Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 02

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, informed consent is always MANDATORY. This story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author, whom I again wish to thank.)

(Nikki's story, continued)

*****

If you've followed my story until now, you know that from age 18 onward I wanted to become a slave psychiatrist in the state of Texas, which in turn meant that I had to experience legal servitude for a minimum of 180 days to understand the experiences of my patients.

First, I had to get through medical school, which consumed most of my attention but not all my thoughts over the next four years. I even arranged to do one of my rotations at a slave veterinary clinic, performing routine "sick call" as well as handling the injuries and diseases (often sexually transmitted) most commonly found among slaves. My contact with these unfortunates only reinforced my desire to help them. There was a slave psychiatrist who came to the clinic once each week; when I confided my ambition to her, she let me sit in on some interviews and then took me out to lunch to talk about it. She willingly told me her own experience of enslavement:

"I know I'm not much to look at," she began, waiving aside my protests that her competence and self-confidence were impressive and attractive. "When I was indentured for college loan debt at age 22, I was graded as "Standard," which is two below Choice, if you don't know. So, I was sold as a general laborer and was lucky enough to be bought at auction by a wealthy widower. He used me as a domestic—a cook and maid of all work in his otherwise-empty home where he treated me more as an employee than a slave and permitted me to wear a short apron most of the time That apron protected me while cooking but still left my butt hanging out. A few times he took me with him to get groceries, leading me around naked with my hands cuffed in front of me, but that was only following social conventions while he got my input on what foods to buy. About once a week, he would politely ask me for sex, more often a blowjob than intercourse. One evening when my indenture was almost over, he took me to bed and made genuine love to me, ensuring I enjoyed myself as he gently but thoroughly explored all three openings. The best night of my life. Then he manumitted me and handed me a check that paid for most of medical school. After I finished psychiatric training, I looked him up and found that he was still living alone. We started dating—nothing serious but the sex is fantastic!"

That story made me much more hopeful about my own upcoming experience, but the psychiatrist cut me off. "My point, sweetie, is I had a happy outcome because I was ugly with a low sales price. But you, girl, are a little hottie who will sell for much more and probably get a hard ride from whoever owns you." Great, another person warning me of my fate as a sex toy.

Predictably, my parents were distressed when I told them of my plans to put their only daughter in bondage. Equally predictably, however, they quickly went to their default position, which was that they trusted me to make the right decision and they loved me no matter what. "At least it will give you something to talk about in psychoanalysis!" joked my psychiatrist mom, trying to be brave. She quickly realized that they shouldn't accompany me when I turned myself in, as their presence would make it worse for all of us.

Professor Walker helped me prepare, including writing my petition for voluntary indenture. At the time I submitted the request, I had not yet finished med school so, he argued, we didn't need to list my medical degree, just put down some vague reference to the school. An MD self-indenture would attract too much attention and too many questions. Yet, I still had to put down my bachelor's degree in biology, which would probably get me labelled as a "college girl." That might reinforce the stereotype that I was some over-sexed bimbo who wanted to "play slave" for six months.

In the months between medical school and my date of surrender, I worked hard to prepare for the ordeal. I got back into top physical shape, including lots of running and weight lifting. I spent long hours in slave yoga classes, both for the exercise and to habituate myself to unthinking obedience to orders. I found a class taught by a real slave master who mixed both slaves and soccer moms in the same session—for the last two sessions of the class, I went to it completely naked so that spectators would look at me as a slave (my cheerleading buddy Wendy was in the same class, and held my clothes for me after I stripped in the restroom). The comments I heard were embarrassing but the experience of public nudity while assuming slave positions helped prepare me for my future. I knew it was not the same, though, because in the real situation I would have no one to return my clothes to me. The master drilled us not only on poses but on begging to be used ("Please Master, let me worship your magnificent cock," "I beg you to ream my ass, Master," "Please buy me for your pleasure, Master," and so on) and facial expressions. The latter included happiness, submissiveness, lust, eagerness, and so on. I particularly focused on these, trying to develop a poker face to conceal any anger and disgust I might feel.

That became my mantra: I wanted to convince myself and any masters/mistresses that I was an eager, horny bimbo. No resistance, no hesitation, no sign of ego that might bring undue attention or punishment my way. If I were successful, this pretend horniness should help arouse my body to better handle the coming sexual assaults. I could only hope.

There were other things to do. I cut my long blond hair to chin length because I didn't want it blocking my view when bound. I doubted that slave girls got much time to brush their hair anyway; It would grow back some day. With Wendy's help, I trimmed my blond pubes back to nothing and waxed my legs, arms, and back. It really stung, but probably less than if someone did it in a slave market. I had an etonogestrol rod implanted to suppress my menstrual cycle, and a med school friend gave me a buttload (ouch) of broad-spectrum antibiotics and gamma globulin. My parents also paid for a hidden implant in my breast that could be activated by remote signal to locate me if I were kidnapped or held beyond my release date.

