Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 09

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, human beings are never 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)

Ten days earlier, the nemesis of my college days, Allen Blake, had taken advantage of my temporary enslavement to rape me while I was bent his desk at the XYZ Bank. Fortunately, Lilly Russell, who had borrowed me from my owner for use as a temporary slut at the bank, had intervened with a taser, and Blake was now awaiting trial not for attacking a slave—which was only the minor crime of mistreating livestock—but for felony embezzlement. By the time I got rid of my collar in March, he would be fitted for his own, more permanent one.

If you're wondering what I'm talking about, I urge you to go back and read the preceding episodes of this strange story. As briefly as possible: I had just finished medical school and, at the age of 24, wanted to become a psychiatrist to serve the swelling number of slaves in Texas. The reason there were so few psychiatrists in that field was because any applicant was required to serve at least 180 days wearing a collar so as to experience first-hand the traumatic life of a slave. During that time, like any other slave, the applicant was expected to be naked in public, frequently bound, and always available for penetration in any hole his/her owner permitted. Most slave psychiatrists had, for one reason or another, been indentured earlier in their lives, a harrowing experience that first brought them to the field of slave psychiatry. Only rarely did a budding psychiatrist have to deliberately self-indenture to meet the requirement.

I was one of those rare exceptions. I had foolishly self-indentured myself to the State to satisfy that requirement, and I had to admit that the experience had given me many priceless insights into slave psychology. Fortunately for my mind and body, Paul Sousa, the wealthy owner of a high-end BDSM club in Fort Worth, had out-bid the slave brothels when I was sold at the Big D Market, the notorious vender of high-end slave pussy. (I'm sure it sounds vain, but I was usually described as a cute face with the well-toned body of an ex-cheerleader. The Big D upgraded me to "Prime," the highest assessment of a slave's desirability.) Master Paul began by employing me as a bondage waitress and occasional submissive at his club. Subsequently, however, he rented me out to various agencies, where I had been everything from a hotel maid (still subject to the sexual whims of the guests) to a chained cock-sucker kneeling hand-cuffed in a commercial glory hole. My slave rape by Blake—which was not, of course, considered rape under Texas law—had occurred when Master Paul hired me out to Mistress Lily as a combination IT tech and VIP sex toy at the bank.

Except for Blake, this last incarnation of my servitude had been relatively pleasant, with Lily and her associates taking good care of me. The only thing I really disliked was being led on an almost weekly basis into the local office of the Texas Agriculture Department's Livestock and Slave Division. I was there to offer my mouth to an official as a tip to expedite the recording of various slave transactions, but each visit was a flashback to my own naked walk of shame after I had surrendered myself back in September.

Anyway, after about five weeks working (working it? Working 9 inches to 5 inches? Take your choice) for Lily, I was very happy to be returned to Master Paul's club. That return meant some unpleasantness, including occasional sessions where my bound body was paddled and caned in various sensitive areas, but the overall environment of the club was more relaxed and even flirtatious than wandering around naked in government and bank offices. The other submissives, who were legally free, usually suffered the same if not greater indignities (including nudity) than I, and they never stood on ceremony about my slave status. I'm not sure they all realized that I was a slave, since all submissives wore elaborate leather collars that, in my case, concealed the actual slave collar.

Most evenings, Master Paul had me waiting tables wearing a slutty version of my old college's cheerleader uniform—that was one of a number of indications that he knew who I really was, which worried me. This edition of the uniform included such unrealistic details as thigh-high nylons (suntan color if you're wondering), push-up underwire bra, and absolutely no panties. In turn, this meant that all the members/customers and some of the staff felt me up whenever I came within reach, and frequently took me aside to impale me on either penis or strap-on. There is apparently a huge part of the adult American population who have always wanted to fondle and fuck a cheerleader!

That may seem like a real downer to you, but everything is relative. As a collared bondage slut, it was kind of a given that I was going to be groped and shafted one or more times every night. When I was dressed in this slutty costume, however, the temptation to "have your way with a cheerleader" often meant that I got to bypass the tie-me-down, whip-me, beat-me, make-me-write-bad-checks stage of festivities, which (if you're a working submissive but not a true masochist) is often the least enjoyable part of the evening. And the marks left by straps and other instruments sometimes hurt for days.

