Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 01

(This story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author, whom I again wish to thank. WARNING: This is a fantasy. In real life, no human being is ever property.)

*****

Few Americans foresaw the complications that ensued when the 34th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution again legalized slavery in the United States, repealing the 13th Amendment. Heck, last year several northern states, where slavery is rare, convinced the Supreme Court to reinstate the three-fifths provision of the Constitution (Article 1, Section 2) which specified that, in determining population for the House of Representatives, slaves did not count equally with free persons.

Beyond that, everyone agreed that slavery was not hereditary, that it would only affect those over the age of 18 who deserved to lose their freedom. This could occur in two ways: by committing serious crimes or by surrendering civil rights, either voluntarily or (because of indebtedness, having pledged their bodies as collateral to loans) involuntarily. Yet, as the number of slaves grew, new careers opened up. Slave handlers, merchants, and custodians (guards), all licensed and regulated by state departments of slavery or agriculture, arose immediately. Universities developed courses in the business, sociology, and law of slavery; some schools considered the subject as a sub-set of gender studies because of the frequent sexual exploitation and occasional role reversal of slaves of both sexes.

States with growing slave populations began to license health care professionals specializing in those in bondage. In Texas, the Department of Agriculture's Livestock and Slave Division licensed physicians as "Slave Veterinarians," because slaves were technically livestock. A Slave Veterinarian had to be a qualified M.D. Eventually, the division realized it also needed a few Slave Psychiatrists because some slaves experienced significant psychological issues. No "sane" person wanted to be a slave, but most adjusted to the situation and suffered in silence. Occasionally, however, slaves had mental issues arising from the shock of bondage. You couldn't really call it Post-Traumatic Stress, because the slave was still experiencing the trauma on a daily basis. Like the veterinarians, slave psychiatrists had to walk a fine line concerning the interests of owner and property. The state required us to report instances of gross abuse of slaves, yet normally the interests of the owner came first. And of course, we want to help the slaves.

That's me—Nikki Sheldon, MD, PhD, slave psychiatrist. If you've read this far, you may wonder why I would choose such a field. Once you hear what I had to endure, you'll be even more curious.

I've always wanted to be a psychiatrist—Mom's a darn good one, and Daddy teaches psychology at college level. No, they didn't pressure me into this field, nor did they run experiments on me, like Leonard's mom did on that TV show. They gave me unconditional love and a strong academic environment; the rest was my own decision. If you must know, I came into slave psychiatry because I was a cheerleader.

I've never met you, but I can see your mind bringing up the stereotype of shallow, egotistical beauty queen. Wrong image—cheerleading and especially competitive cheerleading, which gave me an undergraduate scholarship, is a demanding athletic sport that's more about coordination and fitness than beauty. For eight years (high school through college, in my case ages 12 through 20) I ran every morning, lifted weights, and did all kinds of exercises. This gave me the endurance and flexibility (get your mind out of the gutter, please) to compete in strenuous and even risky cheer routines.

OK, OK—any woman who is young and healthy enough to do that much exercise ends up with a taut, toned body that others may find attractive. And my face isn't ugly, either, although I never thought of myself as "all that." My parents taught me to be humble, considerate, and kind, even when turning down the dozens of date requests I received. I can see you're determined to get the stats, which will be relevant later in my story: 5 foot 9 inches, 135 pounds, honey blond hair, blue eyes, 35C-24-34 (It's hard to perform all those flips with large boobs and butt; good thing my chest and hips stopped growing sideways.) Yeah, regular frakin' all-American corn-fed girl, complete with high cheekbones and perfect teeth, whether I like it or not. I never asked for any special consideration because of my appearance, but I know that pretty women get such treatment whether they want it or not.

Anyway, where I grew up, very few 18-year-old women were interested in being graded as slaves—as I said, my friends and I didn't think of ourselves as some kind of ultra-sexy babes, and my parents quietly disapproved of the slave grading trend because it objectified young women. Besides, I finished high school at 16, too young to be slave graded.

