Learning Slave Psychology Pt. 09

"I'm sure he does. Anyway, our relationship does not invalidate your experience. You didn't know him, he didn't know you, and he went out of his way to give you a broad spectrum of slave experiences. You had no idea what was going on, but Paul gave me regular reports. Why? Your mother was climbing the walls at the thought of you in a slave brothel, so I asked Paul to purchase you and promised him that your parents and I would make up for any loss. He was happy to help us out by buying you at auction, and never asked us for a penny, by the way. On the contrary, he really admired you and said that you worked hard to do anything he wanted, no matter how frightened you were. You must have recognized what a good guy he is."

"Got that right. That reminds me that we need to come up with a better cover story for non-prior-slave-service students like me. Some other time I need to tell you what my slave handler said about how stupid I was to just give myself away for six months, because that greatly increased the chances of ending up in a brothel. But, that's beside the point right now. Do you know why Paul sent someone else to release me on March 13? After taking all that care of me, you'd think he would want to finish the job and hand me back to you, so to speak."

The Prof shook his head and replied, "You'd have to ask him to be sure, but knowing him, I think he didn't want you to feel you had to thank him. He told me repeatedly that giving you this experience would help when you counselled other slaves in the future, and that was good enough for him."

As a sort of build-up to confronting my former owner, I looked up Bob and Matt to thank them. I told Bob about the arrangement with Paul, so he knew I had been safer than either of us believed at the time. Separately, I went out on dates with each of the guys. Your prurient mind wants to know if I rewarded them in bed, right? Well, that isn't relevant to my experience, so I'll leave it to your imagination. I think I've already remarked, though, that since they saved my ass the least I owed each of them was a piece of that ass! I will say I had to remind Matt that I was no longer his slave patient, so he didn't need to worry about the ethics of intimacy with a patient. What a stand-up guy (OK, one part of him did stand up very nicely for me!) Too bad Dallas is so far away from my school, so I can't see either of them on a regular basis.

When I tried to telephone Paul Sousa several times, he was always "unavailable." I finally tracked down Cheri Pierce and asked her what was going on. She confirmed my suspicions that Paul was avoiding me and added that he was acting as if his best friend had died. I got her to let me into the back door of the club late one morning so that I could catch Paul in his office.

A voice called "come in" in response to my knock, but when he saw me he made a face.

"I can see I need to tighten security around here—don't tell me, Cheri let you in."

"Yes, Mas—Paul, but please don't blame her." My slip about addressing him was deliberate, because I wanted to break down any formality between us.

"I won't, but I do need to talk to her. I expect her to be a nursemaid for the submissives, but she doesn't need to give me the same treatment. What can I do for you, Ms. Sheldon?"

I squared my shoulders and asked for permission to sit down. He reluctantly agreed and waited for me to begin.

"I'm sure that Professor Walker called you after he talked to me about your role."

Paul sighed. "Yeah, I wish he hadn't spilled the beans, but it's too late now. Did he tell you how we met?" I nodded. "Then you understand why I agreed to buy you. I owe the man everything and we both hate the thought of innocent young people in bondage. I should also tell you that Lily and Ms. Williams at the bank knew your background so they would look out for you."

"They certainly did, and that's the first of three things I need to say to you: I can never properly thank you for what you did. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn't been at that auction."

"If you mean, you might have been purchased by a slave brothel, I doubt it—there were a number of high rollers who really wanted to own you after you did that handstand and split your legs!"

I blushed at the memory of my lewd display on the auction block. "Anyway, you not only protected me but I think you went out of your way to ensure I had a wide spectrum of slave experiences."

"I'll cop to that one, because I wanted you to be prepared to advise slaves in different situations. If you can help any of those poor people, I've got my investment back."

"That brings me to my second point." I replied.

He grinned. "Are you going to do a PowerPoint presentation?"

"Only if I need to." I decided to resort to crudeness to get a response. "As I was saying, at the slave auction you paid $22,000, which is more than three times the going rate for six months of prime pussy, and then you only used that pussy in a limited way for three months in your club. The rest of the time you rented me out, but I think the slave agencies were pulling a fast one, paying you for a general laborer and then pimping me out for top dollar as a pleasure slut. So, I owe you most or all of the original sum. I'm still a graduate student, but eventually I intend to repay you."

He looked serious again, and asked, "Do you know how much I pay the submissives who work here?"

"No," I admitted.

"Including benefits, costumes, comped meals, and so on, a starting full-time submissive in this club costs about $100,000 a year. Cheri gets considerably more. So, six or even three months of your services at $22,000 is a bargain. Believe me, I made money on you, although I didn't set out to do so."

"I still owe you, Paul. But let's leave that aside for the moment so I can get to my third and final point."

"Finally!" he joked, rolling his eyes. "As glad as I am to see you, I do have a club to run."

"My final point is, I want to have a relationship with you, and I think you want to have that with me. I figured out that your parting comment to me—something about 'You're a fantastic piece of ass and a genuinely nice person' was just another one of your diversions because you wanted to discourage any romantic feelings I had for you. But I still don't know why we can't be more than friends. And don't tell me it's the age difference—I looked it up, and you're only 17 years older than me, which is not insurmountable. So, why can't we be together?"

Another, deeper sigh. "OK, you got me. I do have feelings for you, but it just wouldn't work. On top of our age and other differences, how can we overcome how we met? I respect and admire you, but slave-and-master isn't a basis for anything long term. Imagine people asking me how I met you. What do I say? 'Oh, she was a prime piece of pussy, a genuine Sandy Foot Girl dancing naked on an auction block when I bought her as a plaything for the club members.'"

I grinned, because I thought I had him. "Of course, I'd rather you didn't put it that way! How about, 'I rescued her from the slave merchants and protected her until she got back on her feet?' That sounds a lot more romantic, and it's equally true." I went on before he could reply. "You're right, though—I'm not in a position for a permanent relationship right now, and apparently neither are you. So, let me speak to you as the owner of the club, because I have a solution to both what I cost you and how we should relate to each other. I would like to apply for a job, Mr. Sousa."

"A job?" He hadn't anticipated that.

"Yes, I'd like to be a part-time submissive who only works at the club on holidays and other peak times, especially between semesters of my school. You can decide what I'm worth because I'm only half trained, but all you have to do to pay me is run a tally of how much I'm working off that $22,000 you paid. I guess that means I'll be working my ass off. I'll be your slutty cheerleader waitress and even (I can't believe I'm saying this) wear a pair of those damn vibrator shorts if you want. No strings attached, no long-term commitments except for me to show up for work when notified. All I want in return is that, every third night I work, the owner uses me as his personal—what did you call me? Plaything? Involving a lot of sex."

Paul sat back in his chair and looked very serious. "You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Sheldon, or should I say Doctor Sheldon? But I can only agree to this deal if we change 'every third night you get used by the owner' to 'every second night.'"

"We have a deal, Mr. Sousa. Oh, wait—if I'm working here as your submissive, I need to start addressing you as 'Master' again."

"Don't forget it again, cheerleader cunt."

*****

Anyway, that's how I qualified to be a slave psychiatrist. After six months as a pleasure slut, psychiatric training was a breeze, although I had some bad memories that I had to exorcize in therapy. Four years later, I finished that training and began practicing as a slave psychiatrist. It doesn't pay all that well, but I do get to help some troubled people. Besides, I still have a part-time job at the BDSM club. Despite our discussion, Paul insisted on paying me his going rate for submissives. I have to get on the road now, because I worked at the club last night and am scheduled there again tonight. That makes it a night where I get to scene with my "Master!"

(If you're wondering, Nikki may appear in a future story, but that's it for now.)