Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 08

(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.)

(Telephone conversation, January 3)

"Good afternoon, XYZ Bank, President's Office. This is Elizabeth Sullivan."

"Elizabeth, this is Paul Sousa. I'm an old acquaintance of Ms. Williams, but I know she's a very busy lady. I wonder whether she has time to speak with me?"

"Let me see if she's available, Mr. Sousa."

"Paul? This is Pamela Williams. It's been a while since we last spoke."

"Indeed; I must be the last person to congratulate you on your promotion to president and CEO. I really should talk to one of your subordinates, but I don't know who handles such matters."

Pamela: "Well, if you're talking about borrowing one of my service girls like you did a few years ago, I'm rather short-handed at the moment. You just spoke with Elizabeth, whom I've promoted from the kennels to be my E.A."

Paul: "If you're short-handed, that may work out great. I actually wanted to return the favor and lend YOU a girl for a month or so. A 24-year-old pleasure slave who looks like a cheerleader and just graduated medical school."

Pamela: "If you were trying to get my attention, you've succeeded. I've never known you to own a slave, and you've GOT to tell me what a physician is doing wearing a collar."

"Yeah, it's a really weird case. I know I can rely on you to keep a secret, because even the girl doesn't know the whole story. I got into this because of Hal Walker."

"The psychiatrist?"

"Good, you know him—that will make this easier. Hal and I go way back, to when we were 19 and 20 working on the highways."

Pamela: "I don't wish to bring up a painful subject, but I seem to remember that you worked on the highways when you were a—"

Paul: "Yeah, a convicted criminal slave. So was Hal, and I know you won't repeat that. Anyway, I don't know whether you've heard this before, but in order to qualify as a slave psychiatrist, you're required to spend at least six months in a collar. Speaking as an ex-slave, I can see the reasoning, but the point is the enslavement has to be real—no one you know is allowed to purchase you, and you must go through the entire mill of processing, grading, auction, and service. Hal had already met that requirement, as we just said, and I think that's true of most of the people who become slave psychiatrists. But now, one of his students, Nikki Sheldon, had never been in bondage but was determined to be a slave shrink. She just went out and surrendered herself to the State of Texas for 180 days. This girl—I should say woman, but she looks younger than her age—is drop-dead gorgeous and very athletic. Her muscle control can drive a guy wild—forget I said that! The Big D Market graded her as a full Prime."

Pamela: "Oh, my lord. I can't imagine such a young woman going through the Big D processing mill. It hurts my soul to send my recruits through the HCI slave market; it would be worse to turn such an innocent into a Sandy Foot Girl. She must have been terrified."

"I think she was but didn't show it. On the auction block, Nikki put on a fantastic show of naked gymnastics, worthy of a cheerleader. Anyway, Hal Walker and her parents asked me to buy her contract and protect her from the slave brothels, without letting on that I knew why she had indentured herself. I owe Hal so much that I was happy to do it."

Pamela: "Don't tell me—you put her to work in your club as a submissive, right?"

Paul: "Part of the time, yes, and she worked out great—she never flinched or balked no matter what she had to do either at Big D or in my club. But, I realized that my club is not exactly a representative sample of how slaves are treated, so I've been trying to broaden her experience base. If she's foolish enough to give herself to the state to become a shrink, she might as well get her money's worth or rather body's worth so she can help slaves with different experiences. I rented her out to a slave temporary agency in November, but she was such a fantastic piece of—well, you know what I mean—that she ended up turning tricks as a high-end slave call girl and even on her knees in a commercial glory hole. A little experience like that goes a long way, and I wasn't trying to make her miserable. So, I pulled her back to the club for the holidays. Again, she never complained or resisted, but I want to give her more slave experience without endangering her too much."

Pamela: "I get you. OK, how much were you planning to charge me?"

Paul: "Well, unlike your sluts she's not a graduate of Pearson Ranch, although she really is a natural at sex. Besides, you're doing me a favor. So, how about one-half the rate that you charged me to borrow Lily?"

