(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.)
One Sunday morning in January, I was a college sophomore on semester break, visiting my roommate and best friend Pamela Foster at her family home outside Houston, Texas. That evening, however, I was absolutely naked and immobilized, collared as a slave, kneeling with my thighs spread wide in an office of the Longhorn Slave Market, waiting for a female slave handler or wrangler to come put me to bed in a cage with other slaves. It was mostly pretend, of course—Pam had checked me in overnight simply to be slave-graded, a common experience for young women in the South. Pam's brother and my boyfriend, Jessie, was the nightshift manager at the Longhorn. Because he knew I had fantasies of being a slave, Jessie tried to give me a thrill. He switched collars and reference numbers so that, as far as his subordinates knew, I was a true pleasure slave awaiting grading and auction in the morning.
The rational part of my mind reassured me that, even if for some reason my friends did not rescue me, surely at the point of auction someone would notice that the number on my collar did not match the number tattooed inside my lower lip. Still, my heart was beating faster at the thought of the small but real chance that the switch would become my permanent reality. Because we were both turned on by this risky role-play, Jessie had done his best to make me feel like a real slut being "sampled" by the Longhorn's duty manager—he had thrilled me by first gently pumping my face and then bending me over his desk, face down and still cuffed, so that he could fuck me silly. Only in this case, the correct term would be "fuck me slave-stupid" rather than just "silly." And I did feel silly/stupid, a happy bimbo smile on my face, nipples still partially erect, and the remains of my boyfriend's cum seeping out of me onto a pad he had placed on the carpet (he had wiped my opening but our combined secretions made a mess). So far, my real-life experience was even more erotic than my daydreams, and that was saying a lot!
The office door opened suddenly, and a female slave wrangler walked in and grinned at me. As my boyfriend had told me, Josephine (or "Jo" to Jessie, "Mistress" to me!) bore a strong family resemblance to her sister Florence, whom I had encountered when I arrived at the market that afternoon. Both were tall, statuesque, and physically powerful Black women, a match for a slave of any gender who might resist them.
She chuckled, but her voice was kind when she looked me over. "Talk about rode hard and put away wet! Looks like Mister Jessie boffed your brains out. You're lucky that Mister Jessie, one of the good guys, introduced you to your new life, and made sure you enjoyed it—he could have just had his fun and left you sore and frustrated. So don't start complaining about what he did to you—the owner lets managers do what they want so long as they don't damage the merchandise, and your record says only one of your openings is still virgin."
I kept my eyes on the floor and politely murmured "Yes, Mistress."
"Not that Mr. Jessie takes advantage of sluts very often. I can't remember the last time he played with the inventory. I hear he found a girlfriend up North and hardly looks at the slaves who come through here, even the Prime pussy that the other guys drool over." I got a warm feeling hearing that, surrounded by all these available women, Jessie was still thinking of me—I had not demanded or expected exclusivity. Jo continued, "Come to think of it, none of the other guys, even the married ones, regard slave sex as adultery or whatever—to them, it's just a job perk, like free coffee on the night shift. Still, you must be a really special piece of ass if you got Mr. Jessie to dip his wick." Her voice changed suddenly to a warning tone. "But that doesn't mean you get special treatment, got it? A cunt is a cunt, so just remember your place."
I meekly replied, "Yes, Mistress."
She chuckled again, almost giggling. "Listen to the Black wrangler telling the little white girl to remember her place! This new slavery is a great equalizer, isn't it? Come on, kid, let's get you taken care of."
I've written before about how one of the male handlers had moved me around by just cupping his hand on one of my ass cheeks, with his fingers partway into my butt crack so he could steer me with gentle pressure. Mistress Josephine was much more formal, using the law enforcement officer technique of lifting up on my bound hands to force compliance with her wishes. She wasn't trying to hurt me—perhaps she felt a little sorry for me but had little interest in me otherwise.
*****
First stop was "dinner"—kneeling on the hard concrete, I got a bottle of water and a bowl of slave kibble. Pam had warned me about this—slave kibble was actually intended for human nutrition, but it was about as thrilling to eat as dry cereal. Institutions such as slave markets, clinics, and jails that had frequent turn-over in slave population found it easier to use this stuff instead of serving perishable human food, not to mention that kibble reinforced the message that slaves were livestock rather than people. At least the handler released my cuffs so I could eat—she might have left them on and demanded that I push my face into the bowl like a feeding trough.
Next, Mistress Josephine marched me to the slave toilets—unisex, no dividers between stalls, just a long row of commodes and another of sinks. I managed to relieve myself despite my bored audience, and she was kind enough to give me a disposable toothbrush after I rinsed my face. Then my handler reattached the cuffs and walked me through a labyrinth of cages to one marked P23 that contained four simple cots (bolted to the floor with rubber around the frames, as if to prevent their being tossed around). Each cot had a folded, scratchy-looking blanket at one end and a small foam pillow at the other. The only other occupant of the cage was another naked young woman—a very short one with Asian features and slightly-yellow skin. As the handler unlocked the cage gate and guided me inside, the Asian girl slid to the floor, knees apart and hands interlaced behind her neck.
