Ellie May's 4-H Project Pt. 02: Flame Whoring

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Note: Joe Doe, the master of public humiliation and sexual submission, again provided the situation and much of the dialogue and descriptions for this story, for which my thanks. He granted permission for another guest appearance by Professor Sarah Hollister, this time AKA "Flame." All errors redound to me, not Mr. Doe.

(Steve Wilson's perspective)

When the alarm went off I stared at the flashing lights for 7:00 a.m., and groaned. It was the first day of spring break, and as a college sophomore I should have been either sleeping in or sneaking off to Florida. Instead, I was locked into the Harvard Slave Kennels, wearing only a collar and a cock harness (which was definitely cramping my morning wood). I couldn't even sleep in, but had to get up and join Professor Hollister, who had convinced/ordered me to give up my week off so as to avoid having to deal with my stepsister, Ellie May.

Last summer, my new [I almost said "wicked"] stepmother had pussy-whipped and (literally) cock-locked my Dad after which her daughter did the same thing to me. Long story short, she had reduced me to being a "subject" for her 4-H project in erection and ejaculation control. By the time I was shooting my jism over a three meter distance at the County Fair, Ellie May had me so cowed that she pressured me into surrendering myself to her as a slave under Texas law, at least for the next five years. My Dad had consulted with an attorney to try to get me out of it, but the only independent witness to her threats of de-balling me was unavailable. State Agriculture and Slave Inspector Sam Houston Sterling had since been enslaved himself on charges of abusing his office, and slave testimony was unlikely to get me freed.

After that, Ellie May allowed her "property" to return to Harvard for school but consigned me to the kennels (mandated by federal slave laws) when I wasn't in class or studying. That meant semi-nudity with my junk locked up when I was surrounded by equally-horny (and sometimes very sexy) female slaves, most of whom were fellow students at Harvard or other nearby schools. A few were just the servants of students, and those were particularly bored and amorous. You can imagine what torture it was for me, to be surrounded by horny Pleasure Sluts rubbing their snatches while teasing me and begging me to fuck them, all the while knowing how painful it was for me to get erect inside my tiny cage. In the kennels, these girls lived without any power, except their power to tease me. It was a power they took delight in abusing.

Yet, my "owner's" instructions to the kennel staff were that I was only allowed out of my belt for one hour once a week, a precious opportunity that I often spent with Libby, a well-endowed and over-sexed redhead who seemed to be constantly up for ANY form of intercourse--in fact, I worried that her frequent service in the slave bordello wing of the kennels meant I might pick up an STD from her, all precautions notwithstanding.

Only two women could release me from the kennels at night and on weekends, and both of them had agendas. Stephanie Cole had been my girlfriend in high school who, because she was admitted to MIT, wanted to continue that relationship in college. Stephanie was a good-looking girl, but I had wanted to play the field--there are over 60 colleges and universities in the Boston area! Now that I was a slave, though, Ellie May had given Steph permission to check me out of the kennels periodically. She was no longer interested in my making love with her--which considering how horny I was would have been fine--but rather to take me in cuffs to the nearest agricultural school to "continue my training" in controlling my come! Five times in as many months, Stephanie had gleefully carted me to a dairy model farm. Not only she but (by closed-circuit TV) Ellie May and my @#$%& stepmother watched while I was hooked up to the stallion milking machine, invaded with an electric exciter up my butt to trigger my prostate, and then mechanically jerked off until the high speed camera recorded my ejaculation. If that wasn't sufficiently humiliating, Stephanie had the attendants install a special voice-controlling collar that converted any noise I made into melodious, almost amorous Moo-ing! I got off, but the embarrassment and emasculation were immeasurable as I heard three women jeering and giggling.

Stephanie had so many videos of my milking that I could never show my face in the State of Texas again even after I regained my freedom. Meanwhile, when she didn't have time for the long trip to the model farm, she would come to the kennels in the evening, have me summoned to a private visitor's room, and then make me kneel under her skirt until my tongue brought her to at least three climaxes.

