- NonConsent/Reluctance
- Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 03
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(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)
I was terrified—there was no other word for it, except maybe petrified. If I hadn't used the restroom about 90 minutes ago, I'd be peeing myself.
Since I turned 18, I had wanted to become a slave psychiatrist, and the Psychiatric Union required that all such specialists experience at least 180 days as a slave or indentured servant (in practice, both categories are treated as slaves). I knew this would be a life-altering event, and several people had tried to talk me out of it. But I was so committed to my future profession that earlier that day I had signed my freedom away at the capital office of the Texas Department of Agriculture's Livestock and Slave Division. Once I was legally a slave, I had no choice but to submit—stripped completely naked, collared with my hands zip-tied behind me, and led on a pet leash through a crowd of office workers who lost no opportunity to fondle my defenseless body and jeer at my loss of status.
Intellectually, I understood what this status change would mean. Up to that day, however, I had been one of the most privileged people on the planet, a middle-class Caucasian American who could go almost anywhere. Even if I accidentally trespassed on someone else's space or land, a smiling apology from a pretty young woman would usually avert any negative consequences. Slavery was completely different—I had no privileges or freedom.
That's how I ended up where I was—kneeling naked, collared, bound, and gagged on a hard tray that formed the bottom of a large dog cage, which cage was in the non-air-conditioned back of a truck hurtling down a Texas highway. I had a cheerleader's face (blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose usually described as cute), hair (blonde), and body (35C-24-34; I'm not bragging, my appearance is relevant to my fate). At the moment, however, this body that had earned me a full college scholarship and helped my team reach national rank in competitive cheerleading was so helpless that it couldn't even scratch itself. I had a mind that had gotten me into a top college at age 16 and earned a medical doctorate before I turned my current age, 24. But, that mind had no solutions to my situation. If anything, my mind only made things worse. For example, I knew that the bit gag holding my mouth in a "slave smile" tasted so bad because many slave handlers thought it amusing to coat such gags with their own semen, so that the slave's mouth tasted as if she (or he) had just given a blowjob. Yeech.
All right, I thought—there's nothing I can do about my situation, so I might as well inventory my experience as a slave so far. That's what this is supposed to be about, right?
Terror? I'd already covered that. Helplessness? Ditto. That brought me to my third emotion—incredulity at my own stupidity. How the HELL had I deliberately put myself in this situation? Yes, I wanted to be a slave psychiatrist, and yes, my 60-odd minutes (so far) of experience as a slave would be indispensable to my success in that field. Yet, my normally-rational mind was already overloaded with the emotions and sensations I was inventorying. I couldn't imagine what I would be thinking, if I were still thinking at all, at the end of six months. And I knew that worse was to come. My faculty mentor, Professor Walker, had tried to explain what my fate would probably be. Six years ago, when I turned 18 and the other cheerleaders pressured me into volunteering for slave grading, the combination of my body and my helpless excitement at the slave market had made me "slave hot," as recorded in the National Slave Registry by graphic official photos (sometimes known as the pink shots) and my grading as a Prime minus. When I was naïve enough to apply for self-indenture, those photos of my curvy, excited body had resulted in Judge Parker assigning me a classification of Pleasure Slut and shipping my well-muscled tushie to a high-end slave market, the Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas.
That was another source of my terror, because in a Slave Studies course I had read about the operation of the Big D. Doctor Sarah Hollister, Professor of Slave Studies at Harvard, had published a book called Profit Per Pussy: The Art and Science of Slaving. In it, she described her copyrighted plan that had transformed the Big D. She used the fact that this market had once been a livestock operation to create a brand name for the human livestock that now passed through it. For example, incoming slaves had coded tags stapled to their ears like cattle. These tags were a marketing tool to appeal to sexual stereotypes in the minds of different customers. Cattle chutes were used to guide the slaves going up for auction. The sand originally trod upon by cattle now coated the feet—and sometimes other parts—of the slaves. Professor Hollister had suggested a trademark that now was central to the Big D advertising campaign: its inventory was composed of "Sandy Foot Girls; only the finest pussy qualifies to be Sandy Foot Girls."
