Going Around to Cum Around Pt. 01

Going Around to Cum Around, Pt. 01

(These events occur 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. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory.)

(This story is an attempt to tie up some loose ends in the previous tale, "Repaying My College Loans." Reading that epic may assist you in following this current account, but this should stand on its own. If, however, you object to the basic premises of these stories, I recommend that you save both of us time and aggravation by finding another story to read. HCI Market and certain characters appear by kind permission of Gentleman Mariner.)

(Cindy Jackson's viewpoint)

That's me—my parents (who are undoubtedly doing 3,000 RPM in their graves about what their daughter has become) christened me "Cynthia," but that's way too old-fashioned.

At the time my tale began, I had been working as a slave handler (aka wrangler) at the HCI Slave Market in Houston, Texas, for about eight years. It was a tough job sometimes. Oh, not the physical aspects—I'm 5 foot 10, 140 pounds of pure muscle, so between my physique and the tools available to handlers—electric shock batons, electronic collars, rubber straps, and unlimited restraints—I can usually handle any rebellious slave inventory that comes in the door. If not, my co-workers always back each other up.

No, the tough parts are psychological. No one in his/her right mind wants to be a slave, but since non-hereditary slavery was restored thirty-odd years ago, there has been a steady stream of such desperate unfortunates coming through the loading dock. That's what keeps HCI (and the other major markets, such as the Big D and the Longhorn, not to mention dozens of smaller operations) making money hand over fist, at least for the owners. Most Southern states punish serious crimes by enslavement sentences of three to thirty years—and if that sentence isn't bad enough, the courts usually include mandatory branding and whipping. In addition, at least in the South, mortgage and college loan lenders require someone to pledge his or her freedom as surety for any major debt. That requirement produced another stream of revenue—young adults, aged 18 or older, voluntarily accepting slave rules for a day or longer to get "slave-graded" so as to establish their value to creditors. Plus, for some reason the cheerleaders and beauty queens WANT to go through the process while pretending to be as skanky as possible, hoping to get a Prime grade for bragging rights about their attractiveness. (No, that's not sour grapes. I've never thought of myself as "All That," but my B-cups along with a cute nose and chin-length blonde hair have made me feel reasonably attractive. Never had trouble getting dates, and was grading Choice when I had to go through the process at another market to get a mortgage.)

In additional to enslavement for crime and debt, there are people who for some reason or another—often to avoid a longer term of slavery—"voluntarily" indenture themselves, which for practical purposes puts them in the same status as slaves. I really felt sorry for them, but I decided that the best approach I could take was tough love. I didn't try to be nasty, but I always advised the newly enslaved to recognize reality and deal with it.

That attitude got put to the test four years ago, when I had to process my own ex-partner at HCI, sweet little Beth Sullivan, through this place after she accepted a three- to five-year indenture for unpaid college loans. Beth was naturally submissive anyway, but it hurt me to see her—and hundreds of similar young women—subjugated like that. She did regain her freedom and is doing great now, but it gave me nightmares knowing her primary job was providing naked sex on demand to major customers of a bank.

*****

Which brings me to my own personal problem: Mason Shumaker. For three years, I thought that guy was it, my true love, death do us part and all that crap. We even bought a house together—or, rather, he chipped in on the payments, but only my name (and literally my ass) was on the mortgage. That should have been the clue to me, but he argued that he had bad credit so it would be better if only I applied. I did everything for that guy—we did whatever HE wanted to do for recreation, while I cooked, cleaned, and washed, not to mention letting him use every hole I had whenever he wanted. I can't remember how many times he fucked my face, even when I almost choked. Only rarely would he return the favor by licking me, and usually only for about three minutes. Still, for a small-dicked guy he was good at fucking . . .

I should have seen it coming. I came home from an overtime shift to find that Mason had moved out—and he dumped me with a text message!

I did find a new man, and we seemed to be getting along fine. James Martin was the night shift manager at HCI, and seemed like a stand-up guy (not only his character but his cock) with whom I had a lot in common besides work. It was difficult to mesh our schedules with me working days and him nights, but we'd already progressed to regular sex and cuddling, so that emotionally I was over Mason.