By contrast, dealing with Sarah Hollister, Professor of Slave Science and also my work-study supervisor, was almost a relief. Yes, some of what the professor wanted was demeaning (more on that in a moment), but she seemed to really understand the combination of arousal and humiliation that a slave experienced when used as a naked, subjugated sexual object--especially when the people controlling the slave were all good-looking members of the opposite sex. In fact, a lot of what Professor Hollister asked of me was simply a discussion of those psychological aspects. Given that she was a beautiful, arrogantly-confident, and sexy blonde herself, it was almost enjoyable to abase myself to her. I needed to watch that attitude, though--I'm likely to fall into "slave mind" because of my crush on her.

I mentioned that Professor Hollister got more from me than just interviews. One Sunday last fall, she checked me out of the kennels and drove me down to the Boston branch of the famed Big D Slave Market (hint: this is NOT the Boston Market advertised on TV!) To promote tourism, there was an inter-state agreement to treat the Big D premises as if they were subject to the slave laws of Texas. Once inside the fenced parking lot, the professor parked, asked me to get out of her car, and then told me to strip down. It's chilly in Boston even in October, but what really made me shiver was stripping naked in public in broad daylight, all while this aloof and distinguished female professor looked at me as if I were a moderately-cute lab animal. Once I had carefully folded my clothes and put them on the front seat of her car, she briskly ordered "back hands," and "heel." I ended up with my hands cuffed behind my neck and a beautiful woman leading me on a leash into the Big D market. The sight of that tight ass undulating in front of me inside a pencil skirt would have given me a terminal boner, except that the damned chastity belt gave me Peyronie's disease instead.

Shudder. I spent the next 24 hours naked, restrained, and chemically deprived of voice. I was regularly teased and belittled by a well-built female slave handler ("wrangler") wearing s___t-kicker boots and an equipment belt studded with weapons (taser, electric cattle prod, rubber whip, etc.) and handcuffs. The whole time, my chastity belt was off, which meant that my huge hard-on seemed to say I was enjoying this! That just gave the wranglers a convenient handle to lead me around. At one point, this woman, whose nametag read "Billie," took me aside into a chain-linked cage where she first made me suck on a strap-on dildo, then removed the dildo, dropped her jeans, and told me to service her ("Mouth"). The whole time that she held my head jammed into her crotch, I felt the toe of one of her boots nudging my cock and balls. I was almost grateful for my lessons from Steph, because I got "Billie" off three times in less than ten minutes. When she recovered her breath, she pulled up her pants, wiped my face, and gave me a long, sensuous kiss and fondle. After which she marched me out to participate in block moves (aka slave yoga) while I had to repeat various submissive mantras such as "I live to serve you, Mistress," and (horror of horrors) "Please buy me and fill all my holes with your huge Cock, Master."

I was glad I didn't have to make good on that coerced offer, but I DID have to suck a guy off on the night shift--double yeech. All of this made me so hyper-sensitive about sex that I gave a convincing act of being a terminally-horny, naked, slave. Every time a woman used me to get off, even when invading me with a plastic penis, I told myself it was far preferable to being sodomized further by males.

The next morning, more block moves were followed by my being strung up, helplessly, on display with hands above my head and ankles tethered widely apart. The 18-year-old guys averted their eyes at sight of another male striped and bound for female amusement, but half a dozen good-looking gals with Yankee accents felt me up thoroughly, including goosing my butt, rolling my balls around like marbles, and trying to jack me off, all while giggling in musical, sexy voices. One of these women had been in class with me last semester, but fortunately she didn't seem to recognize me even though I blushed constantly. Being devoxed, I couldn't even protest this experience, which was as erotic as it was humiliating--you can bet that Professor Hollister grilled me about my sensations at that moment! I guess this experience HAS taught me to get some enjoyment about being submissive to sexy women, but that just tells you have desperate I've become for relief. Long story short, I got a grade of Choice Plus (it's very difficult for any guy to get Prime, and if I WERE graded Prime I would run to Canada for fear that Ellie May would sell my ass for money!)

