Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 06

(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)

My new owner, Mr. Paul Sousa, had decreed that I needed "more experience of poodle transport" to move me from the Big D Slave Market in Dallas to Mr. Sousa's private BDSM club in Fort Worth. I knew instantly what he meant by poodle transport, as I had been shipped that way from the State Department of Agriculture, where I had self-indentured myself (was that only yesterday?) to the slave market. So, here I was again: naked with my wrists cuffed behind me and a bit gag in my mouth, collared and kneeling inside a wire cage more suitable for a medium-sized dog than a 5-foot, 9-inch, 24-year-old woman. My boobs were on full display for anyone who saw the cage. The entire situation was designed to emphasize my lowly status as a legal slave, being naked, on my knees, immobilized and silenced like a wayward puppy that has no business making noise or wandering around without supervision by real humans.

It was a humiliating situation for any human being, and certainly for a recent graduate of medical school. Hell, even the slave market had awarded me the highest possible slave grade—I was literally "prime pussy" for whom Mr. Sousa had paid the outlandish total of $22,000. Yet, I had no one but myself to blame for this: in order to qualify to be a slave psychiatrist, I was required to spend 180 days wearing a collar so that I could comprehend the traumatic world of slavery. So I'd self-indentured myself and felt like a little fool who almost deserved to be treated this way. Almost.

Oddly enough, though, if this was poodle transport, I felt that I was at least in the canine first-class section. After first demanding a blowjob, the slave handler who locked me in when I left the Big D had been very thorough and considerate. He ensured I urinated at the very last minute; He removed the pink-and-white cheerleader tag that another handler had stapled onto my ear as if I were a heifer; the cage he had me crawl into had a two-inch foam pad instead of the hard tray I'd experienced yesterday; my cage was inside an air-conditioned panel van so I wasn't sweating; and best of all the gag did not taste as if it had been dipped in sperm! Amazing how becoming a slave makes you appreciate even tiny favors. Add that thought to my list of things I'm learning that I can apply in my future career.

I had no way to measure time, but about 45 minutes or an hour later the panel truck backed up, presumably at my destination in Fort Worth. Again, I felt as if I were at least a prize show dog, because the driver pulled a translucent plastic slave poncho over my head after he ordered me out of the cage and before he led me, still bound at my wrists, up a few steps at the back of a nondescript building. He could have just dragged my nude tush out in public, and no one would have objected. I heard him telephone someone to report my delivery; after a brief delay a young, very pretty brunette opened the door. Although she wore a long bathrobe or dressing gown, well cinched at the waist, it was obvious that she had a classic hourglass shape. She quickly admitted us into a small loading and delivery area, then signed for my delivery. As soon as the driver departed, she removed both my gag and the cuffs that restrained me and led me to a nearby half-bathroom to relieve myself. When I finished, she offered me a bottle of water and introduced herself with a gracious smile:

"You must be Nikki; Paul told me you'd be arriving today. My name is Cheryl Pierce, Cheri to my friends."

Not wanted to assume anything, I replied cautiously "Yes, Mistress Cheryl."

"Oh, forget that Master and Mistress stuff when we're alone—you'll have to say that constantly when you're working at the club, but not the rest of the time. Yes, I know you've been indentured, but you and I will be treated the same way when we're working, so there's no sense standing on ceremony. If you want, you can think of me as the Den Mother for the submissives who work here. Take my advice and ask me any questions you may have. To start with, take off the poncho and put on this robe; we'll worry about work clothes tomorrow."

The robe she handed me was, like hers, a very plush and upscale dressing gown or bathrobe, the first real clothing I had worn since stripping when I surrendered myself at the State Department of Agriculture the previous morning.

Cheri led me into a small dining room adjacent to the delivery area and had me sit down. At her request, someone (a sous chef, I presume) quickly produced scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and a slice of melon, all of which I gobbled as fast as possible.

Cheryl returned to check on me. "I know you have a lot of questions, but I have to get back out in the club. Paul told me that you were to have the evening off; we'll get you some work clothes and discuss your duties tomorrow morning. For now, the best place I have for you to rest is one of the long-term cells. It's really a BDSM scene room, it which we can keep a submissive of either sex for several days, but it's fairly comfortable so long as you're not bound."