Pamela: "Deal. And, speaking of Lily, she's now my deputy head of H.R., and she and Elizabeth handle my slut kennels. Give me your phone number and I'll have Lily contact you to arrange the details. If you can't reach her, just call my office and Beth will take care of you."

Paul: "Just make sure that your ladies don't spill the beans that I know who Nikki is and why she's indentured. The kid is such a gung-ho, straight arrow that she would probably decide that this makes her experience invalid and try to start over as a slave!"

(Nikki's story, continued)

My heart sank when Master Paul told me he was renting me out again, but once I met Lilly (she dispensed with the Mistress title when we were alone) I felt much more optimistic. She let me wear a slave poncho and keep my wrists free except when we were on public view. Even then, the cool weather justified covering me up most of the time. She immediately put me at ease:

"OK, Nikki, here's the deal: officially, you have been rented out to Russell and Sullivan, Incorporated, Slave Merchants—that's me, Lily Russell and Elizabeth Sullivan, the bank CEO's executive assistant. In practice, we provide you and other slaves to perform two functions at XYZ Bank. First, assuming you have a few computer skills, we'll set you up doing basic IT functions—activation of account, lock-out, and so on—in the bank's corporate headquarters. I'm sure that's a waste of your mind, but you will frequently be called away to perform your second and more important function, which is to be the bank's resident slut. Free ladies rarely witness this, but I'm sure you've heard rumors. In essence, VIPs—major investors, government officials, and so on—get on-demand sex to sweeten the deal and have them prioritize the bank's business—getting a government official to act on our request the same day, and so on. Elizabeth or I, or very occasionally our boss, Pamela Williams, may take you along when visiting these people so you can lubricate matters while you get lubricated. Sometimes just a blowjob, but other times the VIP may take you in other ways, if you know what I mean. My apologies, because this will be demeaning and sometimes uncomfortable for you, but we'll try to protect you from abuse. You may also become a prize to reward superior performance by bank employees, but we'll talk about that when it comes up. Questions?" My only question was why she felt it necessary to apologize to a slave for letting someone use her sexually, but that wasn't what she meant by questions.

She continued, "Speaking of bank employees, I need to explain your status. Ms. Williams, the president and CEO, recently introduced a mandatory code of ethics that included fair treatment for everyone, even slaves. We distinguish between ordinary use of a slave and abuse. As you move about the headquarters the free personnel of the bank may you and talk about you as a slut. Executives may expect that you kneel down and bring them off after you fix their computers. By now, you know that this kind of groping and oral sex comes with being a slave. However, no one is permitted to humiliate you, cause you pain, or (without permission from Ms. Williams or H.R.) to penetrate your other openings. Nor can an employee monopolize your time and keep you from doing your job—which means, in practice, that no one is allowed to tie you up or order you to stay in his or her office. If any abuse like that happens to you, don't argue or resist—just suffer through it and then tell Elizabeth or me. O.K.?"

(Gulp) "Mistress, I have almost no experience as a slave in dealing repetitively with the same people, except my handlers. Usually, I would encounter a guy on a single occasion—he'd use me and let me go. I may need some advice about how to work with free people on a daily basis."

Lily nodded. "Of course. If you haven't figured it out yet, both Beth and I were once in your exact situation, rented out to the bank as IT techs but really being sex workers on the side. Ms. Williams only freed Beth less than a year ago. So, if you're not sure about things, just ask us. By the way, I forgot to mention that at night and on weekends you'll stay with both of us in one of Ms. Williams' homes. You're expected to do maid work and other service there, but I think you'll find it a lot nicer than the slave kennels of most companies."

Thus began a new chapter in my servitude. Lily parked the car and led me, leashed and cuffed, to a back door of the bank's corporate headquarters, then took me to H.R. and removed my restraints. Soon, I had a new I.D. card, showing full frontal nudity, that identified me as "Contractor Furnished Equipment." I wondered what part of my "equipment" would get the most use—for the past three-plus months, my mouth, vagina, and butt had gotten far more use than my mind. I also barely recognized myself in the photo—my hair was still shorter than I usually wore it, and my entire demeanor screamed "submission."

