Virtual Slavery Pt 01

All characters are over 18 and this fictional story involves non-consensual sex. Many thanks to editor Volunteer_ for valuable improvements and encouragement.

This story is being published in two parts:

Part 1 Beth's Story

Part 2 Paul's story and Beth's story (continued)

The story takes place in the fictional world of legal slavery explored so creatively by Carl_Bradford, Gentlemanmariner, John_Doe_Stories and other Literotica authors. I recommend reading some of their stories to better understand the slave industry they describe. In this world, slavery is often used instead of prison time to punish people who commit crimes, default on loans, etc. The most common type, of course, is sex slaves who must do anything and everything their master commands. Those slaves are first forced into submission through humiliation and abuse.

But, instead of cages and whips and branding, I've taken the business side and slave psychology to a little different place. Enjoy.

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Part 1 - Beth's Story

It's been over a year, but I still remember the few seconds of contended feeling as I slowly awakened that morning. I sensed the warmth of my husband lying beside me, the softness of the plush sheets of my bed and the peace of semi-consciousness. Then I shuddered as I came fully conscious and remembered that it was the last day of my life - my happy life, my former life. It was the first day of my slavery.

Before that day, my life had just begun to flower. Paul and I had wed four years before and were starting to talk about children. We had a great sex life and I was usually encouraging him to push the envelope of our sexual activity. He was always happy to follow my lead into new experiences - and new pleasures.

The small construction firm I worked for had just been acquired and I was thrilled when the new bosses picked me to run the combined design team. My confidence and experience were exactly what they were looking for. I should have been intimidated by the new bosses, but instead, I set the standards for our designs.

Paul and I were very much in love with each other and our life together. We were lucky and successful people - until we weren't.

It had been only two months since a moment of weakness, an instant of confusion, had altered one man's life and destroyed my own. Simple, everyday, inconsequential events combined: driving home from a party with my friends, a narrow road, a biker peddling alongside the roadway, the text arriving on his phone, the truck going the other way leaning across the center line ...

In the county jail, it took hours for me to understand the world. I wasn't hurt - physically. But I had seen the man fall next to my car and heard his scream. I had seen them load him on the gurney, one leg crushed. I watched the cop read her instrument and declare "0.01% blood alcohol, legally drunk". I saw the fear in my husband Paul's eyes. I heard the jail cell door slam shut. I knew my world had been dramatically altered - but had no idea how much of me that alteration would destroy.

The Wake County judge had seen lots of drunk driving cases and wasn't going to listen to excuses about how few drinks and not realizing my stomach was empty. The victim would never be able to walk again. The fact that the biker had raised his left arm to read the text on his cell phone, and possibly veered slightly left as a result wasn't relevant in his mind. The truck crossing the center line wasn't even given polite attention. A legally drunk driver had permanently maimed an innocent man and must be punished - severely.

My lawyer had tried to warn me, but I was still shocked when the sentence of five years in prison was dropped on my head. I was speechless and could only sob in Paul's arms before the guards took me back to my cell.

My dear friend, Liz, was with me through the whole ordeal. She was an attorney, though not in criminal law. Her firm specialized in intellectual property and helped companies extend and protect their patents and copyrights. I didn't see the connection with my life until much later.

Liz and I had been roomies freshman year at NC State and had bonded immediately since we share the same first name (Elizabeth). We protected each other and counseled each other and yelled at each other when we had done something stupid. She was a trust fund girl and never lacked for money or clothes. For a while in our sophomore year, we let our feelings for each other go beyond the usual bounds. My heart had been broken by a boy and she soothed me and dried my tears and held me close - for a long time. It had felt so warm and comforting that I couldn't resist.

We explored our sexuality together and it was exciting for a while. I had been a virgin and enjoyed the thrill of doing naughty things. But then Paul came into my life and I realized that I was not really a lesbian. The thrill of intimacy and sex with a man was much more arousing. When I got serious with Paul, I had to gently back away from Liz and it broke both our hearts. Strangely, we remained friends, though with definite limits. I never realized how much Liz was hurt by that.

But in my hour of greatest need, Liz was at my side. She had helped to pay for my lawyers and even got a private detective to try to dig up details about the biker and the truck going the other way. Most importantly, she held my hand and kept me sane in those moments of despair when I was crushed with guilt for what I had done. She provided the bond money so I could live at home until my prison sentence would begin. She was as obsessed with my crisis as I was.

During one of our sessions, she raised a new subject.

"Five years in prison sounds like a terrible experience Beth. Would you consider another option that is also undesirable, but would last for only about one year?"

I didn't realize there were any options to my prison sentence. So, I was open to her recommendations and shocked when she suggested slavery. North Carolina supports legal slavery in much the same way as other southern states. I understood the logic behind slavery as an alternative to prison terms and for unpaid loans and such. But I had always been repulsed by the reality of women (83% women) being used as sex slaves. I had never needed to consider it - until I faced prison.

My first reaction was predictable - hell no! I had read plenty of stories of women being humiliated, gang raped and horribly abused within the legal boundaries of slavery. I also knew that humiliation and abuse were also likely in the state prison. Only a truly desperate person would even consider volunteering for slavery. But now, for the first time, I was that desperate.