(Side note: ordinarily, I would object strenuously to being described as "pussy," or hearing a guy say the word in reference to any woman. Having voluntarily indentured myself as a pleasure slave, however, I guess my new job description included crude terms such as pussy, cunt, twat, slut, and so on. Male slaves were often referred to as "assholes," probably because, like female slave pussies, their rectums might well be invaded for the pleasure of free people. No such thing as pride for a slave unless it's pride in giving good sex.)
In general, the Hollister system moved the merchandise (including me) through as quickly as possible by marketing it to the known prejudices and fantasies of customers. Meanwhile, a series of steps disoriented and aroused the women to new heights. By the time she reached the auction block, each Sandy Foot Girl would be slave hot and sell to best advantage, marketed to an audience that saw her as a particular type of "pussy" such as arrogant liberal college girl, stripper slut, debtor, and so on.
I'd heard a rumor that Dr. Hollister had recently gone undercover, allowing herself to be processed through her own system at the Big D while posing as a slave slut. I had initially discounted that rumor, inquiring why such a brilliant woman would permit herself to be humiliated and manipulated by situations she had devised to exploit others. The dust jacket photo on her latest book showed a tall, beautiful, supremely-confident woman who would never accept such treatment. In her writings, she spoke so contemptuously of bimbos like me who allowed themselves to be enslaved that I was sure she didn't want the Big D Market to make a "profit" on her personal "pussy," even in the name of research. The thought of her naked in the middle of that market, performing slave positions or strung up for a cattle wash while wearing only an ear tag and a shock collar, seemed absurd. Now I realized that I myself was about to have the same experience, so I could understand how she might do this as book research, just as I needed the experience to help slaves psychologically. It still seemed stupid and frightening. If Dr. Hollister really did become a Sandy Foot Girl, I guess I'll be in good company. Remind me to buy her next book when she publishes it, assuming either of us ever regains clothes and money to write or purchase books.
Mentally categorizing my feelings, I had to admit that there was one more sensation: arousal. I was not naturally a submissive, although I understood the concept and sometimes enjoyed surrendering myself in bed to a strong guy. I knew in advance that the treatment I received in my first day of indenture was deliberately intended to make me feel vulnerable and eager to have a master or mistress control and exploit me. I was surprised only by the intensity of the sensation, something else I had to categorize in my preparation to be a slave psychiatrist.
Enough analysis for now. Since the system had done its job of making me helpless, subservient, and aroused, I might as well enjoy one of the few benefits of being a slave—fulfilling some of my more extreme fantasies. Isn't there an old, male chauvinist epigram to the effect that if it's inevitable anyway, you might as well lie back and enjoy it? My bound hands couldn't reach my trigger areas, but I found that rubbing my thighs together, pushing my nipples into the openings of the wire cage, and clenching my kegel and other muscles rhythmically, as if I were copulating (hell—getting fucked) brought me off quickly. The second and third times took longer, but after that I was filled with endorphins and sufficiently relaxed to dissipate my tensions and think more clearly. (My apologies for the stilted words in this paragraph but remember I had just finished medical school and really did use terminology such as rectum and endorphins.)
Anyway, I had returned to my mantra of happy, willing, obedient bimbo by the time the truck backed up to another loading dock, at which point the driver slid my cage down a ramp onto the dock. He scanned the bar code on my cage and had a bored-looking young woman sign for me. This woman approached my cage and recited the standard warning used by slave markets throughout the state:
"You are at The Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas, Texas. You are here for processing and sale as a pleasure slut. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Big D employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"
Not wanting a shock, I frantically nodded yes and tried to make myself understood saying "Yes, Mistress" around the hateful gag. She seemed satisfied, or at least she didn't zap me with her electrified prod. A moment later, a young guy built like a football player and wearing the Big D logo on his shirt shoved the lip of a handcart under my cage. I felt the whole cage tilt and then he pushed me rapidly down corridors between piles of other cages, some of them still occupied. The edge of the cage slammed open a pair of double doors, and I was deposited under a large sign reading "Receiving."