"Listen up, girls," Josephine said in her usual forceful but patient way. "one slave to a bunk. You can't cover yourself with a blanket until lights out, which is in" she paused to look at her watch, "23 minutes. If you're cold before then, we'll let you cover your shoulders with the blanket while you sit up, but be sure that your tits and cunts are completely visible." Looking at me and gesturing at the other girl, she said, "7920 here knows what to do—if any free person approaches your cage, you assume that kneeling position and obey all orders. Any disturbances and you'll regret it. Got it?"
"Yes, Mistress," we chorused. After removing my cuffs, Josephine left us. As her footsteps receded, we both got off the floor and sat on adjacent cots, wrapping the blankets around our shoulders. The slave market was always chilly, but being naked and motionless on a January night was distinctly uncomfortable.
"I'm Cho." She whispered. "Why are you here?"
My mind froze. I hadn't planned any cover story for why I was enslaved. I mumbled the first thing that came to mind: "Shirley—I had College loans."
Cho sighed. "I wish mine was that easy. My boss framed me for embezzlement. I wouldn't put out for him, and I think he's going to buy me at auction tomorrow." A tinge of contempt crept into her voice at the end of the short speech. I was sitting to her right, and I suddenly noticed that her right buttock, which was bare underneath the hanging blanket, had the circle-star brand of a criminal slave in the state of Texas. The skin around the brand still looked red. Just the thought of having my butt burned like that made me cringe, and to have it done maliciously, when I was innocent, would have been unbearable.
"Sorry." I said, helplessly. Suddenly slavery seemed a lot less like an erotic game and a lot more like rampant cruelty, not to mention a new form of sexual harassment.
We spoke a little about where we were from, where we went to school, and so on. We'd been talking for about 15 minutes (no clocks anywhere) when we both heard the sound of boots coming towards us—obviously a slave wrangler. Cho and I slid off our cots, discarding the blankets to assume the required submissive position. Mistress Jo appeared, unlocked the gate, and thrust a naked, 30-ish male into the cage as she released his hands. Crap! I thought. I recognized him as Jimmy, the man whose wife had tricked him to come to the Longhorn under the guise of slave grading for a mortgage, only to use his power of attorney to convert him into a slave for sale tomorrow morning. I don't know whether he realized that I had witnessed this betrayal when we arrived at the slave market at the same time, but I KNEW he would resent me for what happened later that afternoon. In front of a crowd of wranglers, Jo's sister, Florence, had belittled both the size of Jimmy's prick and his ability to perform slave block poses. To rub it in, she emphasized that I—the "little Yankee girl"—was much better at block poses than was he, and Flo had me put on a naked show to prove it. He had been visibly furious every time I saw him that day, and I could hardly blame him. Being caged with this guy for the night was not likely to turn out well.
Mistress Jo gave us the same speech about use of the blanket, only this time she said there were 4 minutes to lights out. When she asked us to confirm our understanding, Cho and I dutifully did so, but she had to nudge Jimmy with her boot before he mumbled a "Yes, Mistress." His voice, which his wife had devoxed before enslaving him, was only just recovering, and sounded raspy.
The three of us sat on our respective bunks until the main overhead lights went out, leaving only low wattage illumination to permit the wranglers to find their way around. At that point, Cho and I gratefully lay down and tried to get warm under our scratchy wool blankets. Within a minute, however, I heard a low mumbling that gradually got louder and clearer—Jimmie was literally cussing a blue streak, most of it aimed at "bitches," "cunts," and whatever other negative synonyms for women he could find in his limited vocabulary.
After about 5 minutes of this ranting, Jimmy suddenly sat up straight, barely visible in the dim light. His rambling including something like "I'll show these sluts who has a micro-dick," and he practically jumped on poor Cho, tearing off her blanket and struggling to pin her down. Naturally, she shrieked in alarm, but he was too large and strong for the petite slave.
"Please," I begged in a loud whisper. "I'm sure they're monitoring us. The slave handlers are not going to let you attack the poor girl, and besides, she's just as much of a victim as you. PLEASE don't do this."
He climbed off her and started towards me. "You, little Miss Sex-on-a-Stick, wagging your tits and ass at me while you slut-danced. I'm gonna . . ."
Fortunately, the cavalry arrived before he reached me—cavalry in the form of my boyfriend as well as Josephine and several other handlers. Cho and I immediately dropped to our knees, but Jimmy got hit by both a charge to his collar and several shock batons. His body writhed, then collapsed. For a moment, I thought he had been electrocuted, but I noticed Jo checking the pulse on his neck and nodding to Jessie. An overhead spotlight snapped on, illuminating the cage. Before my eyes could adjust to the bright light, all three of us were secured—Jimmy spread-eagled onto the cage wall, while Cho and I were on our knees with our wrists zip-tied to our knees.
*****
