Trying On A Collar Pt 03

Trying On a Collar, Pt. 03

(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 and forcible sex are NEVER acceptable.)

What's a shy upstate New York girl (OK, woman, age 19) like me doing in Houston, Texas, walking stark naked across a parking lot, collared with my hands bound behind me, about to be turned over to the Longhorn Slave Market to spend the night and tomorrow morning being slave-graded? Subject to electric shocks, sexual exploitation, or whatever else the staff thinks it needs to discipline me?

I could blame my college roommate, blonde beauty Pamela Foster, who was grinning while holding my leash and leading me towards the building. I'd hardly even thought about slavery until Pam, a very assertive Texas woman, showed up at college and introduced me to the fascinating topic.

I could blame my boyfriend, Pam's soft-spoken and muscular brother Jessie, who was the night manager at the Longhorn and has threatened/promised to treat me like a real slave slut tonight.

Sigh. The truth is, it was my own damn fault. I had such a poor self-image that the idea of temporarily surrendering all rights to become a sex toy for Jessie, and for anyone else Jessie felt like giving me to, gave me an indescribable sexual thrill. I had and have no desire to be a real slave, of course, and even pretending to be one in a place where, legend has it, some free women just disappear, made me nervous. But I was so submissive that I jumped at the chance to live out my fevered fantasies for one night. How I got here didn't matter, now anyway—Pam had control of me, and if I tried to back out she'd just ask the slave wranglers to spray devox down my throat, so I couldn't protest. Not that she's cruel, but she's convinced herself as well as me that this was what I wanted!

*****

As we approached the entrance, a couple in their late 20s or early 30s got out of another car. They appeared to be on the same errand as we were—getting slave graded. The guy, a black-haired, slightly-out-of-shape Caucasian, was stark naked, and dropped to his knees so that the very pretty woman could collar him. He seemed to be enjoying the situation, as he had a considerable erection. Next, he stood and, obviously responding to her instructions, crossed his wrists behind him. She zip-tied them together, then fiddled with his hand and came around, smiling, holding something metallic up for him to see. By this time we were close enough to hear her speak, in a teasing tone.

"You forgot your ring, Jimmy—remember, no jewelry on slaves." I heard him mumble "Yes, Mistress" in response. She kissed his cheek affectionately, then said "heel, Asshole." Even that traditional insult used to refer to male slaves came out in a teasing tone, as if they were playing some elaborate bedroom game. Then she led the naked man into the building.

Pam followed them into the huge front desk area, lined with many computer stations and large screens, presumably to announce auctions and viewings. On a Sunday afternoon, however, the screens were dark, and there was only one attendant standing behind a station. That meant that I would have to wait until she processed the couple in front of us, so Pam ordered me to kneel on the hard concrete floor. "Jimmy" knelt in front of the processing station.

The one attendant—a slave wrangler, based on her jeans, boots, equipment belt, and "Long Horn" logo T-shirt, was huge. Not fat at all, but BIG. she was tall, well-muscled, and magnificently-endowed in the chest. She must have been 8 inches taller and 90 pounds heavier than me, not to mention that she wore a belt studded with various weapons while I was naked, kneeling, and zip-tied. At the same time, this woman's self-confidence and statuesque shape made her both imposing and attractive in her own right—she reminded me a great deal of Pam, if Pam had been taking steroids and lifting weights! I eventually noticed that her shirt carried a nametag that read "Florence."

I suddenly realized that something odd was going on with the couple in front of us. Pam and Jessie had both told me that, when people were dropped off the day before they were actually slave graded, they usually weren't devoxed (sprayed with a compound that paralyzed the vocal cords) unless they caused a disruption. Yet, the woman in front of us immediately asked Florence to devox Jimmy. She looked at the paperwork the woman presented, shrugged, and shook up a can of devox. Surprised, Jimmy didn't want to open his mouth, so the handler just pinched his nose hard, immobilizing his head and forcing him to open his mouth so she could spray him.