The slave handler scanned the barcode on the cage again and then unlocked the cage door. In a firm voice, he ordered:
"Crawl forward until you reach the yellow line in front of you. Stop there, and do not move without further orders." I squirmed forward as quickly as I could and then remained stock still, not wanting a electric prod zapping me. A heavy collar and battery pack wrapped around my neck; I felt two sharp points—the electric shock circuit—dig into my neck just as the locking bolt slammed shut. He finally removed the hated gag, then waved a remote control, vaguely resembling the control on a home television, in front of me.
"Do you know what will happen if I push this button?" He asked. Having been slave graded at age 18 and then visiting various slave markets on field trips, I knew that I would get a healthy shock, stronger than many tasers. "Yes, Master" I announced as loudly as I dared while trying to remain completely motionless.
"Prone, slave." I immediately fell forward, twisting to break my fall on my left shoulder, and then lay flat on the cold concrete face down as instructed, my hands still bound. I felt a foot on my neck.
"Don't move." He instructed, unnecessarily, then shifted his tone to ask another, unseen person. "What kind of tag is she getting?"
"I don't know, Bob—let me look at the file." A female voice. "Let's see, slave number 663-74-3803. A college girl, but she's from Texas, so the California Liberal tag doesn't quite fit. Self-indentured for only 180 days, so maybe she's a born slut. Humm—roll her over."
The foot came off my neck, and he ordered me to "Back prone." I complied, although it was difficult to do so with my hands still behind my back. They thrust my hips up in a suggestive posture as I spread my legs slightly to fit the required position. On my back, my boobs and figure were clearly visible to both handlers.
"That's what I thought—she looks like a frakin' cheerleader, a cute little face with big boobs and a tight ass, so we'll tag her that way." Announced the woman. Oh, great—in this case, her stereotype was right on the money, in that she had correctly guessed I had once been a cheerleader. Truth didn't matter anyway—I was going to be pigeon-holed into the cheerleader stereotype regardless. Unfortunately, I had learned there was a significant portion of the male population who carried grudges because (they believed) some cheerleader had been cruel to them in high school or college. Such guys would be happy to fuck and punish any slave who, like me, fit that profile. In fact, Professor Hollister had designed a specific cheerleader ear tag, a megaphone-shaped piece of pink and white plastic that would bear my lot number (which turned out to be BS-4320) on one side and the suggestive slogan "Take one for the team!" on the other. I was so distracted by that thought that I barely registered the order to return to Prone position, but I managed to roll back over before Bob became impatient. Once again, the foot descended on my neck to hold me motionless. A sharp pain announced that my ear was tagged.
(Roll over, play dead, you're just an animal, I grumped to myself. Wait a minute. Rosa at the Department of Agriculture had collared and leashed me like a dog, but these people just tagged me like a heifer. Does that mean I'm moving up in the world? This situation was so bad that I thought it was better to laugh than to cry. Either one had to be done silently.)
Bob attached another leash to my collar, jerked me to my feet, and led me over to a podium to which he clipped the leash's handle. Then he snapped handcuffs on my wrists before cutting off the zip-tie that Rosa had installed when I was first enslaved, earlier on this incredibly long day.
"OK," he said to me, for the first time speaking as if I was something more than a dog. "We need to update your Slave Registration photos, because they're six years old." Careful not to turn my head, I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was enjoying those scandalous "pink shots" from when I was graded at 18. After all the embarrassments of this day, I was surprised to learn that I could still blush. "Since you're a prime minus, I assume you know how to perform your auction block moves, right?"
"Yes, Master." (Let's face it, slaves never get the good lines of dialog.)
Without a further word, Bob unclipped my leash from the podium and led me to a raised platform, about six feet by three feet. At his command, I began running through all the demeaning positions possible, including present, display, slave fours, and so on, splaying my naked body to reveal every intimate spot. He also told me to try to appeal to an imaginary buyer, and in no time I was begging him to let me swallow his come, take his long, hard cock up my eager ass, and so on. A few handlers happened by and added their comments, usually belittling. Once Bob told them that I had self-indentured for only six months, without any record of crime or debt, they all concluded that I was a horny little slut just begging to be used—their comments reflected that.