Experiences like this, as well as more private service as a rented slave cock, earned a lot of money for Ellie May. They also convinced Professor Hollister that I was a useful experimental subject and THAT translated into three things: tips I got to keep for spending money, additional time with my dick unlocked so that I could play with Libby in the kennels, and even a few opportunities to have sex with free people. There was one time over the holidays where the "good professor" checked me out of the kennels, stripped, blindfolded, and bound me, and then left me on a bed for several women (including, I suspect but can't prove, Sarah herself) to use my body for our mutual pleasure. THAT part of being a slave I could enjoy.

*****

There were other adventures in slavery that fall and winter, and my cooperation (plus the money I earned from various sources) enabled Professor Sarah to persuade Ellie May and her mother that I should stay at Harvard until the end of the spring semester in May. This spring break, as I said, the professor promised to get me laid and tipped while avoiding a trip to Texas--that was good enough for me, even though now, at the beginning of spring break, I began to worry about the details. But I scrambled into some clothes, took the precaution of putting lubricant up my butt, and signed out of the kennels as early as the professor had authorized.

(Sarah Hollister's perspective)

Steve's a nice, sexy toy--a well-muscled, cute guy who has to obey orders--so I try to give him some rewards for helping me out. He's also well endowed, but after making him serve me, my sexuality has become so wrapped up with submitting to dominant men that I'd find it difficult to think of Steve as more than an occasional stress-relief fuck.

As I've told him several times, I'm shifting my research to focus on the psychological aspects of slavery. What I haven't told him is that, in addition to my fascination with the sexual psychology of the subservient sex object, I'm also investigating how other people perceive slaves and specifically whether someone can "hide in plain sight" as a slave, unrecognized even by friends and colleagues. This may take a little explaining, but I believe it will help you understand the bizarre thing I'm doing today.

The story really begins with the event that was both the nadir of my existence and the peak of my sexual excitement--the day I foolishly agreed to "masquerade" as a slave and ended up with a Big D brand on my bottom and Judge Rufus Parker's smelly dick discharging down my throat. I discovered--the HARD way--that the slave market processing system I had designed to control and motivate new slaves worked TOO well. Even though I knew what was happening, I myself was overcome with the desire to be a rutting slave skank, eagerly serving even obnoxious clods like Rufus. I blush to admit that I climaxed at the moment I was sold on the auction block. I'm sure Rufus could smell the arousal I felt at becoming the perfect little slave slut, after only a few hours in a collar. Even today, every time I shift my behind on a seat, such as now in my car, I felt the ridges of that brand on my skin, a brand that both horrified and thrilled me at the time. Hence my interest in the psychology of being a slave and especially the probability that any acquaintances would recognize me when I was slave naked.

I was NOT a slave, of course, I was a respected intellectual, a successful professional woman, and an award winning academic. My slavegasms were not actual slave heat, but simply a byproduct of my explorations of slave girl psychology. But would the appearance of me acting as if I were a Pleasure Slut alter the perceptions that others had of me to the point where I would be unrecognizable? That was the hypothesis I felt the urge to explore. If that meant stripping to the skin and showing the buyers my well-lubricated cunt, well, it was all for the advancement of academic and business knowledge, wasn't it?

What happened to me after that is a long story, involving various ignominious experiences such as being a slave whore in a brothel. OK, I have to admit that last part was kind of fun, and I used my observations (suitably altered for anonymity) as the basis for an article about maximizing profit per pussy in sex workers. Today, I was about to re-experience that sensation of being a piece of slave flesh for rent. This time, however, I could tell myself that my slutty behavior was in a good cause. But I told myself firmly that any enjoyment I felt -or seemed to feel -- was incidental. It was all an act, part of what I needed to do for science. Think of it as method acting--telling myself that I enjoyed being a slave was simply part of my disguise, to ensure I appeared hot for the collar when no self-respecting woman should enjoy this.

A few years ago, I contracted to provide business consulting services to a consortium of slave industry leaders over the next ten years. In the process, of course, my findings could often be re-packaged into academic publications to advance my career.

