Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 05

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, human beings are not property and 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)

Early morning. Inside the Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas, the lights came on over the holding cages, accompanied by an annoying buzz on the loudspeakers. It was obviously time to get up for my second day as a slave, already classified as a pleasure slut. Today, I expected that I would be auctioned off on a real slave block and find out my fate for the next 179 days.

My name is Nikki Sheldon, and at the time of these events I was 24 years old. Why was this ex-cheerleader and recent medical school graduate a slave? Because I really wanted to be a slave psychiatrist, and one of the requirements to reach that goal was to serve at least 180 days in a collar, so that I would understand the trauma my patients faced on a daily basis. For the umpteenth time in the 20-odd hours since I had voluntarily indentured myself, I wondered what the HELL I had been thinking of. Just last night, five slave handlers on the night shift had tied me down and repeatedly probed all of my openings—at least they were gentle and used lubricant and condoms in my anus. Most of them made me feel good, actually, so I can't really describe it as abuse.

I had studied slavery as much as possible before I took this step, so I knew what was expected. Much as I wanted to huddle under my blanket, I wanted even more to avoid punishment, least of all a shock from my battery-operated slave collar. I rolled out onto the cold concrete floor. By the time an unfamiliar slave handler appeared to bind me and take me to the restroom, I was kneeling with my thighs wide apart and my fingers interlocked behind my neck, a position that caused my 35C rack (hey, I'm a slave—no namby-pamby language allowed) to display nicely. My nipples were erect from the chilly air. Did I mention that slaves, especially "fresh caught slave pussy," are usually kept naked? The only thing I wore besides my shock collar was a megaphone-shaped piece of pink and white plastic, stapled to my ear in the same way the Big D market once labelled beef on the hoof. Now I was one of their prize heifers. The megaphone tag was a marketing tool, intended to suggest to buyers that they could purchase me and live out their fantasies of shafting a cheerleader. In this case, I really had been a cheerleader for eight years of high school and college, but the slave handlers had just decided that I looked like one.

After toilet, enema, and a breakfast of stewed vegetables, I was given ten minutes with a toothbrush, comb, and mirror to bring some order to my appearance, especially my chin-length blond hair. A girl likes to look her best for sale! Then Bob, the handler who had led me around yesterday evening, appeared and took me off to another cage containing a low platform, a mock slave block. I'd been so carried away practicing my slave positions yesterday that, when an observer commented upon my ear tag, I had spontaneously done a handstand, split my legs wide to flash everyone there, and begged "let this cheerleader cunt entertain you, Master." I still blushed to think of it, but that scene was clearly on Bob's mind, as he kept calling me that with a twinkle in his eye.

"OK, cheerleader cunt. You know you have to perform later this morning. Luckily, we aren't overloaded for inventory, or you'd already be on sale. Before we practice the usual postures, I want to know if you can do any other gymnastic moves besides that handstand?"

"Yes, Master, but I'm really embarrassed that I did that, especially about what I said. I must have been slave stupid."

"You need to get over that embarrassment and instead market your skills. Genetics gave you a cute face and nice tits, but your muscle tone and coordination tell me you really were a cheerleader, or maybe a gymnastics student, am I right? Thought so, my sister was a competition cheerleader in high school, but you look like you did it in college as well." No question, just a statement, although I nodded agreement.

"Then, after years of training, for some crazy reason you self-indentured yourself for the minimum 6 months. That's when you were really slave stupid. I checked—no criminal conviction, no debts, you just GAVE that toned, trained, smoking-hot body to the State of Texas for FREE as if you were a cock-hungry whore."

He sounded quite disappointed, almost like my Dad except for the last three words which Daddy would never say. I started to hang my head but jerked up at his next statement.

"Which you are NOT, by the way. You put on a good act of being a sex-crazed bimbo, but there's too much confidence in your posture, too many brains behind your eyes, and you never make a mistake. The average slut who comes through here forgets to say 'Master,' or balks at an order, or thinks that she can get special privileges because she's pretty. You didn't. No—don't bother to apologize for the act. You're trying to get through this with the minimum of pain, and that's a good attitude."