Liz had done her homework and determined that in a case like mine, a five year prison term could be offset by a one year slave contract. The slave can be put up for auction in the public market and a young, attractive female like me should bring a high price. The judge would approve such a swap because the amount bid to purchase the slave contract would be given to the victim's family as compensation for their loss. The state also saves the cost of housing and feeding a prisoner. Five years of horrid prison versus one year of horrid slavery - that was the choice I faced. The judge gave me one week to decide.

Paul and I spent several sleepless nights discussing the slavery option. Besides the physical abuse that would be likely, the emotional implications of being a sex slave could be devastating. A woman who has lived as a sex toy for strangers would have little self-respect when the contract was ended. And what of her husband? Legally, their marriage is considered annulled during the slave contract. Vows of fidelity mean little when the wife is being fucked by multiple men every night. He has the legal right to date and fuck and possibly love another woman while his (former) wife is legally the property of someone else. What marriage could survive that?

I spent one afternoon in a local coffee shop, struggling to decide between two horrible fates. I realized it would probably be the last time I would be free to go out and do whatever I wanted. Browsing the newspaper, I read a news story about trouble at the state women's prison. A gang of women had bribed guards by seizing new, helpless female inmates and offering them to the guards as sex toys. The victim inmates had been brutalized and when one had found herself pregnant, she hung herself in her cell. That made the prison option seem just as horrible as slavery.

I faced the most important decision of my life. Both choices were awful. Paul and I both worried about the possible physical and psychological damage I might suffer. Ron also worried about his own acceptance of having other men regularly fuck his wife. Would his attitude toward me be changed by that? If I became a slave, I would have no way to communicate with him and he would worry about me endlessly.

Liz and I discussed the options and I related my fears of slavery. She pointed out that most of the horror stories I'd read about were related to the registration and training process in Texas and elsewhere. Women there were often whipped or branded and physically forced to submit to their master. In North Carolina, she said, many slave owners were rich, elderly men who just wanted companionship and occasional sex.

She had already done some research about a relatively recent option for the registering and training of new slaves. A new client of her law firm, Triangle Slave Management (TSM), offered services to slaves and owners to help make the slave and slave-owning experiences more rewarding. "Rewarding?!?" I stuttered. She gave me their brochure, which I have kept to this day.

For Owners:

The processing and training of first-time slaves has always been difficult for both the owner and slave. Most slaves don't adapt well to submission training and must be repeatedly punished and humiliated to force them into compliance. It can damage the slave physically and mentally and can be emotionally draining on owners who still value their own humanity.

Traditional slave training companies use techniques that were originally developed to manage animal livestock. They use brute force and torture to physically coerce the slaves into submission - often breaking bodies and spirits. The resulting slaves are damaged in many ways and often fail to deliver the full value of their services. The owners must continue with ongoing brutal punishments to ensure slave submission - or sell off the slave at a loss.

TSM offers a high-tech solution to the challenge of training new slaves to love the collar and willingly perform all their master's commands. The slave's views of themselves and their world are formed/manipulated by immersion in a virtual reality designed by TSM. Old concepts of independence are erased and the new submissive relationship with the master is deeply embedded in their psyche.

For sex slaves, we customize training to ensure that your slave has all of the skills you desire, physical and mental, to provide complete satisfaction for years to come. Sexual responsiveness is medically enhanced to ensure a master's satisfaction. Sexual orientation is also programmed to satisfy every adult in the owner's household. Ask about our optional BDSM package which trains slaves to individual devices, roles and kinks.

After four weeks of TSM training, we will deliver the healthy, skilled and submissive slave you desire. Speak with one of our Training Advisors to learn how your slave can be made a perfect fit for your individual needs.

I flinched at the slick marketing message. I had heard many tales of the horrors of slave auctions and slave training facilities where the slaves were relieved of their clothes and their humanity. This seemed less violent - but also more frightening. Could they really change someone into a permanent submissive who wanted only to please their master? That meant giving up your own identity - your life.

I guess a part of me refused to believe the sales pitch. Anyone can be forced to submit under duress and threat of painful punishment, but when the threat of punishment ended, they were still the same person. Weren't they?

After days of struggle, I informed Paul and Liz of my decision to go for the shorter, but more agonizing, one year of slavery. Paul asked me several times, "Are you sure? Really sure?" Once I had made the decision, I couldn't go back and reconsider everything again. Liz agreed that it was probably the least bad of my options. There were no more options after I signed the court papers. I signed away my freedom and my self-respect.

With Liz's influence, the judge assigned TSM to handle my auction. I was happy because their method called for some privacy while being registered and photographed for the lewd "pinks" - pictures of my naked body and vulva. I didn't realize that their online auction process carried a different threat. It was international, so anyone, anywhere in the world where slavery was legal, could bid on me. I could be forcefully shipped to some rich oligarch in one of the many desperate countries where most women were considered property. A slave's life there was usually a form of hell on earth.