The fatal date, the ides of September, finally came. I dressed in a very modest, loose sweater and drab ankle-length dress, but with no jewelry, makeup, or underwear to slow up the stripping process. Professor Walker, who accompanied me, had warned me to be very conciliating to the Agriculture Department official we had to see, because she would be quick to take offense if she thought I was uppity or arrogant. We both realized that, for today at least, this woman held my fate in her hands and could make a bad experience intolerable.

This official was Becky Lou Bundy, a squat 50-year-old supervisor whose thick twang concealed a sharp mind. I will try to reproduce her speech but may have to give up half-way through. Fortunately for me, I retained a slight Texas accent that I think led her to believe that I was OK but a bit dumb. Once I was actually enslaved, I almost immediately realized that I HAD been dumb—but I'll get to that.

We arrived well before our appointment time. The Prof. suggested I use the restroom so that I wouldn't need to worry when shipped outwards. Bless his forethought. Then we waited with Ms. Bundy's admin assistant, who treated me as if I were already sub-human. No big surprise, we had to wait 15 minutes for no particular reason, apparently just to establish how important she was. As we entered the inner office, I let the Prof. take the lead while I stood as meekly as possible:

"Thank you for seeing us so quickly, Mrs. Bundy, I'm Hal Walker; I believe I met you at the last National Slavery Association Show?"

"Ya'll do look familiar, Hal. So, is this the li'l college girl what wants to indenture herself?"

"Yes'm," I answered, trying to look as shy as possible. "Thank you for processing my petition, Ma'am; I'm sure it was a lot of work for you." (I had no such belief but wanted to butter her up.)

"Waal, Judge Parker looked at your pitturs," she snickered, displaying my embarrassing slave registration photos. "You sure are slave hot. He decided any pussy that was that juicy needed to be sold as a pleasure slut!"

I had anticipated that, even though I hoped for a different job classification. My blushes were genuine, and all I could think to say was "Yes'm" again. She showed me the court order, and I checked that, indeed, I was classified as a pleasure slut and authorized to self-enslave myself for 180 days, the minimum period permitted by law, and that I was giving myself to the state for disposition.

"Don't worry, sweetie. A hot little piece like you will look better nekkid anyway." A pause. "So why are you self-enslavin', college girl?" She asked. "Cain't handle life as a free person? Or do you have a hot slave pussy that needs to get fucked all day long?"

"I guess both, ma'am. I mean, I'm just not able to keep a job—or a boyfriend." Literally true, since I kept going through medical rotations and friends-with-benefits.

"Wall, bless your l'il heart." [There it was, the ultimate Southern expression that is best translated as "You need a keeper. You're too dumb to be wandering around loose." Well, in about three minutes she would be my keeper.] "Ah'm sure you'll have LOTS of boyfriends as a slave slut. You ready to do this?"

"Yes'm." Keep up the submissive act, I thought to myself; she seems in a good mood now that she's acknowledged as being far superior to me. No sense delaying the inevitable.

She set up a video camera to record my self-indenture and called in two of her subordinates, Enus and Rosa, as witnesses. She turned on the camera and told me to read slowly and carefully. With a sense of impending doom, I faced the camera.

"I acknowledge that I am indenturing myself of my own free will, under Texas Civil Code, Chapter 5 Conveyance, 5.309.2, indenture, for a period of 180 days. During this period, I convey ownership of my title and surrender all civil rights to the State of Texas. This indenture is irrevocable."

I signed the form, followed by the witnesses. Becky Lou turned off the camera and ran my indenture document through a machine to imprint the Texas Star on it. Then she grinned at me.

"Congratulations, slut. The Great State of Texas owns your ass and all the rest of you; You're a slave."

"Yes, Mistress." (Thank heavens I remembered to change the salutation—no sense getting punished in my first minute as a slave.) Rosa stepped forward.

"I want you naked in one minute, slave." I knew what I had to do. Like pulling off a band-aid, the quicker I stripped, the quicker I could get over the first of many humiliations. I immediately shucked off the sweater and handed it to the Prof., then dropped my skirt, picked it and my flip-flops up and gave all three objects to him. No sense delaying the inevitable. I stood as straight as I could, spread my legs slightly, and interlaced my fingers behind my neck in the position of Present, facing Becky Lou. My traitorous nipples immediately became erect.

I think the three government employees were used to people who hesitated, and were further surprised that I was not wearing underwear. Enid feasted his eyes on my body, the first of what I was sure would be many creepy guys gloating over my nudity, but Becky Lou didn't hesitate:

"Collar," she ordered. I dropped down, knees apart, placed my left hand on my hip and used my right to hold my hair away from my neck, allowing her to install a temporary slave collar complete with chip and barcode. As soon as she finished, the supervisor commanded "Back hands."