He continued his quiet monologue, again surprising me: "That's why I went along with Doctor Matt and his cockamamy idea that you were about to go catatonic. I don't know why he said that. I mean, if he wanted your body he already had you spread out for examination. He could have just spent about 5 minutes running his hands over your hooters to check for lumps, if you know what I mean, and then given you a pelvis exam with his cock. From the INSIDE of you. I wouldn't have said anything, and your face told me you expected him to mount you right then. Anyway—I don't know why he came up with the story about your special condition, but I agree with him that you don't need, you don't deserve rough sex like that. You've been a cooperative piece of inventory, and that's all we should care about."

He sighed: "But, by GIVING your cute little ass to the state you made yourself cheap. Right now, the state and the slave market have only about $200 invested in you for shipping and handling."

(I silently thought about all the "handling" I'd been getting in the showers and on the night shift.)

"So today," Bob pointed out, "The market can afford to sell you cheap and still make a profit. You're only in for 180 days, so whoever buys you won't waste time training you. Because you're young, cute, and Anglo, one of the slave brothels might pay up to $5,000 for you. Then the owner will chain you to a bedframe and let sleezy guys with bad breath fuck you any way they want for $50 an hour, 12 or 14 hours a day. Everybody gets their money—the judge, the state, the market, the brothel—and all the Johns get their kicks while you literally get the shaft. What do you think you'll be like, mentally and physically, after six months of that?" (I winced; I had been warned that might happen. If I survived this experience, I had to convey Bob's analysis so the school comes up with a better cover story for future slave psychiatry students.)

He went on in a low voice, almost as if he read my thoughts. "That's what WILL happen if you mount the block and freeze or try to retain some modesty. Instead, you need to show off your cheerleader skills and your cheerleader body. Find a way to make your price too high for the brothel owners. You've got a chance to make a real impression so some high roller will buy you, or at least so that your price is high enough that your new owner takes care of you as an investment."

"Think of it as a cheerleader competition—stay focused and ignore the audience while you do your routine. I want you to do a cartwheel onto one end of the block, then forward and backwards somersaults lengthwise along the platform. Can you do that? After that, I'll run you through some normal slave postures while you display the usual slave expressions and begging. But when I say 'Handstand,' I expect you to do about what you did yesterday—arrange yourself so you're standing on your hands, facing the audience but upside down so gravity makes your knockers really stand out. Then do a split, first with one leg forward and one leg back, then bring them both back together over your head, and finally split yourself sideways, showing them all that muscular thigh and soft flesh while you loudly announce 'let this cheerleader cunt entertain you, Master.'"

So that's what we practiced. After two run-throughs, he paused to let me drink some water. He warned me that the actual slave block was higher off the ground than this little platform. Then, I hesitantly asked him why he was investing such an effort in me. He gruffly denied any good intentions, saying that he wanted to maximize the profit margin, but I privately thought he was really kind. I didn't object even when he began to gently fondle my boobs and cunt. I knew he was just trying to maintain the arousal I felt after slave postures so that I would be "slave hot" for the next step. If he had a little fun in the process, so what?

That next step was to put me on display for prospective buyers and any other creep who wanted to feel me up. Have to let the buyers examine the merchandise. I'd undergone something similar when I was slave graded at age 18, and the Big D Market followed roughly the same procedure. Emphasis on roughly. A can of Devox took away my voice, making me feel still more helpless even though no slave's protests could ever change her fate. Then I and the other merchandise (about a dozen women and two men in the first batch of the day) were strung up against restraint poles, with my cuffed hands above my head, a magnet holding my collar to the pole, and my ankles tied to rings on the floor, forcing my feet about 30 inches apart. As he abandoned me to the human "wolves," Slave Handler Bob tweaked my nipples and clit to keep me excited, whispering "Be hot and be brave, cheerleader cunt."