She showed me to a large cell, complete with a barred door that had an electronic keypad and locking mechanism. Compared to the holding cages at the slave market, it was a palace—about 20 feet by 10 feet, with a single bed and full sheets, blankets, pillows, and so on. At the far end of the cage was a small bathroom with toilet and shower stall, but no door separating it from the rest of the cage. She pointed out that a closed-circuit camera at the near end gave a view of both cell and bathroom. According to her, the camera was primarily for safety. The club's surveillance room monitored all scene rooms all the time to identify and stop abuse. In the event of a fire or other emergency, the surveillance room monitor would electronically open the door so I could escape.

"I tell you this just so you understand that we're not trying to demean or embarrass you, that we're not trying to hold you prisoner. If you wanted this treatment as a customer, you'd pay first class hotel rates for the privilege. That said, be aware that the surveillance room can see anything you do in the cage. I suggest you have a shower and get some sleep; I don't imagine it was very comfortable overnight at the slave market. Someone will let you out for breakfast about 9 a.m., depending on how late we have to work tonight. Welcome aboard!"

With that, she turned away from me and began to remove her robe, giving me an idea of what I would wear tomorrow: an all-leather combination of collar, bustier, short-shorts, and boots. It was more clothes than I had expected to wear at any time in the next 178 days. I also noticed some faint lines on the backs of her legs, suggesting that someone had struck her there in the recent past. That was the "D" and the "M" in BDSM; not sure I'll be happy with that.

The next morning, she outfitted me and I discovered both advantages and disadvantages to dressing as a submissive waitress in a BDSM club. The outfit was in four pieces: First, a leather collar, complete with several D-rings, that covered my legal collar and made me look like the other submissives, all of whom were free women. Next, a leather platform bra that offered my boobs up while leaving my nipples and the top hemispheres of my breasts exposed. Third was a pair of leather boots with 3-inch heels. The boots gave me enough support to move fairly confidently, but I knew my arches would ache by the end of a night. I'm a trainers or tennis shoes kind of girl.

The fourth and most daunting part was a pair of leather pants, heavy, thick, shaped like short shorts, and French-cut in back to expose most of my butt cheeks. That wasn't a problem—I was quietly relieved not to walk around with my shaved pussy exposed for all to see. However, the price of this modesty was considerable, because inside the shorts were two rubber-coated dildoes. The front one was fully six inches tall and about the circumference of a D-cell flashlight; the rearward was somewhat shorter and narrower, perhaps the circumference of C-cells, with a narrow neck just above the point where the dildo was attached to the shorts. I use the measurement of batteries for a reason—the two intruders were so heavy than they obviously contained battery-operated vibrators or shock devices of some type! It took a lot of talcum powder, lubricant, and patience to mount those twin shafts, but I finally managed it. Then, when I asked Cheri about the vibrators, I got another surprise.

She led me into the empty main lounge of the club and showed me that each table and every place at the bar had a small electronic device, similar to those in restaurants that allowed you to play trivia games and then use a charge card to pay your bill. In the club, however, their purpose was slightly different:

"Every club member runs a tab that is settled monthly. You take their drink orders, have the drinks made up at the bar by a bartender-submissive, and serve the drinks. The members then enter their personal codes to acknowledge those drinks, as well as to give you tips."

"OK," I replied, "I'll bite: what do you mean by tips?"

Cheri grinned and continued, "the member enters a certain amount for each tip, only you don't get it in money until the end of the month. Instead, the device translates that amount into so many minutes of vibrator time, beginning with the front vibrator and kicking in the rear one if you get a certain amount of tips in a set time period, usually five minutes. If you're giving really good service, all three vibrators will run simultaneously."

"Three vibrators? Where's the third one?" I asked.

"You'll find out; don't worry."