(If you're not familiar with the phenomenon, once a young woman turns 18, she can pay to be graded by an official or unofficial slave market. As you'll see in my case, this grading requires the individual to temporarily assume all the restrictions of slavery, appearing in public nude and restrained so that slave merchants can evaluate her. Many college loan companies require a slave grade because the applicant has to pledge his/her body as collateral if he/she defaults on the loan. Once that became common, young women in particular began to escalate the degree of risk involved in their grading, trying to "prove" that they were as sexy as a pleasure slave. Such escalations, beyond the basic grading, might include being held overnight under slave conditions at the market or even being branded. Some women find their helplessness and objectification as slaves to be thrilling, in the same way that a horror movie or a train wreck is thrilling. There are urban legends of women in particular who, when they went to grading, being enslaved by mistake or harassed by their male contemporaries who got to see them naked and helpless. You can see why my parents disapproved, and I agreed with them!

But once I joined the university cheer squad, I found that the majority of my teammates had come from large cities where it was almost a rite of passage for pretty young women to be graded when they were old enough. The older girls proudly showed me the slave numbers tattooed inside their lips, as well as their certificates of grading. In the spring of my college sophomore year, when I turned 18, the cheer captain, Bobbie, pressured me and a freshman named Wendy (who had also just turned 18) to go through this experience. The rest of the squad even chipped in to raise enough money so that Wendy and I could get the premier package, with better grooming and a semi-private cage while we waited for grading. The girls weren't nasty about it but insisted that slave grading was part of becoming a woman.

Bobbie took us aside and told us what to expect, which was really scary. She explained that the other girls would probably call us names and even fondle us, not to be mean or take advantage of our helplessness but to get us into the right mindset—to get a good grade, we had to be aroused and nervous, so we came across at least slutty and if possible "slave hot." Being devoxed (sprayed with a compound that neutralizes the vocal cords) for most of the proceedings, we would be completely dependent on whoever held our claim tickets once we arrived at the slave market. I earnestly begged Bobbie not to play any tricks—my Mom would be very disappointed if she found out, especially if I ended up branded on my tush, as some of the other girls had gotten in a show of bravado.

Spoiler alert: This is not one of those stories where someone double-crosses the girl and she ends up enslaved. On the contrary, Bobbie and Pam, our ticket-holders, were very protective of us. It was still an astonishing and frightening experience.

It began about 5 a.m. one dark Saturday morning outside the cheer squad dormitory, with most of the squad clustered around a pickup truck in which two metal cages, complete with locks on their open doors, stood waiting for us. The unwritten rules of slave grading specified that the woman had to arrive at the slave market already slave naked and fully restrained; even appearing naked while carrying a bag full of clothes would seriously reduce your grade. So, as the girls clustered around us, a smirking Bobbie told us to strip. Having dreaded this moment, both Wendy and I had decided not to slow things down by wearing underwear. We were naked as soon as we shucked off our shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. Getting into the spirit and trying to excite us, Bobbie commanded "Back hands, slaves"—we obliged by crossing our wrists behind our backs, at which point Bobbie and Pam handcuffed us, then wrapped dog collars with leashes around our necks. Pam shook up a spray can of Devox and ordered us to open wide—a few seconds later, we were voiceless as well as naked and bound. With more promises to take care of us, the girls helped us (fondling us in the process) to mount the pickup and crawl backwards into our respective cages. The locks were secured, the back gate was slammed up, and we were off. The morning air flowing around us made me shiver, and the cages slid around inside the truck bed when Pam braked or turned, further reinforcing my sense that I had no control over the situation. NOT a pleasant sensation.

Every cheerleader has a bit of exhibitionist in her, but I was embarrassed to be rolling down a dark city street in a cage with my breasts clearly visible above the side of the truck. That sensation was magnified a thousand-fold when we pulled into the parking lot of the slave market, only to find most of the football team waiting for us! Damn Bobbie—this was part of her plan to get us excited sexually. Imagine being naked, chained, and voiceless when you're suddenly surrounded by your male peers, including three guys whom I had dated. One of them, Charlie, had gotten my virginity a few weeks earlier after I turned 18. Even worse was the presence of defensive lineman Allan Blake who, despite my polite attempts to discourage him, persisted in acting as if I were his bed-mate. As Bobbie helped me down from the truck, with my hands behind my back so I couldn't defend or even cover myself, Allan took the opportunity to feel me up thoroughly. Fortunately, Charlie stepped between us, allowing Bobbie and Pam to lead their nude charges—us—into the huge building that contained the local slave market.

