damp.

*****

One Saturday morning in mid-October, Pam dragged me along to her favorite beauty salon. When we got there, I discovered that she had booked both of us in for hairdos and nail treatments. In two hours, I found myself with a new, stylish cut, highlights in my hair, and a new nail color. Of course, I thanked her profusely, but asked her what was going on.

She looked a little guilty. "Well . . . my older brother Jessie is flying into Logan tomorrow to spend a week here on business, and I wanted you to meet him. Do you mind?"

"Of course I don't mind, but I'd think you want to spend time with him yourself. Won't I be a third wheel?"

Pam: "Are you kidding? He can see his sister any time he wants, but how often is he going to meet a beautiful, smart young woman?"

Me, giggling: "I thought you wanted him to meet me—Who's the beautiful, smart woman?"

Pam: "No false modesty, Shirl. You have a great figure if you'd only show it off. I've been telling him how super you are, and I think you'll get along well together. Besides, I've already promised Hal that I'll go out with him next Friday night. It wouldn't be polite to disappoint either Hal or Jessie, so this way we can double-date."

"OK—I just hope your brother isn't too disappointed."

Pam: "One more thing, though—the subject of slavery is almost certain to come up, because that's his job."

Sigh. "OK."

*****

Talk about lust at first sight! Jessie was a larger, masculine version of his gorgeous sister—short blond hair, blue eyes, about eight inches taller than me, with great self-confidence and yet gentleness. He wasn't built like the massive slave handlers I had seen in Pam's video, but he was certainly in good shape. I felt like Amy in that TV show, struck with horniness upon meeting Penny's ex-boyfriend. Somehow, I managed to stutter out a greeting, and before I knew it the three of us were having a marvelous conversation. Pam kept shifting the focus of conversation back to me.

Jessie's accent was more pronounced than his sister's, perhaps because he'd done all his schooling in the South—Bachelor's in economics from Tulane with an MBA from Duke. He was already a senior manager at the Long Horn Slave Market. This week, he was in Boston because the State of Massachusetts brought in outside experts to conduct the yearly licensing exams for the few slave handlers that the local court system required. This led us onto the topic. At first, Jessie tried to avoid talking about it, saying that his sister had warned him that the subject made me nervous. Once we got past that hurdle, however, the discussion was fascinating (as usual). He talked mostly about the business of slavery, but a few comments he made suggested that he had some compassion for the individuals he auctioned off. He spoke as if they were real people, not just animals, but he reluctantly confirmed Professor Hollister's observations about how a slave market could turn a lady into a slut.

We went out to dinner—his treat—that first evening. I excused myself to use the ladies' room, and as I returned I overheard Jessie telling his sister, in a teasing tone as if he were complaining,

"You didn't tell me what a fox she was!"

Pam looked up, smiling as I approached from behind him, and replied, "I told you my roommate was perfect for you, smart, built, beautiful, and funny. What's not to love?"

At that moment, I reached the table and sat down. I don't know which of us—Jessie or I—was more embarrassed. Inside, however, I was thrilled that such a fascinating, attractive guy was interested in me. The idea that a slave handler, who spent his days surrounded by unlimited naked women, would find me sexually attractive gave me a real charge.

All too soon, we had to go back to the dorm and get ready for Monday classes. He asked to see both of us as often as possible that week, so we agreed to meet Tuesday for dinner at the hotel where he was staying. For a change, I fell asleep thinking about Jessie making love to me instead of nameless slave wranglers chaining me, but sometimes the two story lines merged . . .

Somehow at Tuesday dinner, the topic of slave yoga came up (my roommate was conspiring again). Pam began bragging about what a great job her brother could do putting slaves through their poses, and urging him to demonstrate in his room after we ate. To his credit, Jessie pretended to be reluctant. He insisted that he didn't want to insult us, especially since he was in the habit of using very demeaning terminology to excite women who were about to be slave-graded or auctioned. Pam assured him that we'd heard it all in our yoga class the previous spring, and that we would absolve him in advance for being graphic and crude. He was obviously embarrassed, so I felt as if I had to agree with her. I couldn't help tingling at the thought of playing slave to his master.

