Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 06

"Paul said you didn't want to wear the vibrator shorts, so here's your new uniform."

I wasn't surprised that it was a cheerleader uniform, although instead of a true outfit it was more like a "slutty cheerleader" Halloween costume. The neckline was rather low and the usual athletic bra was replaced by a push-up, underwire number that made my boobs look like they were Double Ds instead of Cs. Three pairs of suntan-colored thigh-high stockings replaced the usual no-show white socks. Nor was there any form of panty or shorts included, so that the slightest bending would expose my naked behind and pussy.

It was still more clothing than any slave usually got to wear, but what really startled me was that the uniform was a slutty version of the cheerleader outfit for my undergraduate college, complete with the right colors and monogram! I knew that my slave records did not specify where I went to school, so I was really concerned that my new Master or someone close to him had recognized me. I recalled that he knew my first name before he ever saw me, but I decided to pretend that the college was irrelevant to me. I didn't want the embarrassment of finding out for sure that he knew my background.

Predictably, my new outfit got a lot of attention when I next worked in the club. I no longer had to deal with vibrating "tips," but now everyone, his brother, and his niece decided to fondle between my thighs, butt cheeks, and even labia. More than that, my uniform again demonstrated the fixation that many people (of both sexes) have with cheerleaders. Although Master Paul controlled my experience rather than throwing me in at the deep end, I quickly became a new favorite sex partner. Most of the scenes involved one or both of the predictable fantasies: The first was the slutty cheerleader who was willing and able to take cocks and strap-ons in various openings. Apparently, there was a huge number of guys (and a few gals) who had always dreamed of "fucking a tight cheerleader ass." I had prepared myself for such intrusions. If Master Paul had decided to occupy my rear passage with his prodigious prick, it might have been too much, but I was able to accommodate lesser shafts without too much trouble.

My second, and far less favorite fantasy, was "teaching the spoiled/arrogant/bitchy cheerleader a lesson." As I've remarked before, there were apparently many Americans of all genders who believed that such a cheerleader had been cruel to them, and they all decided to wreck vengeance on me! Most members (pun intended) enjoyed having me bend over a vaulting horse, with bungie cords attaching both wrists and both ankles to the floor. This immobilized me and allowed my master-for-the-evening to raise and lower the horse to a convenient height. Convenient for him, that is. There usually followed a prolonged session in which hands, paddles, belts, and switches struck my helpless behind. I could stand that treatment, but sometimes the obsessed member had told me to remove my top and bra before tying me down. This left my boobs exposed to similar blows—getting a sharp uppercut across my high-beamed nipples really hurt and often left a mark. (If you're wondering about my nipples being erect: yes, I tried to enjoy the situation, if only to get through the scene as easily as possible.) A few times, Master Paul or the surveillance office intervened to stop extreme abuse, and I even got a day off to rest and let my broken skin heal. I never safe-worded or complained, because I felt that suffering this was what my owner had bought me for, but I obviously dreaded such sessions. Fortunately, in most cases if I begged "forgiveness" of the person topping me and offered my sexual services to appease him, he would move on to just trying to screw my brains out. This was much more pleasant, even if some of these men lacked the equipment to finish the job! I often thought "is it in yet?" but never said it out loud.

I don't want to suggest that my time in the club was constant misery—it wasn't. The other submissives and the kitchen staff were friendly and fun to be around; I don't know if anyone besides Cheri and Master Paul even realized that I was a slave rather than a paid submissive, although a few people raised their eyebrows when they found out I lived on site. Once I adjusted to the naked access that my cheerleader costume offered, I began to enjoy flirting with customers while serving drinks. As for the BDSM scenes, at least some of the members who played with my body knew what they were doing and made sure that I enjoyed myself as much as did they. I must confess that this experience reprogrammed my mind so that I could sometimes get off on submitting. That was probably a good thing, because it helped prepare me for far more stressful, humiliating, and sexually frustrating experiences that began right after the club's gala Halloween party. Within days, my new assignments made me wish longingly that I was still being tied down, spanked, and screwed at the club.

(To be continued)