Finances were another matter. I worked my butt off on overtime, but couldn't quite swing the huge mortgage payment without Mason's (intermittent) contributions. And the housing market was so bad that I couldn't sell the thing, even at a loss. So I was alarmed but not surprised when one Thursday I got a telephone call from a Ms. Lily Russell, who said she worked for Human Resources at the XYZ Bank in Dallas. She asked to come speak to me on my lunchbreak the following Monday. "Nothing formal, we just need to review your mortgage situation." That sounded ominous, but "Human Resources" wasn't the same as "debt collection," so I agreed, hoping I could refinance or something. Turns out she "refinanced" the mortgage, but not in the way I had hoped!

Wearing a visitor's tag, Lily—as she insisted I call her—met me in the HCI coffee shop. With very little chit-chat, she cut to the chase:

"You can guess why I'm here, Cindy. My boss, Pamela Williams [whom I later learned was the president and CEO of the bank] is hoping we can come to an amicable resolution to your mortgage. At the moment, you owe [she looked at her papers] just over 292,000 dollars, and because you have missed several payments, the interest rate on the note is about to jump from 4 to 12 percent. I don't want to alarm you, but since you work in a slave market, you do realize where this is headed, don't you?"

I gulped, and acknowledged the problem.

Lily continued, still being very friendly and even gentle, as if she were afraid of frightening me. Still, her next sentence surprised me. "I think you know Beth Sullivan, don't you?"

I acknowledged the friendship, but then suddenly my brain connected. "You mean . . . that I might have to do what Beth did? Indenture myself to avoid slavery?"

She gave a sad smile and a nod. "That's right. In fact, I did the same thing ten years ago, and came out the other end with a better life and a better job. I can't promise such a happy ending, and I'm not going to lie to a slave handler—this would be tough for a few years, especially the first few months in a collar when you're processed and trained. But, I want you to consider the alternative. If we don't reach agreement, then you'll be enslaved, and given what you owe the term might be anywhere up to 15 years."

I tried desperately not to show my alarm, but I was too practical to deny the reality. "Yeah, you're probably right. So, what's the alternative?"

Relieved that I seemed rational, she plunged forward. "Ms. Williams has authorized me to offer you the following: You'll have two weeks to finish up your affairs, give your employer notice, dispose of furniture, etc. Then, if you agree, on Tuesday the 23rd we'll meet at the HCI Bank main office in Dallas at 8:30 a.m. You sign over your house to the bank, and we'll credit 80 percent of its current tax value—about 205,000 dollars—against your mortgage. Then, you and I will go to the appropriate office of the state Department of Agriculture, where you will indenture yourself to the bank for five to seven years rather than fifteen years if slavery. After that, well—you know the worst part of all this; processing and sale. The sale is necessary for bookkeeping purposes, but I intend to buy you back for training and use as a contractor of the bank."

There it was, in cold reality. "Umm, I need to come back to the processing part, but first I have to ask, what's in it for the bank? Why would you make me such a deal?"

Lily—who would soon be "Mistress" to me—explained. "Well, one reason is simply accounting. If we foreclose on the house, we have to carry it on our books as being worth what you owe at that point, about $300,000 including accumulated interest. Given the lousy housing market, any sale would be a net loss. Then, there's your cooperation. Because it's in your interest to cooperate and thereby reduce your indenture term, you'll turn yourself in without a fuss. That way, we won't have to pay ten percent of your sale price as a bounty to a slave catcher. And because you're cooperating, the bank saves the time and money necessary to send you to a slave-breaker ranch—which you want to avoid anyway, right? Ask Beth—I think she'll tell you that indenturing herself to us was the smartest way out of a bad situation."

I agreed that she'd already told me that. "About my processing and sale, though . . ."

She made a face and shook her head. "I can guess, you don't want to be sent through your own slave market, because the crew here would give you a quote HARD unquote time, right?" I nodded, imagining the hell I would go through as a collared slut in HCI. Some of my co-workers had always made suggestive remarks about using me as a sex object.