As I've remarked before, Master Paul was always looking out for me, especially shielding me from really painful forms of BDSM. That doesn't mean I got away with things all the time, though. On Valentine's weekend, the club was running various fund-raisers for a local children's hospital. I'm a sucker for children—I would probably have become a pediatrician if I weren't so focused on psychiatry. So, I bashfully asked Master Paul if I could volunteer to do something to help with the charity giving. I knew when I said that my "something" would probably involve BDSM and sex, but that was my life already, so why not do it for a good cause?

On Friday evening, Cheri Pierce told me to change out of the cheerleader costume and put on a pair of the tight leather shorts that the other girls wore. Not only did these shorts come with built-in dildos to stuff my vagina and butt, but each pair included three vibrators—cunt, ass, and clitoris. Based on the electronic "tips" that the members gave each woman, the three vibrators would turn on in that order and turn off in reverse order. This was not only distracting when you're carrying trays full of glassware, but frustrating because, at least for me, the clit buzzer never stayed on long enough for me to climax. As the club's supervisor for submissives who also worked the floor herself, Cheri knew first-hand why I hated the darn things—I used more explicit words than "darn" when I had to wear them. She told me that the costume would enable me to be part of a special fundraiser. I have GOT to stop volunteering to be a sex object!

When the evening crowd began to arrive, I was led to a side stage that had a temporary sign urging the patrons to "Spend a Nickel in Nikki's Knickers. Use code 844; All proceeds to the children's hospital." Oh, boy, here it comes. Cheri anchored my widespread ankles to the floor, cuffed my hands together behind my back, and connected the handcuffs to a pulley system that allowed her to pull my hands upward, which in turn forced me to bend over, displaying my boobs even more than usual while thrusting my leather-covered butt backwards. Then she blindfolded me.

A minute later, Master Paul took the microphone and explained the setup: Anyone who wanted to contribute to the children's charity could enter the announced code, and all of the proceeds would go to the hospital. Now, instead of getting vibrations from only my own half-a-dozen tables, I would be entertained by "tips" from the entire clientele. One final refinement: whoever contributed $50 or more to code 844 would be entered into a lottery to have little Nikki for a BDSM session the following evening. I have no idea how many times I came that evening, nor how long I was tied down, spanked, and teased the following night. What I do remember about those two intense experiences was that, in each case, Master Paul was very kind about restoring me to consciousness, caring for me, and getting me to sleep after a wild evening.

Very little got past Cheri, so one day she asked me why I was mooning around so much. I didn't realize that I was so obvious about my crush on my owner. I haltingly explained that I really liked him, to which she replied "Well, Duh! Everyone knows that. It's also no secret that Paul feels the same way about you—when he rented you out, he was so tense it seemed as if he were walking on hot coals until you came back. You just need to tell him how you feel."

But I couldn't. Not only was he my master, but he was far richer and significantly older than I, so it just didn't seem appropriate. I wasn't even sure if my attraction to my master was real or simply a slave version of the "Daddy" crush on an older guy who takes care of a woman. Being a submissive and a slave had really played havoc with my self-confidence and initiative; I hope they weren't gone permanently. (Another observation about the psychological effects of enslavement.)

I suddenly realized that March had arrived, meaning that my freedom was at hand. I had calculated that the period from September 15, when I indentured myself, to the end of the year was 108 days; the remaining 72 days would expire on March 14, which fell on a Friday that year. I also realized that, although I had read all about how one became a slave, I wasn't certain how that status ended. I trusted my owner to release me on the correct date, but as the days ticked down, he still said nothing.

On the 12th, he asked me politely if he could do a scene with me. As usual, he gave me much more pleasure than pain, discharging first in my mouth and later in my pussy. After he had finished after-care, he remarked, "I'm really going to miss you, Nikki." That was a nice start, but then he ruined it: "You're not only a fantastic piece of ass but a genuinely nice person."