Having practiced this procedure with Wendy, I immediately dropped my hair and crossed my wrists behind my back. I sensed Rosa leaning over and felt a zip-tie binding me. Next, a tug on my collar indicating that a leash was attached. "Up," Rosa said firmly, then "Heel!" Just like a dog.

As I turned to follow Rosa into the cubical farm outside the supervisor's office, Enus took the opportunity to maul one of my breasts. Meanwhile, the Prof did me one final service by slipping an unexpected question in.

"I don't want to take up any more of your valuable time, Mrs. Bundy; I'm glad to get this slut off my hands." he said. "Out of curiosity, though, where did His Honor decide to ship her?"

The answer was out of her mouth before she had time to think. "Judge Parker sends all the prime pussy to the Big D Market. Slave meat like her should do reeel well there." Perhaps realizing that she had slipped by giving any information, the supervisor sent me on my way with a sharp slap on my left buttock. At least I knew where I was going, even though "Big D Market" was about the worst answer I could have heard. More about that later.

I had other things on my mind, though, as Rosa towed my naked, helpless form down a corridor suddenly lined with leering and disapproving faces.

"Comin' thru! Hot, juicy slave pussy on the hoof!" Rosa announced. I had anticipated this humiliation, but I had not expected my reaction, which was to instantly lubricate down below. I stumbled, then followed her down the dingy hallway, doing my best to stay calm while assuming my "eager horny bimbo" face.

Among the observers were a number of older women who seemed to hate me. Again, Professor Walker had warned me that some women liked to feel better about themselves by enjoying the abasement of pretty young slaves. They described me as slut, skank, whore, and even trollop (must be an older Englishwoman in the group, I thought. Then my racing mind suddenly imagined co-authoring a journal article with my Dad, perhaps in the Journal of Slave Sociology: "Correlation of social background of free women and their perceptions of female slaves." Ha.)

The young guys were overjoyed to see yet another woman, this time a young, "sexy" one with a "nice rack," doing the slave walk of shame. With my hands pinned behind me, I couldn't prevent them from "copping feels" as Rosa sauntered slowly towards the elevator. My boobs and ass cheeks were repeatedly squeezed hard. She paused to get a drink of water, leaving me motionless long enough for the more daring guys to finger-fuck what they described as my "wet beaver" and ram a long finger up my anus. I gave a startled "Eep!" before regaining control of myself.

As I said, I had anticipated emotions of exposure, defenselessness, and mortification. What I hadn't expected was that this gauntlet would arouse me—not just moisture between my legs but a fluttering in my belly, the first signs of rising orgasm. When I thought about it later, I realized that the office employees' perception of me only reinforced the sudden change in my reality—that I was truly a naked piece of livestock who could not refuse intimacy with any adult who got within reach of me. The reality of being a passive sex object struck me hard.

Fortunately for my heartrate and breathing, Rosa finally led me onto the elevator whose doors, blessedly, closed on us. In the sudden silence, Rosa looked at me and said, with a cross between pity and triumph in her voice,

"Bet you don't feel like a smart college girl now, do you?"

"No, Mistress. I'm just a stupid naked toy." And at that moment, having put myself in this vulnerable position, I truly felt stupid, I was slave naked, and everyone was free to play with me.

"Got that right," she replied, fondling my breast briefly. Her ability to do this to me whenever she wished only served to keep my arousal at a heightened level.

All too quickly, we arrived at a loading dock in the building's basement, where several other slaves were kneeling in various shipping cages. Rosa handed the attendant a shipping invoice for me, presumably addressed to the Big D Livestock and Market in Dallas. The attendant looked at his watch, and then exclaimed,

"Dang! I'd love to try out the mouth on this slut, but the truck going to Big D is due any minute." He took my leash and led me in front of a cage whose door hung open.

"Kneel, slave, and open wide." I assumed the prescribed position, which meant my knees were so far apart that both Rosa and the unnamed attendant could see everything on my body, including the fluid trickling down my left thigh. As I had anticipated, the attendant inserted a canvas bit gag then connected the ends of the gag behind my head, pinning down my blonde hair and forcing my mouth and cheeks into the infamous "slave grin". The gag tasted terrible.

The attendant took his time, bending over to fondle my boobs before instructing me to "Crawl into that cage, ass first." It was difficult to do so with my hands bound behind my back, but I finally settled in a cage sized more for a French poodle rather than a woman. He slammed the cage shut and hung a tiny lock on the hasp. Like a valuable show dog—or maybe a wayward puppy—I was stuck on my knees, collared and restrained, in a cage. The imagery was clear—they towered above me as free human beings, while I was a bitch at their feet who could not be trusted to roam free or even to bark.

No sooner had I sat back on my haunches than I heard the warning "beep, beep," of a truck in reverse, just outside the loading dock. In minutes, I and another helpless, speechless woman found our cages inside a dark truck.

"Have fun, little puta!" I heard Rosa call as the truck's door rolled down and latched; a few moments later, we were on our way to the slave market.

(To be continued)