Lily continued. "Well, we have an established relationship with HCI—we use this market ONLY for self-indenture cases, so the auditors are satisfied that the bank is getting fair market value for you. We can send someone down here to monitor your processing, but I know that's not fool proof. You have to remember, though, that there are worse things than being shipped through here for processing."

"I can't imagine anything worse."

"Well," she replied. "You remember when I called you last Thursday morning?" I nodded. "If you had not agreed to meet me, the bank would have gone to court that day to have you declared in default. As you know, when you took out the mortgage you waived any right to a court hearing or notification. Therefore, last Friday afternoon two slave catchers would have come through the loading dock and apprehended you right there, stripping you in front of everyone about the time of shift change."

"Gawd!" I exclaimed, involuntarily.

She went on, thinking out loud. "I do sympathize with you, though. The real issue, I think, is that because of the distances involved you'll end up staying in HCI overnight. I don't suppose you have a friend on the night shift who could look out for you, do you?"

My mind suddenly got a warm image of James. "As a matter of fact, I think I do . . ."

*****

Long story short, I reluctantly agreed to the deal. I really had no choice, and I had the testimonials of Beth and Lily herself that indenture was horrible but survivable. She took a full-length photo of me, asked me to assemble a file of my identification and education records, and then added a final thought. "Before I forget, when you show up at the bank next week, you'll want to wear loose clothing that you can take off quickly. However, let me ask you to bring a full set of your usual wrangler clothing, including boots. Put them in a separate bag for me to hold."

When I asked her why she needed that uniform, she said, vaguely, "I just have a hunch we can use it down the road. See you at 8:30 Tuesday morning after next in Dallas; here's my card with the address."

The most difficult part of preparing to surrender myself was telling James. I had thought I could just tell him my fate and ask for his help, but it turns out I was more emotionally attached to him than I thought. We'd just finished a beautiful round of gentle sex in various positions when I realized that this was the last time I would be able to make love with him—in fact, the last time I would have any choice about sex for years. For that matter, once he saw me as part of the inventory he might never be interested in me again except as a piece of slave meat. Even if/when I regained my freedom, I would inevitably attract men who wanted to bed a submissive ex-pleasure slave, not an assertive woman. I began to cry, silently, and he got the whole story out of me. He was shocked at first, but he soon focused on consoling me rather than his own feelings.

He knew without being told that, like any woman in my situation, I feared being brutally gang-banged by the night crew. He told me that several members of his crew had expressed lust for me, so some form of sexual service was inevitable—if he tried to prevent it, he claimed it would cost him considerably in terms of future authority without protecting me from, at the very least, some rather forceful face fucking, which was considered "normal" and acceptable behavior. James suggested that the best solution to a bad deal would be for him to organize a controlled series of sexual encounters, which would at least give me a softened introduction to the reality of sexual exploitation I could expect for the next seven years. I assured him that I would gladly submit to his co-workers, so long as he would be kind to me in the process and try to prevent them from hurting me. He promised me he would.

I had already given two weeks' notice to my supervisor at HCI, Ms. Hanna Steiner. To my surprise, she was already aware of my debt and of XYZ's interest in me. She gave me a rare word of approval for how sensible I was being, then added, "One other thing, Mizz Jackson. I'm sure you've already concerned about your treatment at the hands of your colleagues, especially those prenatal Neanderthals—they are too childish to even be considered infantile Homo Sapiens—in the warehouse crew. I've already told their dayshift foreman that one more incident of excessive force and he's fired, and the owner agrees with me. I'm afraid that SOME sexual use, especially oral service, is an unspoken perk of working in a slave market, but I won't have my inventory brutalized; it's bad for the bottom line." She smirked at her own pun about bottoms, but it wasn't so funny when she was talking about MY rear end being violated. "Anyway, you must avoid giving anyone an excuse to discipline you—you need to be the most docile, submissive, well-behaved slut that ever came through the loading dock. You could probably instruct your handler on how to process you, but don't—just wait patiently for orders and respond to them eagerly. If somebody fondles you, pretend you love it. If someone harasses you, swallow your pride, along with anything else they feed you—leave it to me to defend you, got it?"