Oh, great. What a romantic thing for a woman to hear from the man she idolizes. "A fantastic piece of ass and a nice person." Put that on my tombstone if you want, but it's not going into my report of my slave experience. Guess Cheri read him completely wrong—he's just another horny guy who likes to fuck cheerleaders.

On Thursday the 13th, Cheri woke me up early to tell me that Lily from XYZ Bank was borrowing me for one more trip to the Livestock and Slave Division. Expletive deleted! So, one of my last acts as a slave would be a painful reminder of the first experience. Throughout my servitude, I had tried to maintain a cheerful attitude and eagerly comply with instructions, but this unexpected duty when I was almost free was the last straw.

Lily tried to cheer me up but saw I was sulking. She gave up trying and instead imposed discipline, abandoning her usual informality with me. When we got to the Ag Department building, she ordered me to remove my poncho and leave it in the car. "Back hands" and I was cuffed, then she clipped a leash to my collar, picked up her carry-all bag, and led me slave naked into the building and onto the elevator.

In an exasperated tone, she turned to me and whispered, "Honestly, Nikki, I don't like this either, but you don't know what's going on here."

"Yes, Mistress; I'll try to do better." I realized that I shouldn't take out my frustration on Lily, but I still wasn't happy.

She led me, buck naked, past the usual crowd of judgemental bureaucrats to Master Stavely's office. His venetian blinds were already pulled, a sure sign that he didn't want his subordinates to see what was about to happen. When we were admitted to his inner office, he shook hands with Lily while I knelt, thighs wide apart and my hands still secured, to the left of his desk, facing him. By now I had adjusted to letting any man see my boobs and pussy and didn't think twice about it. It was just part of my loss of status, an acknowledgement of my inferiority as a slave.

Stavely reviewed the file that Lily handed him, signed and sealed it and made several copies, smiling. Wanting to get it over with, I politely inquired,

"Master, how may I serve you?"

His reply startled me, "Much as I am tempted, Ms. Sheldon, I would never ask a free woman to abase herself to me." So saying, he showed me that the document he had just authenticated read, "completion of indenture, Nicola A. Sheldon, March 13, 20XX."

I was horrified—somebody goofed, and I was being freed one day short of the 180 days I needed to be a slave psychiatrist. I had done this all—almost six months of nudity, humiliation, blowjobs, whippings, fucking, reaming, and all the rest of it—for nothing. Knowing what I now did, I'd never have the courage to do this over again.

"No, please, I can't be freed until tomorrow; this ruins everything." I wailed, on the verge of a melt-down.

Lily's giggle sounded particularly cruel to me. "It's official; Nikki has gone so slave stupid that she can't even count." My panic deepened, and then my grad school advisor, Professor Hal Walker, walked into the room and smiled at me.

"You're right," he commented. "Six months wearing Paul's collar has turned my brightest student into a slave bimbo with an I.Q. equal to room temperature." My shattered mind registered that he had said "Paul's collar," indicating he knew Master Paul well, but returned to the real issue.

"Please, you know I won't complete the 180 days until tomorrow—108 days last year and then 72 more this year. I've done it all for nothing."

A look of compassion crossed Lily's face: "Have you forgotten that this is a leap year?"

It finally dawned on me—I hadn't allowed for February 29! As my mind was adjusting, Lily removed my collar, urged me to stand, and removed my cuffs. She dived into her bag and came out with a bra and panties in my size.

"Hurry up and get dressed. Your Mom and Dad will be here any minute, and you don't want them to see you slave naked, do you?" That jolted me into action, and after six months the normal modesty of an adult woman returned with a vengeance. I flushed all over at having Stavely and my Prof see me naked. I scrambled into my underclothes, then gratefully accepted the frumpy sweater and long skirt that I had shed when I was enslaved.

A few moments later, my parents arrived. I hugged and thanked Lily, apologizing for my earlier pouting. Then my parents and the Prof took me off to the most elegant lunch I had had in six months, if not six years.