One of the handlers, referring to my ear tag, urged his co-workers to look at "that sweet little cheerleader cunt—wouldn't you love to get some of that?" I don't know whether I was excited by the situation or just trying to please them and avoid a shock, but this comment prompted me to do something that still makes me blush to remember. I happened to be facing away from whoever made the comment, so I instinctively did a move I had performed hundreds of times (always wearing clothes!) while in college: I leaned over backwards into a handstand facing him, then (still inverted) did a split, moving my legs almost parallel to the ground while I modified my begging to urge the speaker to "let this cheerleader cunt entertain you, Master." It made sense to me at the time, but Bob was visibly surprised that I could perform such a move. From then on, I was always "cheerleader cunt" to him.
All this effort, exposing my nude body to jeering, clothed strangers while begging to be used, really excited me, as it was intended to do. When Bob ordered me off the block and told me roll in the sand like a dog, my dampness collected large clumps of sand that stuck to my body, scratching between my thighs and butt cheeks. The on-lookers jeered at this further evidence of my slutiness. Already aroused by my vulnerable situation, at the end of a 20-minute workout I was again "Slave Hot," and had actually orgasmed twice. Bob promptly recorded my slave heat by taking and uploading new photos that made me look even more wanton than those done when I was graded six years earlier. Years later, when I showed those photos to my then-husband, they got both of us so excited that he pinned me down on our bed and set a new record for speed in coming in all three of my openings—and I climaxed right along with him each time, joyously imagining that I was his slave slut. By then, however, I knew the vast gap between real slavery and harmless role playing.
(To be continued)
- COMMENTS
SlavePaulPetrosky7 months agoI’m not 100% with your comment at the beinging of the chapter vis. Not needing to pee at: I'd be peeing myself. Frnakly a lot of slaves at that point’ll pee themselves or their cages. It’s fear and that’s about all it takes. Nikki is showing amazing self control in a ‘combat’ class situation.
Clearly there’s not clothing, so many slave’ll piss where the need takes them. Still pissing in this situation is not a good thing to do. She may need the liquid for sweat. That truck in Texas in mid September can get damn hot!
Much to do in this paragraph: First cut the nickel words at the beginning of sentences as shown. You do give the location that Nikki is from in that it’s the Captial of Texas (Austin). I knew This would be a life-altering event. and Several people had tried to talk me out of it. But I was so committed to my future profession that earlier that day I had signed my freedom away at the capital office of the Texas Department of Agriculture's Livestock and Slave Division.
New Paragraph at: Once I was legally a slave, I had no choice but to submit—stripped completely naked,
New Paragraph at: Slavery was completely different—I had no privileges or freedom.
Good note at: hard tray that formed the bottom of a large dog cage, which cage was in the non-air-conditioned back of a truck hurtling down a Texas highway.
This is a critical concern, and even in September potentially leathal.
New Paragraph at: I had a cheerleader's face, (blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose usually described as cute), hair (blonde), and body (35C-24-34; I'm not bragging, my appearance is relevant to my,
Also kill a bunch of brackets.
You’ve shown later in the story that part of her problem comes from: At the moment, however, this body that had earned me a full college scholarship and
In future a small student loan in default will stear things the right way, and look ‘normal’, not showing that the fix is in. It’ will also help the guys, and that would be an interesting story (espessualy if he’s rated ‘Prime’).
Hold two words, add my and new paragraph at:medical doctorate before I turned my current age, 24. But that
My mind had no solutions to my situation. If anything, my mind only made things worse.
New Paragraph at; How the HELL had I deliberately put myself in this situation?
You should avoid And at the beginning of paragraphs as at: And I knew that worse was to come. My faculty mentor, Professor Walker, had tried to
I think New Paragraph at: Six years ago, when I turned 18 and the other cheerleaders pressured me into
But I’m not 100% on it.
Your discussion of Nikki’s expereance of erotic stimulation by her situation at the Slave Grading in: volunteering for slave grading, the combination of my body. and My helpless excitement at the slave market had made me "slave hot," as recorded in the National Slave Registry by graphic
Is good. It shows her submissive nature. In a future writing have a girl or a guy do this but they’re seriously dominant and find it totally – as you write it. I look forward to reading it. That will also allow you to discuss how that situation affects males, and older females (MILFs and Grannies). An exploration of a granny, someone in her sixties or seventies, going into slavery would be interesting, and a valid writing challenge.