And I did. For the next half an hour, I felt very full down below, but gradually I adjusted to the double occupation of my lower regions. I was startled the first time that my vaginal vibrator activated but I managed to keep my balance and composure. Once I had multiple customers at the same time, the rectal vibrator also kicked in. I found the combined stimulus to be as much annoying as it was exciting, and privately thought that, while the members might be enjoying the thought of my stimulus, it was so distracting that it made my service slower rather than faster.

As the evening wore on, Mr. Sousa made my life more complicated with various little tricks. Several times he installed two alligator clips, connected by a fine chain, onto my abused nipples. The more aggressive customers enjoyed tugging gently on the chain when I bent over to deliver their drinks. Ten minutes later, when my nipples had gone numb, my sadistic Master removed the clamps, leaving me to deal with the fierce pain of returning blood circulation. About 10:00 p.m., he stopped me and installed a hobble, cuffed to my two ankles and limiting my stride to about 12 inches.

And all this time my customers were casually fondling between my thighs or, when I bent over to serve them, down my cleavage. A favorite trick was for one person to get my attention while another one, behind me, inserted a hand between my thighs and slowly felt me up, sliding upwards between my thighs until he or she cupped my butt cheeks; much as I disliked the vibrators, they at least prevented my customers from penetrating me. Meanwhile I witnessed various submissives, mostly women but some males, who were kept bound and naked, kneeling beside their owners-for-the-night and sometimes providing oral service under a table. Eventually, a master or mistress led each submissive off to a scene room, where (at least in my mind) the subs suffered marvellously satisfying torments. (Wait—was I envious of them for being tied down and used? I don't know whether it was slavery or BDSM or just the vibration that was getting to me, but it was warping my outlook on life.)

Just before eleven that evening, my accumulating "tips" caught up with me, and the mysterious third vibrator, located in the front of my pants right over my clitoris, suddenly made its appearance. I almost dropped a tray of empty glasses, and unfortunately the clit vibrator only stayed on for a few minutes at a time, so I never came close to orgasm. The whole process left me hyper-aware of my body and very frustrated. I had expected frequent use once I enslaved myself but being teased and denied such use proved to be far more distressing.

This subtle torture went on for three evenings. About one a.m. on the second night, Cheri pulled me aside and asked why I was becoming distracted (as if she didn't know, considering both sets of her cheeks and both of her boobs looked slightly flushed for the same reasons.) When I confessed that the vibrators and groping were getting to me, she asked me why I didn't just jill off at night, in my cell.

"Cheri, I'm not in a hurry to give the surveillance room a free show of me masturbating. It's one thing if I'm ordered to have sex, but it's still embarrassing if I get filmed doing something on my own. Besides, although I know little about being a slave or a submissive, I know that neither role allows me to orgasm without permission. And I'm going slowly crazy."

She shrugged, as if the solution was obvious. "So, why don't you ask for permission to cum?"

"Mistress Cheri," I began quietly, on the edge of begging. "Please, may I have an orgasm?"

She giggled. "You don't have to ask me, sweetie—you have to get permission from your master!" I groaned, audibly—how could I make such a request of my new and rather distant owner? He'd said less than 20 words to me since he shipped me here, only stopping me to add another bit of torture to my outfit.

It took several long, cold showers to calm me enough that I could sleep that night, and I awoke still feeling tired. The following evening, being a Saturday, was even busier at the club, which meant more fondling and vibrations. Finally, about 1 a.m., Master Paul took pity on me, calling me into a vacant scene room to ask (again, as if he didn't know!) why I was so distracted and flushed. I told myself that slaves had no right to pride, so haltingly began to ask him for relief.

"Master, may I please . . ." at which point I froze, too embarrassed to finish the request.

"May you what, Nikki?" he asked, although the smile on his face told me he knew what was bothering me. "As your owner I'm responsible for your well-being, but you need to tell me what you need."

Desperate, I finally blurted, "Cum! I need to cum, Master."

"Are you saying that you want to submit, Nikki? You're a submissive in training, and you must know that submissives only get to come when they have performed to their Master's or Mistress' satisfaction. I know you're a slave, but I will never force you to do something you really don't want to do. So, if you want to cum, you first have to submit to me; are you willing to do that?"