Next, Florence very courteously said, "Excuse me, Ma'am—I need to photocopy this power of attorney." She walked ten feet away to a copier, ran the copy with no wasted motion, and returned, all while Jimmy was still trying in vain to talk. Florence returned the original to the woman, asked her to sign some form, and then pulled out what looked like a notary public self-inking stamp, which she applied to the form and added a signature herself.

"There you go, ma'am, all set for his auction tomorrow."

Jimmie erupted off the floor, obviously distraught about being sold when, by all appearances, he had expected to be slave-graded. Almost casually, without a change in her expression, the Black slave wrangler flicked forward a shock baton, discharging it perfectly into Jimmy's knee so that he collapsed in silent agony. She stood over him, saying calmly but loudly,

"You're a slave now, and slaves don't get to throw temper tantrums. You gave this woman power of attorney to dispose of you, and that's just what she's done. Are you going to behave, or would you like another charge?" she asked, menacing his half-erect cock with the baton. He vigorously shook his head in the negative, and resumed the kneeling stance. She calmly wrapped a large leather collar around his neck, then stood back and gave him the standard lecture:

"You are at The Longhorn Slave Market in Houston, Texas. You are here for processing and auction as a labor slave. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you are fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt AGAIN. Do you understand?" He nodded vigorously.

Florence looked up at the woman. "Something you want to say to him, Ma'am?"

"Jimmy, I told you the truth—you're here to pay for the house mortgage. Only, instead of just being collateral, you're going to be sold to pay it off. I've worked 70 hours a week for years while you just sat around drinking beer and doing nothing, not even the housework—now you can make up for lost time. Hope you enjoy your new life—I know I'll enjoy mine."

Another slave wrangler, this time male, had appeared by this time, and led a subdued new slave still shaking his head, away.

I couldn't help looking nervously at Pam. She smiled reassuringly, "Don't worry, Shirl, we're not going to sell you. Just stay calm, OK?" She led me, crawling, the last few feet to the station.

Florence apologized for the wait. "I'm sorry that took so long, ma'am. I don't enjoy shocking the inventory, but sometimes it's necessary. Besides," she emitted a deep chuckle. "I have to admit that, as a Black woman, I get a certain satisfaction out of putting a White boy slave in his place."

"I can certainly see that," Pam smiled in return, then presented my papers. Florence looked them over then, for the first time, acknowledged my existence by speaking directly to me.

"For the duration of your grading, do you agree to submit yourself to the inventory regulations of the Long Horn Slave Market?" I babbled, "Yes, Mistress." She smiled slightly, then commented:

"Good slut. Keep that attitude, and you won't have any problems. Now: collar!" I assumed the position. Pam removed the pet collar and Florence installed another massive leather shock collar whose two pins dug into the back of my neck when she snapped it shut. She then read off the usual warning to me, and I was relieved to hear her say "for the purpose of slave-grading only" rather than sale. When I stood up on order, Pam gave me a quick hug and said she would see me in the morning. Yet another slave handler, whose nametag said "Bob," led me through double doors into the bowels of the building. As the doors closed behind me, I thought I heard Florence on the telephone:

"Mister Jessie? This is Flo. That slut you were asking for is just starting to in-process. You're welcome."

*****

The first step, of course, was to take DNA samples and fingerprints, then tattoo my slave number (884-02-4434) onto the inside of my lower lip.

There were about a dozen people in view, half slaves and half slave handlers. I realized with a start that I was no longer that embarrassed by being naked—it seemed almost normal, as part of my inferior status. With one exception which I'll get to, the handlers didn't even seem to notice or comment on my nakedness.

Instead, though, I was very conscious that they were controlling me at all times. Bob replaced my zip-tie with handcuffs, still behind my back, and at first he used the standard law-enforcement technique: lifting up slightly on the prisoner's bound hands forces the prisoner to bend forward and comply to avoid discomfort or injury. I'd heard about that somewhere, but (not being into bondage until now) had never experienced it before. I mean, I thought the hands-behind-the-back routine just prevented the slave from covering herself or struggling, but lifting up like that gave him exquisite control over me unless I wanted to dislocate my shoulders.