First came the gawkers. Slave markets required anyone entering to prove that he/she was at least 18, but some of these guys (and a few gals—I wonder if they thought of themselves being strung up like that?) seemed only two weeks beyond their birthdays. Mauling my tits, thrusting fingers up my two lower holes, you name it—almost anything short of actual intercourse was OK. After about five minutes, I was overwhelmed mentally and was very thankful when the market's attendants told the tourists to move on. Then came the real slave merchants, who were detached and quiet, almost polite by comparison. Most of them scanned the barcode on my collar or the lot number on my cheerleader tag, thereby accessing my file electronically. The file didn't give my name, but did include my birthdate, measurements, previous grading of Prime Minus, length of indenture (6 months), reserve price (Bob told me it was $3000) and so on. Following Bob's advice, I made eye contact with each merchant and smiled brightly at them while panting softly to cause my boobs to rise and fall.

Two merchants forced my mouth open to check my teeth, as if I were a horse for sale—the Big D livestock brand continues. (Brand? Ouch. Legally, I was not a convict slave and would not normally be branded, but some owners used their own, private brands anyway, either out of sadism or to emphasize their dominance. Recently, there had been some instances of slave rustling so perhaps branding made sense, but I sure didn't want my butt burned.) Anyway, three of the merchants finger-fucked me gently. They didn't show any enjoyment about the opportunity, and I imagine they did the same thing to hundreds of slaves each year (thoughts like that certainly depressed any pride I might have in my looks.) They were probably checking for level of arousal. Fortunately for my price, if not for my self-respect, I knew I was slave hot and well juiced that morning. (I'm not going to be embarrassed about that. Just imagine you'd been through the process I've described and then someone strung you up, slave naked, and let strangers paw and invade your body while you wondered which one of them would buy you. Your only choices are turned on or catatonic in shock.)

Finally, the two hours were up, and Slave Handler Bob led me away, sprayed my throat with the antidote to Devox, and gave me a bottle of water to recover. When he came to cuff me and lead me to the waiting line for auction, he was grinning—apparently, I had impressed the merchants so much that my grade had been elevated to full Prime. Not something I wanted on my bio sketch when I started my medical practice! He told me to focus on my upcoming "cheerleader competition" when it was my time for auction.

In preparing mentally for self-indenture, I had imagined many humiliations and sexual indignities, including the slave grading I had just undergone. For some reason it had never occurred to me that I might have to do a competitive cheerleading routine while butt naked in front of dozens or possibly hundreds of strangers who were evaluating me as slave meat for the bedroom. I just didn't think of slave poses as gymnastics. Every cheerleader has had to endure the crude comments of over-sexed young men who undressed her with their eyes, but this time their eyes didn't need to do anything except stare—no undressing was necessary. Besides, every cheerleader I knew was rightfully indignant if some obnoxious guy claimed she was promiscuous. Yet, just last night five complete strangers had used my body any way they wanted, and I had enjoyed the experience—promiscuous was now in my job description.

Soon, I was crowded into a slave chute that led, according to the sign, to the "Kansas City" Auction Block. Again, I recalled Professor Hollister's use of such chutes to treat the merchandise like cattle—kept in the dark, my boobs pressed into the next girl's back while my pussy came into contact with her butt, all slightly sweaty in the enclosed space. The chute narrowed down so that we were in single file, very much cattle led to the slaughter. We were all nervous and uncertain about what was to come but knew that we had to keep stroking ourselves so we would appear as slave hot when our time came. I kept telling myself to stay calm and resist the psychological pressures designed into the Hollister system. I smelled not only my own arousal but that of the other women around me.

My turn came soon enough. Fortunately, the lights were so bright that I could barely see anyone in the audience. At first, all I could hear were Bob's slave posture commands and the drone of a practiced auctioneer who quickly got the bidding above $8,000. Yet, when Bob ordered my handstand and I begged them all to use my cheerleader cunt, even the auctioneer was distracted and stuttered to a halt for a moment. I brought my legs back up together after the second split, held them for a 4-count, and then back rolled into the next position, "Slave Fours," with my ass high and showing both of my openings. By the time the auctioneer declared a winner in the bidding, about three minutes that seemed like three hours later, I felt arousal dripping between my thighs but my six months of sexual servitude had sold for an astonishing $22,000!