Next thing I know, we were back at his room and Pam was still talking about a slave yoga session. I protested that I didn't have the right clothing, at which point she produced one of my T-shirts and a pair of short-shorts from her bag. Damn—she set me up, but by that time I was shivering about the idea of her brother ordering us around, so I agreed. When I emerged from the bathroom after changing into this very brief attire, however, I noticed that Pam was still fully dressed and sitting back, obviously not intending to participate. Of course, I protested, but again she had the answer down pat:

"Shirley, I love you like the sister I wish I had instead of this lunkhead. But if you were my sister, instead of an only child, you'd know that there's no way I can let my own brother order me about in slave yoga. Come on, me obey him while he talks to me like a slave? Thirty years from now, he'd still be bringing it up at parties and board meetings to embarrass me. Sorry, kid, but this I can't do. For you, it can just be a game, but I have to protect my place in the family hierarchy. I am, however, here to be a chaperone to ensure that he doesn't take advantage of my BFF."

So we began. I quickly realized another way that my girlfriend had set me up—she had brought exercise clothing but no sports bra. Instead, I was wearing a lacy, push-up number that I hoped would get his attention. It certainly did so now—every time I rolled or changed positions, my boobs wobbled around inside of my bra and t-shirt, giving him an R-rated version of my performance. And believe me, when you're my height, C-cups really look huge.

Jessie was obviously distracted, so much so that he began staring to me and relapsed into what I assume was full-on slave wrangler talk, just the way he would teach the applicants in the daytime. Instead of talking politely, he started adding comments and raunchy compliments to his commands:

"Slave 4's—that's a good slut. Now, Flip over—yeah, flash your boobs at the customers. Present—come on, what were you taught to say when you were ordered to Present?"

Me: "I live to serve you, Master."

Jessie: "Don't forget your slave mantras next time. Now—twerk that cunt. What do you say, slave?"

Me: "Please buy me and fuck my brains out, Master."

"Better, little bitch. Keep going—Prone!"

He allowed me a 3-minute water break, but then resumed his patter. By this time, reality and practice had merged into one. I'd forgotten I was a free woman, let alone a student at an elite women's college, on a semi-date with my roommate's brother. I just wanted him to toss me on the bed and use me—hard!

His last command was "Kneel." I assumed the perfect position, thighs spread so wide that I showed a camel toe, right in front of the chair in which he was sitting. My head ended up about eight inches away from his obviously-aroused groin. Without conscious thought, I announced, quite loudly, "I beg you to fuck my face with your monster cock, Master." We were both staring raptly into each other's eyes—had his sister not been in the room, I have no doubt I would have gotten my first mouthful of Texas red hot.

He recovered before I did, and tried to cover up his arousal by saying that I'd learned quite a bit. Pam's face looked like the cat who's found a whole gallon of cream. Somehow, I got changed and he offered to drive us back to the dorm in his rental car. After an uneasy silence, Pam announced her cover story for Friday: Hal was taking her out, and did we both want to go along? So it was settled. She didn't even tease me (much) after he dropped us off.

"What were you thinking of?" I demanded, trying to sound angrier than I felt. "First you set me up with your cute brother and then you trick me into playing slave positions while he calls me every filthy name in the book."

"Don't worry, Shirley. You like him, don't you?"

Me: "Well, yeah, but now he's going to think I'm the biggest slut he ever met who wasn't already wearing a collar."

Pam: "Already? Interesting word! But that's the point, babe. Last summer, I overheard him complain to one of his friends on the phone. Jessie's spent so much time around slave pussy that he never gets to meet a free woman who he likes. In fact, he thinks all the free women in Houston are disgusted by his job--and he may have a point, there. Now, you two know you like each other, right? After the yoga session you just had, if you can't make it into his bed on Friday night, I give up. Just pick a codeword—say, baked beans?—to let me know if you want Hal and I to go do our own thing."