Once he realized that I was docile and eager to cooperate, he hardly even touched my wrists. Instead, he walked me around with his hand cupped around my buttock, fingers just slightly protruding into my butt crack so he could steer me by pressing in one direction or the other. Control and titillation, all at once—what more could a budding submissive want? Speaking of titillation, when Bob wanted to adjust my stance, such as when he put me into an examination rack, he gently cupped one of my boobs, and his thumb stroked across my nipple, almost as if he were spinning the wheel on a computer mouse! What he was really spinning was my arousal meter—the memory of being both controlled and rewarded with just one hand is one of the hottest images I have of that day being slave-graded. He had me at a low simmer the whole time I was in his hands.

That was deliberate, of course, but the next thing Bob wanted me to do was to go through my slave block positions, known outside of slave markets by the innocuous name "slave yoga." His hand on my butt guided me over to a low platform, where half a dozen slave handlers of both genders were gathered as an audience. When we joined them, Jimmie, the guy whose wife had just tricked him into slavery, was on the platform trying to perform. I say trying, because he clearly hadn't practiced these moves. He was still obviously both angry and horrified by being enslaved, but nobody had sprayed his throat with the antidote to Devox, so he couldn't say a word. Whether he knew it or not, the handlers had done him a favor by leaving his voiceless. Had he been able to talk, they would have expected him to repeat all the filthy slave propositions (otherwise known as "slave mantras") associated with the platform positions he was performing, including phrases such as "Please fuck my face with your monster cock, Master" and "I long to feel you ramming yourself up my ass." It was hard enough for innocent little Shirley (me), who

wanted

to be submissive, to say such things out loud—it would have been torture for an uncooperative heterosexual man to have to talk like that.

Anyway, Florence or 'Flo', the handler who had first collared him, was putting Jimmy through his paces on the platform. When he botched it, he got not only a mild shock to his collar but also a belittling, scathing comment from this imposing woman: "Oh, come on—stop thinking with your dick, because it's too small anyway. When I say 'Display,' you turn away from me, spread your legs, and bend your head and arms WAAAY down so that your scrawny ass is the highest point of your body. Do you need a plug in your ass so you can find it with both hands?" Two other female handlers, each almost as huge as Flo, "encouraged" him to shake his booty, imagine they were pegging him, and so on. The males were mostly quiet, although they didn't seem concerned by the verbal emasculation Jimmie was suffering. Just a normal afternoon at the market, I guess.

Finally, Flo threw up her hands in exasperation, and turned to look at me. Her face suddenly softened. "Do YOU know your platform positions, Sweetie?" I was a little intimidated, but looked at my feet and responded, "I took a slave yoga class, Mistress."

"Of course you did—even the little Yankee girl is better prepared for a slave market than this clown. OK, Bob, how about we have Sweetcheeks here show this micro-dick male how it's done?"

Bob smiled and removed my cuffs, playfully spanking my butt to urge me onto the platform. "Your turn, little slave. And don't forget to entice the customers with some juicy slave mantra phrases while you're at it. Pretend your ass is for sale."

"Yes, Master." For the next few minutes, I was really thankful that my roommate had drilled me on slave yoga. Things went by fast as I responded instinctively. Each time Bob gave a command, I leaped to obey and babbled out one of the phrases I'd learned in the Roxbury slave yoga class a year earlier. The only way I can describe what happened is to list the commands in capital letters, my actions in parentheses, and the slave mantra phrases in upper- and lower-case letters:

"PRESENT!" (hands interlocked behind my neck, breasts thrust forward, legs slightly more than shoulder-width apart.) "I live to serve you, Master."

"TWERK!" (thrusting my hips forward and back, three times.) "I long to feel your monster prick filling me up."

"COLLAR!" (turn away from him and drop to my knees, one hand on hip and the other holding my hair away from my neck for a collar or leash.) "Please buy me and make me your slut, Mistress."

"PRONE!" (still facing away, my nose to the platform boards, hands by my sides, legs about 18 inches apart.) "Use me as you will, Master."

"SPREAD YOUR CHEEKS!" (Reach back with both hands to pull my buttocks up and out displaying my labia and sphincter. Blush!) "Please fuck my ass, Master."