The slave owners provided an expense account, but several of them joked that they had already invested in me by giving me an extensive education in being a slave. Therefore, in order to make this a business deduction, they insisted that I acknowledge their "research support" as I would any other grant, mentioning it in the first footnote of each publication. I guess it looks good for the corporate image.

(I'm blushing now because that little acknowledgement got me into an interesting situation. Two months after the first article I published that included this acknowledgement, I got a call from Martin Bormann, an overweight bureaucrat in the Harvard grants office. Most people don't realize it, but all such grants are subject to a standard charge--often 30% of the face value--by the college in which you are employed. Colleges insist on this to recoup some of the expenses they incur by employing academics. So Martin wanted to know about this "grant" from the "National Human Resources Council." Trouble was, most of the grant was in the form of my value as a trained, hot-for-the-collar slave; each council member's share of my "training costs" was chicken feed to them but still a significant sum in total. I made an appointment with "Mr." Bormann for late on a Friday afternoon, going to his office to explain what the value of the grant was. He had a good laugh at my expense, naturally, and then demanded a demonstration of what I had learned from this "grant." So I got to play slave girl right there in his tiny, dirty, office in the basement of Sackler Hall. On his instructions, I stripped down and rotated very slowly so he could see every inch of my body. The proof of what I had told him was evident in the Big D cursive brand embossed [by slave bosses] for life into my rear end, but of course he wanted to run his hands over it and incidentally goose me. Having him fondle me brought back some of the thrill of being a Sandy Foot Girl. When I told him how much I was worth at auction, he was skeptical and demanded that I "prove" it. I have to admit I got a submissive thrill out of kneeling down slave naked in front of this obese guy, then performing a slow, sensuous blowjob. The whole time I gave him the adoring, thank-you-for-using-me stare that all slave girls learn to give to their masters.

When he unloaded down my throat, I licked my lips as sensuously as possible before gently restoring his dick inside his pants. I just waited for his response. He finally had to admit that he could understand the value of my "grant," but (to ensure the University got its fair share) insisted that I had to provide him with a similar service every time I published and cited the grant! In fact, the next time he called me I had to service both Martin AND the head of the grants office, which at least prevented me having to explain my grant to my dean. It was disgusting and humiliating to strip and blow these clowns, but still gave me some of the buzz of being a Sandy Foot Girl, so why not?

That second time I "demonstrated what I had learned about slavery," the two men kicked me out at the end of my performance, still collared, slave naked, and covered with jism on my face. I stumbled down the hallway, clutching the bag with my clothes, and went into the ladies' room to clean up and dress. I was greeted by two bitchy coeds who feigned outrage at the idea of a slave using a free woman's toilet. Cackling like hyenas they dragged me to the side of the building and ordered me to pee against a tree in the cement plaza. Talk about humiliation. Eventually, these two sluts released me, but warned me never to use a "free ladies" room again. I scrambled into my clothes and left, thankful that no one on the faculty had seen me.

It had been an interesting proof of my theory, as I knew several of the students who passed, if not by name, by sight. But none of them seemed to recognize me or take any special notice of me, other than the usual amusement of seeing a humiliated slave girl watering a tree.

*****

All that is by way of background. This day in March, Steve and I were headed towards a test market for one of my business recommendations--the idea that, even though the North officially disapproved of slavery, there was still a demand for slave services, discretely packaged, even in strait-laced venues such as Boston. Hence the idea for a floating brothel, a slave sex emporium that would operate off Cape Cod, outside the three-mile limit where the state had no jurisdiction to interfere and the Coast Guard would only be concerned with smuggling or safety violations. The first test of this plan was a modest one. The Yo Ho Ho was a relatively small vessel, no more than 200 feet long and outfitted with 35 guest cabins, various dining rooms and musical venues, and two role-playing dungeons for the kinkier patrons. There was also a crew that included the usual services and entertainers found on cruise ships plus 20 experienced slave wranglers and 40 sex slaves of various genders and sexual proclivities.