I would split this compound sentence into two.
In my fiction by 2080 there are really good drugs to induce intense arousal in women. There are a variety of pink pills, the locally produced one the most intense – it’s got a fair dose of testosterone in it that boosts its signal, then gets bound by a slow release testosterone binder and flushed from the system via the kidneys.
The testosterone binder was developed to improve male fertility, not horniness.
Which makes the actions of Limp Dick’s associates; they’re not friends, he wanted to be but given he’s a slave for life afterward, remarkably stupid. He gets two counts of rape with extenuating circumstances, he’s under threat by the Principal Criminals, and reductions for taking care of the toxically drunk individuals, turning states eveidence and total utter rejection of what he’d done – true remorse.
They are what the Responsibility Act from my Alpha Reader’s Fiction set out to produce.
The three principals criminals get 80 years each in Huntsville (Four counts of ‘insensate rape’ of drunk girls). Before that they get to atone for three counts of attempted rape, not statutory in their case, but the intended victims were 16 at the time to their 19.
They also get to witness Limp Dicks mutilation (Loss of foreskin, installation of Septum, nipple, 3” pectoral, Prince Albert, Gauche Rings and 2 tie-bars through the cock) and Branding with the Triangle Star of Trinity State under his right arm, followed by 12 lashes with a single tailed whip wielded by Mistress Adamantine. He is then collared by Master Tom Cat, a gay garage owner – he wanted to be an auto mechanic, and he will be. His two kids – the forced birthers don’t allow abortion for rape, get the money, even if he gets the Social Security. That’s before lunch.
After lunch the Principal Criminals atone to the three underage drinkers, Car Dunker, Suzy Franklyn and Annette Hunter. They do so under the direction of Suck-You-Bus (Car Dunker’s owner for her 18-months misdemeanour conviction) before being sent, in my slave collars, to Huntsville for 80 years.
The collars are returned to East City Court House the following day. They’re about 1500 dollars in 2024$ each .
Like the Oath Keeper Leader the trial is seriously delayed, but not as much as in the Oath Keeper’s case, just a little more than a year.
I seem to recall other references to Judge Parker, I look forward to seeing this fifth class character in a second class character role someday. See: body had resulted in Judge Parker assigning me a classification of Pleasure Slut and shipping my
I looked on amazon and cattle tags are pinned not stapled: See:For example, incoming slaves had coded tags stapled pinned to their ears like cattle.
I’d put in a follow on thought in:its inventory was composed of "Sandy Foot Girls; only the finest pussy qualifies to be Sandy Foot Girls." They also had a line of prime beefcake boi, few of them gay but all of them headed that way.
You don’t need the bracket at: (Side note: ordinarily, I would object strenuously to being described as "pussy," or
Because you write Side Note:
New Paragraph at: Male slaves were often referred to as "assholes," probably because, like female slave
I would like to read the story of her nemesis’’ trip through the system (the one nailed for embezzlement).
Also the story of some guy nailed for sexual assault on a fee female (Judge Roy Bean V’s story to be precise – and he ends up in something close to what I call Fury House, where the furies on earth live, and flagellate their oath breaking slaves thrice daily.
And no closing bracket at: pride for a slave unless it's pride in giving good sex.)
I think a new paragraph and an insert at: Meanwhile, a series of steps disoriented and aroused the women, and submissive men, to new heights.
Is in order, but I’m not 100% on the paragraph. The note about submissive men is needful since about 75% of the volume at Bid D is branded male.
Thinking about the chutes I realized they’ll have a significant smell from two sources: First is girl juice from the ‘Slave Hot’ girls, but there’ll also be a great deal of piss from those girls, and guys who are absolutely terrified of what’s about to happen to them. I know this is a hard thing to grasp, and I only got it after passing by it twice in the Beta read at: By the time she or he reached the auction block, each Sandy Foot Girl would should be slave hot and sell to best advantage, marketed to an audience that saw her as a particular type of "pussy"
The market for girls you’ve covered in: such as arrogant liberal college girl, stripper slut, debtor, spend swift and so on.
The markets for boii include, auto mechanic, driver, ass hole, arrogant collage boi, male stripper, slave slut, and others. I look foreward to reading your additions to this.