"If that's what it takes, then yes, Master."

"OK, then, out of that costume and face down on the bench." Despite the difficulty of extracting the vibrator-dildoes, I set a world record for stripping naked and lying down. (He had already seen every inch of my body, and had the power to order me to strip, so there was no sense hesitating.) The bench in question had two broad padded sections that supported my shoulders and hips, but in between was a narrow bar, so that my tits hung down fully exposed on either side.

"Listen carefully, Nikki," he said, very seriously. "As a sub, you are expected to obey and sometimes to suffer, but you are NEVER required to risk serious injury. I expect you to be tough, but if you ever think the person dominating you is putting you at risk, I DEMAND that you use a safe word. You know what a safe word is, so pick one, now."

"Freud," I replied, promptly. (Remember, psychiatry was what got me into this mess.)

"The shrink who thought everything was related to sex and gender—how appropriate. If you can't say the word because your mouth is occupied, grunt out S-O-S; you know, three short grunts, three long ones, and three short ones again. Got it?"

"Yes, Master." Only then did he use Velcro to strap me to the bench, face down, before he moved around to my head.

"What's your safeword again, slave?"

"Freud, Master."

"OK, slave, let's see if your mouth is good for anything besides cheerleading."

I had never seen my owner's cock before. Remember, I'd had sex with maybe a dozen guys as a free woman and six men at the slave market, so I wasn't completely ignorant about pricks, but this was the largest one I'd seen outside of porn movies. Granted, anything looks big if it suddenly appears in front of your mouth and you're expected to swallow it. Still, later experience confirmed my first impression of Master Paul's member—almost 8 inches long and about 2 1/2 inches in circumference. I was incredibly horny at the time, but that seemed like the perfect size for my mouth and throat—not so big that I choked, but too big for me to accommodate anything more. At the same time, he leaned forward and gently stroked my erect nipples. My tongue and lips went to work immediately—I think my skilled technique surprised him, for after about two minutes he withdrew suddenly.

"Whoah! If I'd known you were such a good cocksucker, I would have found some other way to put you to work. For now, though, I need to introduce you to some spanking." Saying that, he walked around my helpless body and up between my legs until I could feel his erection just touching my inner thighs. As promised, he began to spank me with his hands, but each slap was so gentle that it tingled more than hurt. He increased the speed and impact gradually, and at the end of three minutes I was sure that my butt was pink if not red. Contrary to my expectations, however, the pain was much less intense than the arousal. I was already horny enough to beg for relief, and this additional sense of being the helpless center of attention only cranked me up further. I began quietly pleading:

"Please Master, let me cum. Please Master, fuck me. Please let me cum." And so on.

Finally he shifted his stance so that one hand toyed with my clit while the other soothed my burning butt by rubbing gently all over. "OK, Nikki—do you really want me to fuck you?"

I don't know what came out of my mouth, since I was practically incoherent, but somewhere in my mumbling I managed to include "Yes, please, Master." He promptly obliged me. Ordinarily, vaginal intercourse doesn't bring me to orgasm (I know that sounds stilted but remember, I'm a doctor). This time, however, I was already so aroused that his magnificent shaft, in combination with his fondling my clit, sent me over the edge. It felt as if my Master also came, slamming himself into me up to the hilt once, twice, three times and then wrapping himself around me, gently kissing my neck and fondling my nipples as we both came down.

In retrospect, he had done very little to my body besides give it a satisfying fuck, but as a good Dom he still went through aftercare to put me back together. He wiped me down with a warm cloth, wrapped me in a blanket, and sat beside me, one arm loosely supporting me, while I drank water and calmed down. He complimented my performance and said I should start moving into the role of an on-call submissive, all the while I continued to waitress. That emboldened me to ask if I could be excused from wearing the vibrator shorts, at least for a while.

He agreed, but then smirked, remarking "be careful what you wish for, Cheerleader."

Next day was Sunday so I slept in, as the club would not be open. As I ate a very belated breakfast, Cheri came in with a box that she put before me, with an odd smile on her face.