Inside, the place was already filling up with customers and other young women who wanted to be graded. It was very unsettling to be naked, defenseless property, led around and stared at by the people wearing clothes. In short order, Wendy and I found ourselves in-processed and labelled with the market's slave tags; we were now officially part of the inventory. The in-processors warned us to obey instructions immediately and not resist whatever they did. (Gulp.) Burly handlers led us into the back, which meant escaping from the football players and other spectators but also being deprived of the comforting protection of our ticket holders and temporary "owners," Bobbie and Pam.

Among the steps involved was a handler who, after freeing our hands, ordered us through our paces. The squad had recently practiced slave yoga and similar positions, so we were well prepared for slave positions. These included Present (standing upright, hands interlocked behind neck and legs slightly apart), Collar (on my knees, one hand on hip and the other holding my hair away from my neck to permit installation of a collar or leash), Display (bent over at the waist, exposing everything between my spread legs), "Prone," (face down on the concrete floor with my hands by my sides and legs slightly apart), "Slave fours" (doggie position on hands and knees with head low and butt high), and "Flip over" (legs spread wide, back arched, and looking past my bobbing breasts towards my temporary master). Flaunting ourselves nude in front of a handsome, muscular handler naturally got me excited, with about equal parts embarrassment and arousal. He made various crass comments, describing us as "prime pussy," "slave meat," and "horny sluts." All this served to make me sexually aroused or slave hot, to the point where his comments really described my state. I think he got to Wendy as well, but I was too distracted to be certain.

Immediately after that, we had to pose for our slave photographs that would be entered in a national registry along with our grades. These photos was not so much mug shots as simple pornography—the poses included me on my knees, holding my labia open to display my very moist opening, then bent over so that my head touched the floor and my hands parting my butt cheeks so that the handler, crouching behind me between my widespread thighs, could take pictures of my anus and genitals. Believe me, those photos left nothing to the imagination! I have often prayed that nobody hacks the national registry and distributes my naked, juicy image on-line.

Of course, the main step in grading was being bound, spread-eagled on our backs, on special tables—my wrists, re-cuffed in front of me, were now restrained over my head, pulling my naked breasts upwards. Once my ankles were strapped down with Velcro, a handler cranked the tables open, splitting my legs and allowing anyone to walk between my legs and examine or touch my "pussy." I could neither move nor speak, lying completely defenseless and moist with alarm and arousal.

The first group of clothed people who came to view the temporary slaves were the usual gawkers, including many of the football players. Most of them were respectful, looking but not touching and even encouraging us that we looked great and would soon be finished. Pam and Bobbie also reassured us while taking the opportunity to gently tweak our nipples and clits to keep us excited. Allan, of course, insisted on pawing me and even finger-fucking me several times until the handlers told him in no uncertain terms to move on. Then came the real slave merchants, who discussed us dispassionately as slave meat and then entered their evaluations on their tablets.

Finally, the two hours of public viewing were over. The handlers slowly released us from the tables, only to order "Back hands" and again cuff us. Then they led us to a holding cage where they released our wrists, sprayed our throats with the Devox antidote, and left us with bottles of water to slowly recover speech. Wendy and I bonded, sharing our sense of helplessness, horniness, and embarrassment that the football team had seen us like that. I didn't know how I could look those guys in the face when I saw them next.

After another hour had passed, the handlers returned, restrained us again, and led us out on leashes to where Bobbie and Pam waited to redeem us. Thank heavens! The handlers spoke to the two women as if they were people while we were just slave meat. As my temporary owner, Bobbie received not only custody of me but also the documents that certified me as "Prime minus," an amazingly-high grade. Wendy was one step down at "Choice plus." Both grades, the other girls assured us, were entirely appropriate for varsity cheerleaders, so we wouldn't get too much grief (other than comments about how cute we looked and how much we exposed to the football players) from the rest of the squad. Then, we were towed back out to the pickup truck, still naked and cuffed. By now, the parking lot was full on a busy Saturday, with many guys enjoying our appearance. I didn't know I could blush all over.