My anxiety about my future couldn't get any worse. I was helpless. I became numb and couldn't process the reality of all of the threats to my body and soul. Poor Paul fully shared in my despair and couldn't add any strength or rationality to the situation. Like most men, he felt responsible to protect and provide a safe environment for his wife. But slavery would render him helpless, effectively neuter him. I tried my best to encourage him. He would be left behind and would need the strength to carry on alone.

Only Liz kept her head and continued to evaluate the choices and give me her advice. She called a meeting one evening for us to strategize about the registration process.

"I think you should do things a little differently than normal," she explained. "We don't want you sold to someone overseas or into a brothel somewhere."

"A brothel!" I screamed. "Oh my God. I never thought about that. Oh Liz, I don't think I'll be able to survive this."

"You're a strong woman Beth. You will survive this and find a new life when this is over, probably a better life. I will support you in any way I can. You can count on me to be there for you."

Her reassurances helped a little - but only a little. She hugged me and continued her advice. She suggested that, for the registration process, I shouldn't try to look sexy and attractive like most women do. I've never considered my body to be especially sexy, though several men have said so. I'm about 5'7" and 130 pounds. My breasts are a full B cup and are still pretty firm. My abs are tight and my ass is round the way most men like. Not bad for a 26 year old.

"You should try to look less appealing, not more. That would reduce the number of interested buyers from far away and increase the chance you'll end up somewhere near here."

On the appointed day, she drove me to the TSM registration site in downtown Raleigh. I went in with no makeup and my hair unbrushed. I could do nothing but agree to Liz's suggestions - which I did blindly. I was a wreck.

The registration process was humiliating in ways that cannot be imagined by a free person. Stripped naked, my body was positioned against different forms so I could be photographed from all angles. I have never been ashamed of my body, but now I was ashamed of what it would look like displayed so grotesquely.

Since my primary value would be as a pleasure slave, particular attention was paid to my breasts, ass and crotch. I had to spread my labia to give a clear view of my vagina and anus - my most intimate parts would be displayed to millions of people around the world.

They told me to strut and pose suggestively (naked) for a short video. They said an attractive and sexy image would earn a better auction bid price. I didn't care about the auction price, so I did the minimum - walking to and from the camera. I began to understand what it would be like to be a slave and have others controlling everything I had to do. My fears swelled in my throat.

A medical person - at least someone wearing a white lab coat - made me bend over a padded bench, spreading my legs apart. My hands and legs were bound to anchors on the sides of the bench. He went to a cabinet and removed a device. I heard him adjusting something and the sound of a hand pump inflating. I felt cool lube being spread over my pussy and pressed into my vagina. Then I was penetrated by something that was hard but flexible - much like an erect penis.

He pushed it in until the base of it pressed against my labia. I felt half full, but not uncomfortable. Then I heard the pumping sound again and could feel the device lengthen inside me. It must have extended for several inches before it began pushing my cervix painfully. I moaned in pain and he stopped pumping. I heard a click and he started pumping again, but this time the device was expanding, not in length, but in diameter. I felt my vagina being stretched and clenched my jaw to endure the discomfort.

When I gasped from the pain, the man stopped pumping and deflated and removed the device.

"Your master should be quite pleased. Your cunt will accept an eight inch cock and will be nicely tight. Your current size 4 diameter will, of course, be stretched by large cocks over time. But that's a nice, tight size to start."

I knew that a pleasure slave's value to her master was based on her ability to fuck. But having my vagina measured and graded was debasing to a degree I had never imagined. For some reason, it brought back a memory of a crude joke I'd heard at a frat party: 'What's the definition of a woman? A life support system for a cunt.' That was all I was now.

Every new humiliation made me think I had seen the worst. But, there was always another, lower form of debasement to endure. I expected him to release me from my bonds, but, instead, he applied more lube to my anus and then repeated the crude and painful measurement process. He didn't give me a report of that result. He released me from the bench and used a washrag to wipe up the excess lube in my crotch. I guess he didn't want drops of lube falling from me as I walked through the corridors. It could be a slip hazard for others.

My slave identification number was tattooed inside my lower lip - a painful and permanent part of my identity for the rest of my life. The pictures, statistics and text descriptions of me were compiled and posted on their web page. The auction was advertised widely, so everyone I knew could go online, appraise my size 4 cunt and mentally ravage me. Even before I technically became a slave, my humanity was being ripped from me.

Liz was waiting for me outside and immediately sensed my fear and anxiety. She hugged me and said "I love you Beth and I will always be there to help you through the hard times." She kissed me on the cheek and I sobbed on her shoulder. Her friendship and support meant a lot to me. She drove me home and offered to come in and sit with me. But Paul was home and I really needed his embrace more than anything else. I thanked Liz for her support and closed the door.

Paul could always read me - and what he read that day was terror. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"Oh Paul. It was horrible. I was naked, and photographed in obscene ways and had my vagina measured. I don't know if I will be able to go through with this."

He held me and I cried on his shoulder. We sat on the couch and he turned me to face him.

"Beth, I know you are strong. You take no shit from anybody. It will probably be horrible, but you do have the willpower to endure it. In one year it will be over and we can start our lives again. I hate the thought of you suffering, but with the papers signed, you don't really have a choice."