My spell checker doesn’t like ‘Rumor’, it wants to put ‘rumour’ but it’s british biased.
I’m about to read the related story. I'd heard a rumor that Dr. Hollister had recently gone undercover, allowing herself to be
New Paragraph at: The dust jacket photo on her latest book showed a tall, beautiful, supremely-confident woman
Long paragraph split at: Now I realized that I myself was about to have the same experience, so I could
New Paragraph at: If Dr. Hollister really did become a Sandy Foot Girl, I guess I'll be in good company.
I’d split the sentence and add a new subject, in part because I want to bring extra attention to the point made in this bit of writing:the sensation. This was something else I had to categorize in my preparation to be a slave psychiatrist.
You’re quoting her talking to herself so it goes in italics at:effect that: if it's inevitable anyway, you might as well lie back and enjoy it?
Another long paragraph split at: My bound hands couldn't reach my trigger areas, but I found that rubbing my thighs
Use comas not brackets at: other muscles rhythmically, as if I were copulating, (hell—getting fucked,) brought me off
New Paragraph at: The second and third times took longer, but after that I was filled with endorphins and
No Brackets At: terminology such as rectum and endorphins.)
I also use endorphins and my hero’s going to be a sex slave Tool & Die Maker, so the apology’s un-necessary.
New Paragraph at: “Additionally, all Big D employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary
New Paragaraph at: A moment later, a young guy built like a football player and wearing the Big D logo on
New Paragrahp at: A heavy collar and battery pack wrapped around my neck; I felt two sharp points—the
New person speaking so new paragaraph at: "Yes, Master" I announced as loudly as I dared while trying to remain completely motionless.
The whole of the new paragraph is italic since it’s her talking to herself at: Oh, great— in this case, her stereotype was right on the money, in that she had correctly
Split the paragraph at: Unfortunately, I had learned there was a significant portion of the male population who
See my comments above on brackets in fiction at: carried grudges because, (they believed, ) some cheerleader had been cruel to them in high
Change of idea so new paragraph at: In fact, Professor Hollister had designed a specific cheerleader ear tag, a megaphone-
Also no brackets at: number, (which turned out to be BS-4320, ) on one side
New Paragraph at: I was so distracted by that thought that I barely registered the order to return to Prone
Don’t start a paragraph anywhere with a bracket! Also the first pharase is internal conversation so in italic at: (Roll over, play dead, you're just an animal, I grumped to myself. Wait a minute. Rosa at
You’re not italicizing her thoughts. Mind getting italics may be a major pain in setting up the file but: Wait a minute. Rosa at the Department of Agriculture had collared and leashed me like a dog, but these people just tagged me like a heifer. Does that mean I'm moving up in the world? Is a thought
New Paragraph at: Wait a minute too.
I frequently have my new slave boi remember that Silence is a Slaves Friend. You write: Either one had to be done silently
My hero slave is increadably turned on by being leashed. Comment at: Bob attached another leash to my collar,
New Paragarph at: After all the embarrassments of this day, I was surprised to learn that I could still blush.
Yes she can still blush,but her mental preparation should have inured her to embarissment, At least a little that should be reflected here.
New Paragraph at:"Since you're a prime minus, I assume you know how to perform your auction block moves, right?"
This raises questions about what they do with Allan Blake, who I’m fairly sure hasn’t leaned the slave positions. How long does he have to get them sort of? And I’m sure that Ms. Williams will ask the judge to have him sold at Big D, not HCI because he’s that kind of ass hole.
Kill the brackets, and the ‘Let’s’ for: "Yes, Master." (Let's Face it, slaves never get the good lines of dialog.
No they don’t do they. That’s why there’s so much internal dialog in these stories.
Not so sure you need at new paragraph at: Once Bob told them that I had self-indentured for only six months, without any record of … but I stuck one in anyway.
New Paragraph at I happened to be facing away from whoever made the comment, so I instinctively did a move I had performed hundreds of times, (always wearing clothes, !) while in college: I leaned over backwards into a handstand facing him, then ( still inverted ) did a split, moving my legs almost parallel to the ground
Also kill the brackets. From this it is clear you’ve done gymnastics, or done significant research on Cheerleader moves.