*****

It's always disorienting for an adult child to return to live, even temporarily, in his or her parents' home. It was even more difficult for me. Intellectually, I was free, but I wasn't used to going anywhere without a free person deciding on the trip, then cuffing me and leading me there. For two days I stayed in my room except when my mother called me to dinner or asked me to watch the PBS Evening News with her and Dad (ask any psychiatrist—watching that show is a predictable part of the lives of academics and intellectuals). On the third day, I hesitantly asked if it would be OK if I went for a run.

My Mom stared at me, a slight smile on her face. "For more than ten years, you've run every day unless it was pouring rain. Half the time you didn't even let me know you were going, which isn't terribly safe, by the way. Don't worry, I know you're still adjusting. By all means go run; just be careful and watch out for weirdos, OK?"

Once I started running again, I was able to tackle the emotional task of writing a report on what I had learned while wearing a collar. It was a less lurid version of the tale you're now reading. The first draft ran to 40 pages double-spaced. I had to tone it down in a few places, especially on the details of my first night in captivity, when I had been the pink filling in a five-man gang-bang sandwich of all three of my openings, and the day when my ex-college classmate had raped me in his bank office.

I gave the draft to my mother who was, after all, a practicing psychiatrist, prefacing the hand-over with profuse apologies for the sordid nature of the narrative. She took a day, apparently reading it several times, then asked me to sit down with her.

"First of all, Darling, don't worry about shocking me. I had anticipated almost everything you experienced. In fact, I had a hard time sleeping while you were indentured, imagining all the horrors my child might be going through. If anything, reading what actually happened to you has laid some of my nightmares to rest."

She went on: "I'm happy that you seem to have faced the implications of your experience. Because I'm too emotionally involved, I'll leave it to Hal Walker and your other professors to talk you through it. I do want to ask, what are you going to do about him?"

"Who?"

"Well, I meant Mr. Sousa, but I should add the two people who helped you in the slave market. I don't know if the names are real, but you refer to them as Slave Handler Bob and Dr. Matt Swenson. It wouldn't take someone five minutes to find out Swenson's actual name, if you're using pseudonyms—this slave market probably lists all its veterinarians somewhere on its webpage. At the very least, though, you need to look up all three of these men, take them out for coffee, and thank them sincerely for protecting you. And please tell me when you've done that—if you don't, I must thank them myself, because they saved my only daughter!"

When I made no reply, she went on, "I really meant to talk about Paul Sousa, though. I know you didn't have any choice about sexual relations with him, so I'm not criticizing you or him. But, it's very obvious that you are drawn to him as a person and as a man." (I had left that out of my paper because I knew I wasn't ready to be objective about Paul. Just like I had omitted the size of his equipment. But my mother is nobody's fool, which is why she's such a good shrink.)

Drawing a deep breath, Mom continued: "I've never met him, but he sounds like a guy who is remarkably generous and principled. I noticed that, even though you were his slave, he always asked you if you wanted intimacy—that's admirable. You already know all the reasons why this could be a difficult relationship—he's older, you need to finish your schooling, and so on. Only you can decide whether you have a basis for a real relationship, or if you're just experiencing Stockholm syndrome because he was kind to you while he was your captor. Still, sometime soon you need to go thank him and try to figure out what you feel."

Before I did that, I had to finish my paper and talk to Professor Walker. After several more drafts, I printed it off hardcopy (I'm sort of traditional about that) and met him, by appointment, at his office.

After he accepted the paper, I sat back and said: "I need to thank you again for your help in getting me enslaved—lord, that sounds perverted! But I also need the truth from you. When you showed up on the day I was released, you mentioned my owner by his first name, something about 'Paul's collar' on me. So, what's going on? How come you know Paul Sousa?"

He sighed. "I was afraid you would pick up on that slip. Do you remember when I told you, five years ago, about my own experience as a criminal slave?" I nodded—his experience had been even worse than mine. "For two of my three years on the chain gang, Paul was the next guy in the coffle."

"Crap. Now I understand why he treated me like a regular employee and always asked my permission before playing with me—he must hate slavery as much as I do."