Bob took me back to a holding cage, gave me another bottle of water, and said goodbye. I thanked him sincerely for saving me—I didn't know who had bought me, but he confirmed that the brothels had stopped bidding about $15,000. Again, he denied that any thanks were needed, saying my sale would reflect in his yearly bonus, but I didn't believe him. As he left, he remarked, wistfully, that he wished he had met me under different circumstances. He was impressed with both my body and my mind. I giggled, remarking "I won't ask you which one you like more, Master," to which he replied "Well, I've seen a lot more of one than of the other." Becoming serious again, he said he was sure that I would have no interest in him after I regained my freedom—no ex-slave ever wants to be reminded of being processed and sold. I made a mental note to look him up when I was wearing clothes again. Any guy who could retain respect for a slave woman he met under such demeaning circumstances, and not even demand sex from that woman (which was one of the perks of his job), was worth knowing.

Because I was at the end of an alleyway of cages, I figured out that I could stay seated on the bench until I heard someone coming and still assume the exposed position of "kneel" before they arrived. This time I just got into position when I looked up at a white coat—Matt Swenson, the slave veterinarian who had convinced Bob and the other handlers that, for bogus medical reasons, I needed to be handled gently. That favor had saved me from a rough gangbang at the hands of the night crew, who had instead been very kind and careful, ensuring I had almost as fun as they did.

"I gather you really are a cheerleader cunt?" He began.

"Well, Master, I was a cheerleader and now I am a cunt, a slave cunt." I replied, smiling and blushing at the same time.

"OK, but are you really an MD?" as he had guessed yesterday.

"Yes, Master, TWU Medical College this year, but please don't tell anyone—it will just make my time more difficult."

"So I imagine—I'd hate to be in the inventory here, and I don't look half as sexy as you. Anyway, I see you're only indentured for six months. I was hoping that I could take you out to dinner when this is over, so you can tell me the whole story. After all, I figured only one circumstance—or should I say, one educational requirement? That would require a physician to become a slave for six months."

Busted! But he didn't seem likely to make an issue out of it. "Well, Master, I'd be happy to talk with you then, assuming I survive. After all, you literally saved my ass last night, so I owe you at least a piece of it."

"Much as I'd love a piece of that cheerleader ass," he replied with a wink, "You don't owe me anything—call it professional courtesy. Of course, if we hit it off, I wouldn't say no, but ONLY if you really want to. It would be unethical to extort sex from a patient, even a slave patient, although the thought tempts me!" (Damn! I thought. Another keeper. Who knew there were TWO gentlemen working in a slave mart?)

"I look forward to it, Master; I'll contact you in about seven months. I'd offer to play slave girl with you after that, but I think, after this dose of reality, that I will always find role-playing as a slave either boring or frightening. By the way, my name is or will be Nikki."

"Matt. I look forward to it. I hope you have an easy time until then. 'Bye."

The sounds of his tennis shoes had barely faded before I heard someone coming my way, so I again assumed the kneel position and waited, careful to keep my eyes downcast. But he immediately changed the rules:

"Look at me, please." I recognized him as one of the people who had examined me when I was on display—about 40 years old, slightly greying dark hair, well over 6 feet tall, wearing a suit with a smile on his face. A handsome face.

"In case you haven't guessed, I'm your new owner." He paused. "I don't want to call you 3803, so just tell me your real name."

"My name is Nikki, Master."

"That's what I thought." (What—did he already know my name? How?) He continued. "You probably want to know what's going to happen to you. You don't need to know everything, so I'll keep it simple. I run a high-end private club in Fort Worth. Do you know what BDSM is?"

(Gulp—this is getting real!) "I've read about it, but my former boyfriends and I never went beyond taking turns with our hands cuffed, Master."

"Almost a BDSM virgin! Just forget what you've read, a lot of the BDSM fiction is impossible. If I really hit people that hard or tied them up that tightly I'd kill them, which sort of spoils the fun, if you know what I mean. The whole thrill of BDSM is not so much about injury as about one person surrendering power to another—and you've already lost all your power, your free will, anyway. OK: I'm going to use you as a submissive in my club, plus maybe some other jobs as we go along. We'll start you out as a waitress in bondage and move up quickly from there; you'll learn. Yes, you're going to get tied up and spanked, and yes, you're going to be fucked, but it won't be nearly as bad as if you went to one of the slave brothels. You may even find that you like it. Questions?"