Long paragraph again at: Already aroused by my vulnerable situation, at the end of a 20-minute workout I was
New Paragarph at: Years later, when I showed those photos to my then-husband, they got both of us so
thomas_deanalmost 4 years agoNikki, as a candidate for a degree in Psychiatry has neither a beard nor a german accent. In a dystopian future, where slavery is legal, our candidate is a woman from a good family. With the profitability of the peculiar institution, slave psychiatry could be a lucrative field for her. But money is not Nikki's lure. She has been interested in slavery since an early age.
The catch is that the candidate must follow Lincoln's advice to slavers: take it up for a while, an indenture of not less than six months of reduction to servitude. Her mentor Doctor Sarah Hollister advises against it. Enslaved to pay off her own loan, Dr Hollister had been lucky. A less than prime she was bound to a kindly master who manumitted her. As a voluntary slave of prime grade Nikki , is stripped, collared, caged and sold at auction. .
Learning Shave Psychology is part of a future dystopia which Carl_Bradford builds upon previous writings of Mariner and Joe Doe. An important part of Joe's writings is the concept of status and identification. Stripped bare the individual loses status and identity. Carl's approach is geared more to the excitement of subordination, certainly a concept we encounter in daily life.Some lead; some follow.
There has been some criticism of a dystopia founded on slavery. Certainly the US civil war and the expansion of the British Empire to 2/5ths of the world surface before its collapse purported to abolish slavery. Could it come back in a cherry coated form?
Joe_Doe_Storiesalmost 4 years agoI really appreciated the great job you did on expanding The Big D, as well as the shoutout to Sarah and the other characters. WELL DONE, and thank you!
Professor Hollister asked me to send you the following message:
Dear Carl,
Please let the University know that there is a market mechanism that would allow you to sell someone in slavery and then retrieve them. As slaves are a commodity, there are futures contract for Slave Pussy.
For example, If you wanted to resell Nicki today, you could buy an option for January 2021 Grade A Slave Pussy on the Kansas City Board of Trade, and purchase her back on whatever the market price is then. That way you could buy Niki back in 6 months at whatever the market price is in January. Thus hedging Nicki's pussy is no different than hedging oil or pork bellies, although in Nicki's case "the spread" might prove quite a bit more enjoyable.
Of course slave girls aren't entirely fungible, so they might consider a cheap insurance contract, where the insurer would be willing to pay up 2.5 times the girls market value if the seller is being obstinate. This would cover any premium the University might have to pay to sweeten the deal, and offer a premium to buy her back on the open market. Usually such premiums are rarely necessary, and if they are, they are small, so the insurance itself is quite reasonable.
Of course it is free market, and there is always a chance that the buyer might not be able or willing to sell, because of assets going through bankruptcy, or a buyer's particular fondness for the girl. These delays are usually rare, and in any event not particularly lengthy, as in most cases the lure of money and the tantalizing possibility of hotter slave pussy is almost always sufficient inducement.
If the premium requested seems unreasonable, the insurance company may request the buyer to put the item back on the open market, forcing little Nicki to once again spread her legs and show off her bunghole so that her true value can be determined, right down to the penny.
Of course, no system is full proof, but in this case any bugs actually features. As you wish your students to experience "real" slavery, an actual sale with no end date, coupled with a master who has total and absolute ownership, will provide girls like Nicki with much more authentic experience. Indeed, the thought of the option expiring before it can be used, or some technical glitch with the insurance, will keep little Nicki's slave pussy wet for the whole 6 months, or for however long the fates allow.
Professionally Yours,
Sarah Hollister, PhD.
Anonymousover 4 years agoMight be my favourite story ever on here!
Carl_Bradfordover 4 years agoAuthorI'm aware that some readers would prefer fewer and longer segments of this story, in order to avoid recapitulation. If you'd rather not read recaps each time, imagine trying to write different recaps for so many episodes! I have broken this story into segments at what I think are distinct scenes. Several of the subsequent parts (there are a total of 9, and Nikki may reappear in another story sometime) are longer, so please bear with me. The story goes well beyond the Big D Slave Market to encompass highs and lows of her entire six months' journey. Thanks for reading.