My computer log-on was "ConSlave3803@XYZBank.com." Lily introduced me first to Mistress Elizabeth (who also told me to call her Beth except when we were in public) and to the head of IT. The people in that department were very friendly and nice-once they realized that I was reasonably conversant with current computer systems, I became a person rather than a headache in their minds. They quickly put me to work on routine, help-desk functions and never stood on ceremony about my slave status. I will admit that some of the younger techs liked to fondle me while we talked, and a few times I sucked a guy off after he had taught me something useful, but that was all with my cooperation. The truth is, under other circumstances (like if I were wearing clothes!) some of these guys would have asked me out after work and we might or might not have been intimate. Now dates were impossible, and they could already see every inch of my body, so beyond a smile and a giggle the only way I could be friendly with them was to be very friendly with them. I should add that they were perfect gentlemen—they always asked repeatedly if I really wanted to go down on them, and never forced me to do anything.

As Lily had predicted, the first time I had to crawl under an executive's desk to check wiring connections, he expected me to give him a blowjob before I stood back up. I can't really blame him—if the roles were reversed, I would probably be aroused by the sight of a young, healthy stud crawling naked under my desk and spreading his legs, and I'm less visually-oriented than most men. Besides, this executive tasted and smelled clean and was not at all cruel or abusive to me. Slaves are expected to entertain all comers, but it's a lot easier to provide good service on your knees to someone who treats you reasonably.

Frequently, Beth—in her role as Mistress Elizabeth—led me as a naked, bound slut when she visited government offices or major investors. As a minimum, I got a mouthful of cock and a stomach full of jism from the trip. On some occasions, I also ended up spread across a bureaucrat's desk or bent over an investor's couch while that bureaucrat or investor enjoyed full occupation of my vagina and/or rectum. The male urge to spread his seed while dominating the female—without it, the species would die out. Some of these guys were actually pretty good lovers, but others seemed interest only in inflicting discomfort, trying to prove how studly they were by ramming themselves into a slave quickly. I didn't mind it, though, because my service protected Beth from such treatment. She told me that she had been the bank's resident slut for almost three years, at a time when officials were much cruder in their sexual demands, often inflicting very rough penetration of multiple openings. Beth had suffered this regularly for years, whereas I had less than three months to go. Fortunately for me, the recent enslavement of ex-Judge Roy Bean for his sexual abuse of slaves and free females alike had made government officials more cautious. There were also a few women—either the principals or their executive assistants—who wanted oral sex, and two who, if only to keep up with their male peers, decided to probe me with strap-ons. In either role, it took most women more time to get off, and dildos don't lose their erection, so I had to submit longer. After my previous experience, I was resigned to the actual sex, and sometimes enjoyed it—I thought of how horrified my parents would be by that statement.

Oddly enough, getting fucked by a stranger in an office was less distasteful than being led around naked and cuffed in public, where leering guys and disapproving women knew exactly why I was on a leash. This was especially true when the bank needed to register a foreclosure or other slave action at the Dallas office of the Livestock and Slave Division for the Texas Department of Agriculture. Most newly-enslaved people begin their indenture either in one of those offices or in a law court. In either case, the new slave is stripped, collared, and restrained, then led through a gauntlet of people who jeer at and fondle her. Particularly at the Ag Department, harassing and goosing new slaves appears to be in the official job description of all employees. (I think the process is a deliberate means of convincing the new slave that he or she really has no rights or defenses.)

Three and one-half months ago (it seemed like three and a half decades), I'd had to suffer this when I self-indentured in Austin. Now, I had to make a round-trip rather than one-way walk of shame at the Dallas office almost every week. My function there was as a tip for prompt service on the part of a tall young guy named Shively. The actual act wasn't bad—Master Shively was personally clean, and always closed the Venetian blinds that isolated his office from the Dilbert-farm of cubicles outside. And Beth or Lily always walked briskly to and from Shively's office, reducing the chances for his subordinates to grope me. Once outside that floor, they would restore my slave poncho, but they had to follow the social conventions in public offices. Nonetheless, the experience still brought back horrible memories of the day of my enslavement. (Humm—that's another thought to store away for the budding slave psychiatrist. This whole experience really has been a revelation about my future clients, but I just wish the experience wasn't quite so uncomfortable and humiliating.)