Nobody ever argued with Ms. Steiner, but in this case, as usual, she made perfect sense, so I agreed.

The issue she described was common throughout the slaving industry. The armed forces had long recognized that, when physically-fit young men and women work together in a stressful environment, hormones and immaturity produce inappropriate sexual attitudes and behavior. For those in uniform, the aggressors/transgressors were usually—but by no means always—the men. It was like high school, exacerbated by the facts that the people were legally adults and had more money but few social outlets.

The slaving industry had the same problem on steroids. The entire business focused on disciplining, objectifying, and selling helpless, naked human beings who were encouraged to think of themselves as passive receptacles for sexual congress. Everyone in the industry evaluated slaves solely in terms of their attractiveness and value as sex objects. In addition to "normal" pleasure sluts (who serviced all cumers), there were small but genuine markets for slaves who were lesbian femmes, male gigolos, and both transgender and transvestite "sissies" (I know that's pejorative, but that was the usual term.)

Precisely because slave "pussy" could be bought, sold, and exploited without remorse, many citizens—again, primarily but not always heterosexual males—put an even higher value on their ability to seduce or "conquer" free citizens of whatever gender they lusted after. Every woman who worked in a slave market, even those who had been considered plain Janes or unattractive when they were teenagers, now found herself the subject of constant evaluation and solicitation as a sexual partner. Along with the other women at HCI, I had overheard numerous comments, especially from the youngest (18- or 19-year old) male recruits, about how much they wanted to bone us in various openings and positions. Reputable businesses such as HCI worked constantly to reduce this harassment, tryng to prevent a hostile working environment.

Imagine, therefore, the feeding frenzy that would result when a formerly "untouchable" female co-worker like me suddenly appears in the inventory of naked sex objects, when such sex objects are routinely expected to give blow jobs if not vaginal and anal sex. Every wrangler who had ever lusted after me would insist on acting out his fantasies on my bound and submissive body. Problem was, I simply wasn't wired to be submissive or docile. Oh, I'd pretended in the bedroom with a few Alpha assholes like Mason, but I was really too independent for that. Some women, like my buddy Beth, enjoyed being "used," but that didn't mean that I did.

Good thing I'd acted in some high school plays, because I'd have to PRETEND to be what Ms. Steiner described. I decided to put in some rehearsal time. I borrowed a heavy practice shock collar from HCI, complete with the pins that stick into the skin. For several evenings in a row, I stripped down and practiced slave block positions wearing nothing but that tall, uncomfortable collar. I located u-tube videos where males ordered women to perform. Then I moved through all the positions they demanded while repeating the filthy slave mantras ("All my holes belong to you, Master," "Please buy me and fuck my face," "I live to serve you, Mistress," and so on), focusing on how smoothly I shifted between positions and how sincerely I appeared to beg. Looking in the mirror, I tried to convince my brain that this naked slut was me for the next six or seven years and that she really was a submissive cunt. It was a difficult sell; my brain didn't buy it at first, but by the third night I started to believe my eyes and ears. I only hoped that the HCI slave handlers would.

*****

One by one, I divested myself of my possessions. By the time I climbed out of an Uber at the XYZ Bank about 8 a.m. on the appointed day, all I had left on me was a cheap cell phone, a file of personal documents, and a backpack containing the slave handler's uniform plus a few personal items. In a cheap motel room the night before, I had carefully shaved my body bare, preferring to do this myself rather than being bound to a rack at the slave market and then shorn like a hogtied sheep. That morning, I had used pre-packaged douches and enemas to flush myself out.

I felt rootless and bereft, a sensation increased by the absence of my friend Beth Sullivan, who worked at the bank and whom I had somehow hoped to see one last time. Lily continued to be sympathetic, saying vaguely that Beth was off on assignment that day but that I could expect to see her "soon." She walked me through the transfer of my house to the bank, and agreed to be responsible for my remaining possessions and small bank account "until you need them again." I gave her my power of attorney for this, unsure whether I would ever see possessions or money again.