When we got to the truck, Bobbie pretended that she would make us ride back to campus the same way we had arrived, naked, restrained, and caged. Eventually, she relented, admitting that she wouldn't expose us to the entire school on a Saturday afternoon—to do so might have given new meaning to the term "student body." After scrambling into my shorts and shirt, I was finally able to remove the temporary collar and climb into the truck bed to return home. Wendy and I were both exhausted from the emotional strain, but before I took a nap I first had to shower, to rid myself of the smell of my own arousal.

That was my introduction to slavery. No, I didn't decide I wanted to be a slave—I realized that my experience that Saturday was a carefully-controlled fantasy, whereas the reality would have been prolonged misery. (I'll admit that Charlie and I once rented a motel room and played master and slave girl for the weekend, but that was just a fantasy, and afterwards I insisted on complete equality in our relations, even playing with HIS cuffed and naked body one time. Our own careers eventually caused us to drift apart, amicably.)

The main thing I learned from my slave grading was that there were thousands of people for whom this was a daily, horrifying reality, a psychological trauma of the first order. My Mom had always emphasized that psychiatrists and psychologists existed to help people understand themselves and cope with such trauma. And the population of slaves was woefully under-served by psychiatry: in the whole of Texas, I learned, there were only 17 slave psychiatrists and 3 of them were professors who taught but rarely practiced.

When I researched the career field, I quickly learned why there were so few people in the field. Becoming a psychiatrist is already a very demanding profession: I knew that, after four years of undergraduate education, I would have to spend four years in medical school followed by another three to seven years of psychiatric training and residency including (if I were a Freudian like Mom) extensive and stressful psychoanalysis of myself. To be a slave psychiatrist, I discovered, there was one additional requirement that was so daunting that at first it made me give up on the whole idea.

The additional requirement was that the prospective psychiatrist had to spend a minimum of 180 days as an indentured servant (the legal term for temporary slaves)! And it had to be real: no simulations, no getting "bought" by your parents or spouse and kept in the spare bedroom where no one could see you. While you were collared, no one you knew could be your owner, nor were you supposed to divulge why you were indentured because that might affect the reality of your experience. If, for some unrelated reason such as minor crime or indebtedness, the student had already served an indenture or slavery of at least the minimum duration (as documented by the National Slave Registry), that would meet the requirement, but otherwise the rules were clear. The individual had to experience the entire procedure of surrendering himself/herself for legal indenture, being publicly stripped and then shipped to a major slave market, processed and auctioned, and serving a genuine master or mistress without any restrictions or protections. Social convention dictated that such slaves remained naked except for severe weather or other unusual conditions.

Six months as a slave. Even today, those five words send a shiver of terror up my spine. No wonder there was such a shortage of slave psychiatrists!

*****

For months after I turned age 18, I researched the matter before deciding that the career field was so fascinating I would have to accept the degradation and risks involved.

I began to prepare myself for this role. During my last two years of college, I found half a dozen guys whom I liked and trusted, and used them as a sort of reverse harem to broaden my limited experience of sex. I did not consider myself promiscuous, but the sheltered, precocious cheerleader I had been became much more open to dating and mating. All my dates knew that academics and discretion came first—I would drop anyone who bragged about his "conquest," after which the other cheerleaders would blacklist him. One of the guys I did trust—a smart nerd, not an athletic hunk—took my anal virginity. Once I found that I could trust a guy, I would practice my sexual techniques assiduously and encourage him to be rough with me. Sometimes I got more than I expected—I remember one night, when I let another sweet nerd tie my hands together and then implored him to "fuck your slut," he pounded me so long and hard (in both senses) that I was walking bow-legged the next day. But it was fun! Being bookish, I did a lot of "research" as to how to perform oral sex on both genders, and I practiced it enough that I could bring the average guy off in less than three minutes, and the average woman in less than ten. I had to stop practicing for a while because I started to get a reputation as a fantastic cocksucker, which might have been true but I didn't want every thug in the school hitting on me.