The second weekend I worked for the bank, Ms. Williams hosted a party for major investors at her palatial home in Fort Worth. For a major event like this, Ms. Williams brought out her whole "kennel" of pleasure women. Even Beth and Lily became servants, wearing classic French Maid dresses in red and green, respectively. In addition to me, the slave servants included Clarice, a statuesque Black woman of incredible beauty and confidence, Maria, a very smart and very buxom Hispanic babe, and Cindy, a svelte blonde who had just graduated from the Pearson Pussy Ranch, where all of Ms. Williams' sluts (except me) attended for two months to learn how to be sex servants. Each of us began the party wearing a frilly apron that barely covered our nipples and cunt in front but left the back view unobstructed except for a bow tied at the waist. Fairly soon, we lost even the aprons and ended up with the guests exploring us in the various bedrooms. It became more like an orgy than a cocktail party, unless you're talking about their cocks and our tails.

As Beth had warned me, the alpha males at the party focused on the two "French maids" simply because they were free women, even though those free women were trained pleasure sluts with round heels. Too many dickheads (in this case, guys who thought with their dicks) got a charge out of bedding a free woman, however cooperative, rather than a slave who was obligated to submit.

One of the guests who did NOT chase the free women was a pleasant surprise. My face lit up with a smile when my owner, Master Paul, said hello to me and asked how I was doing.

This story is about my learning what it means to be a slave, but there is one lesson about myself that I have not yet written down, probably because until that moment at the party I did not consciously recognize it: I had a wicked crush on Master Paul. Let's face facts: it made little sense to have a schoolgirl crush on my owner. He was responsible for my ass being whipped dozens of times and for pimping me out as a vibrator-plugged waitress, a cleaning maid, a naked lap dancer, a slave call girl, and even a chained cocksucker in a glory hole. That's all before he rented me to the XYZ Bank as an all-purpose slut. And he was free to see me nude and demand any kind of sexual service at any time, whether I wanted it or not. He had NEVER exercised that power, but slavery is not exactly the basis for mutual respect and romance.

On the other hand, Paul had paid an incredible amount of money to save me from a slave brothel and had always watched over me when I served as a submissive in his BDSM club. I knew from talking to the other, free submissives that they experienced much more intense and painful domination than he permitted in my case. I suspected that he knew my real story even though I'd never met him before he bought me. On top of his care and concern, he was a handsome, funny, charming guy who always made sure that I got pleasure from my submission. Finally, if you'll permit me to be really crude, he was hung like a horse, or at least a large pony. When you're a hyper-sexualized slave who had to spread your legs for any creepy or smelly man who had access to you, often dealing with inadequate sexual equipment that leaves the slave frustrated, Paul's equipment was more than a minor consideration.

That evening, he did not try to distract me from my waitress duties but talked to me several times and showed real concern for my happiness and health. Once Lily and Beth paired off with the more demanding guests, he told Ms. Williams that he wanted to borrow me back for the evening, and would not charge her for my service that weekend. She agreed with a smile. Master Paul then led me to a vacant bedroom where, for the next three hours, he played me like a fine violin, ensuring that both of us had a great time without, for a change, any restraints or paddles. He was very much in control, and I don't want to portray this as a great romantic scene. Most surprising of all, after I had been GIVING oral sex non-stop for months, HE actually went down on me—and he was good! I knew it was ridiculous for me to read anything into his behavior, but I was starry-eyed and distracted for days afterwards. Even when I again had to suck Mr. Shively off the following Monday, I pretended I was serving Master Paul. In Shively's office, I climaxed without any manual stimulation at the same time that the government official came in my mouth. At the time, I wondered whether John Norman was right about women being naturally submissive. I immediately shook my head. The very fact that I'd had such a thought reminded me that I wouldn't be able to evaluate this crush rationally until after I regained my freedom.