"DISPLAY!" (scramble to my feet, still facing away from the handlers, legs to shoulder width, head down between my legs. Remembering what Flo had said to Jimmie, I bent as far forward as I could, practically waving my ass in their faces.) "All my holes belong to you."

"SLAVE FOURS!" (drop forward onto all fours, face down, knees, hands, and feet on the floor, then drop again from hands to elbows so that my head and shoulders were lower than my behind.) "I'm your bitch, Master—won't you take me doggie-style?"

"FLIP OVER!" (push on one side so that my body twisted around, catching myself so that both hands and both feet were on the floor beneath me, back arched, thighs wide apart, again showing everything I'd been taught to conceal.) "How may I pleasure you?"

The commands seemed to go on and on, with lots of repetitions. Unlike Jimmie, I didn't draw many criticisms. Instead, the small crowd kept making positive comments, including "Damn, I'd like a piece of that," "She's hot for the collar," and even "Times like this I wish I were working the night shift!" I'd always gotten excited going through the demeaning process of slave yoga, but doing the poses and saying those lewd phrases while slave naked in front of an audience of fully-clothed people who were evaluating me as a slave meant I wore a smile and erect nipples the whole time. By the time I finished, I wished that I could go over the top and have a true slavegasm, but I didn't quite make it because of the struggle between arousal and humiliation. Lord knows I was aroused, panting, and mindless with desire. Towards the end of the routine, I realized that someone was holding up a cell phone to video my embarrassing performance. The idea of a photographic record bothered me, but I knew better than to protest at that moment. Finally, Bob came to the last command:

"KNEEL!" I almost slammed onto the platform, chest heaving and boobs wobbling everywhere, right in front of the handler who was filming me. My thighs were spread wide and I was pleased to see a massive erection inside his jeans. That probably explains why the enticement I practically shouted was the ever-popular, "Please fuck my face with your huge cock, Master."

In the background, I could hear Flo say, approvingly, "now THAT'S how a slut should perform on the block! I hope you took notes, boy." I was suddenly frozen when I looked up and realized that I was kneeling in front of my boyfriend, Jessie, who had apparently captured my X-rated platform routine on his cell phone. He must have realized my horror, because he quickly whispered, "Don't worry, Darling, this file is not going anywhere."

Slightly reassured (and distracted by being called "Darling"), I had no time to think further about it because Bob took control of me again and marched me to a nearby station for my national registry photographs. Jessie had told me these poses were usually referred to as "the pinks" because of how much of the slave's sexual openings were on display. Jessie followed behind us.

Bob first took a photo of me in the Present position, which I have already described. Imagine being slave naked, wearing only a heavy shock collar, with hands interlaced behind neck, a posture that caused your breasts to jut outward. In this instance, I was still panting gently so that my chest went up and down rhythmically while my nipples were quite erect. My legs were slightly apart, giving the viewer full frontal nudity. Just before Bob took a formal photo, Jessie snapped this position on his cell phone which he (thankfully) put away.

The next two poses were on my knees, making me appear even more submissive (if that were possible.) In the first, I used one hand to hold my labia open, displaying my very moist opening. I had a vacant, bimbo-like stare of lust on my face. The other pose had me bent over so that my head touched the floor while my hands split my butt cheeks. In that humbling position, I sensed that the handler, crouching behind me between my widespread thighs, was photographing my anus and genitals. I blushed all over, but found such complete exposure and abject submission even more exciting.

When the photographs were finished, Bob left me kneeling, hands re-cuffed behind my back, while he entered the data and uploaded the data into the National Registry of Slaves. The sight of those photographs re-energized my arousal, my sense of being helpless slave meat. Recalling what Pam had told me, when he showed me the results I double-checked that the entry's purpose indicated I was only being slave-graded. I acknowledged that the information appeared correct, saying "Thank you, Master" softly and smiling at him.

Jessie had walked away to check on other things, and I noticed him talking to another man who was, apparently, the swing-shift manager. My boyfriend the slave wrangler came back over just as Bob was looking at his tablet to check on my processing. After looking over his shoulder, Jessie said,