Recovering Slut Pt. 01

The next words she uttered seemed completely disconnected: "Have you been to see Doctor Nikki, yet?"

"I don't know, Mis—I mean, Ma'am," I replied. "Who's Doctor Nikki, one of the slave veterinarians?"

"In a manner of speaking," she replied. "Mizz Nikki IS a slave vet, but she's also a slave psychiatrist. The Longhorn has her visit every coupla weeks, and one of the things she does is talk to people who've just regained their freedom, to help them figure things out. Ask the day shift manager to get an appointment with her, and tell her about this evening. You haven't done anything wrong, honey, but maybe she can help you sort out what you want to do about sex, OK?"

I agreed, uncertainly, and wandered off to a quick shower and bed. I had to be up early to help serve breakfast.

* * * * *

I finally met "Doctor Nikki" in my second week of freedom. She looked like a centerfold, moved like a dancer, and talked like a scientist. It was easy to feel intimidated when this gorgeous, out-going, obviously smart woman focused her attention on me, but she made a real effort to put me at ease and then listen to what I said. Eventually, we got around to sex, but by that time I was starting to trust her.

She asked me whether I had thought about dating again now that I was free.

"Well, that would be kind of tough because . . . I hardly dated at all in high school, so I don't have any idea how to act with guys." I almost mumbled, looking down at my feet.

"So, I imagine you didn't have much sexual experience?" Nikki pursued, very gently.

The answer to that question was even more embarrassing: "I was a virgin when they sold me."

The doctor reached across the desk to squeeze my hand, and her voice showed real sympathy, "Becoming a slave is always difficult, but THAT must have been horrible for you."

I nodded, barely able to look her in the face. "I didn't have a hymen—must have lost it in gym class or something, but the brothel that bought me couldn't believe they'd found a virgin—they auctioned my virginity off to the highest bidder!"

"Yeech." She replied, making a face. "You can't expect sensitivity from slavers, but that's REALLY low."

"Actually," I replied, and I felt my mouth curve upwards slightly at the memory. "The guy who won the bidding was very gentle. I didn't know anything about having sex at the time, but I later realized that he took a very long time to make sure I was excited before he put himself into me, and he really made me feel wanted. I think he spent more time working his way into my pussy that first time than my next five customers put together. And when he was done, he paid the brothel extra for a promise that I wouldn't have to fuck anyone else that night. He even hung around to keep an eye on me."

Doctor Sheldon leaned back in her chair. "Well, thank goodness you found a good man. When I was a slave—which I had to do to qualify for this gig [she made a wry smirk]—I was lucky enough to meet several really nice guys who protected me when they could have just used me. Glad to hear you got some decent treatment." She paused for a moment. "But I guess that explains what you told me about fooling around with Roscoe the other night—you're not used to dealing with guys as a free woman, so we need to work on that."

"How do I—we—do that?" I said, almost adding "Mistress."

"You need to think ahead of time about whether you want to have sex. If you don't, then politely tell the guy no, or better still try to avoid the subject coming up. That means being careful how you talk and look, so he doesn't think you're flirting with him because you want something. Of course, if you DO want to have sex, that's up to you, but don't do it just to please the guy, and definitely don't do anything if you don't feel safe with him."

"I don't imagine too many guys want to have sex with me anyway," I said, dismally.

"They certainly did when you had no choice about it, right?" She replied. "Which reminds me—I would suggest that you don't tell anyone you were a slave unless you have to, like when you're applying for a driver's license. There are some guys who, once they hear that a woman has been a slave, just assume that she's an expert on sex who will spread her legs for them without hesitation." I blushed because that sounded like the way I had acted with Roscoe. "So, no sense raising their hopes by telling them where you've been."

Nikki paused for a moment. "Not right away, but when you decide to go out socially again, you need to travel with someone who understands all the dating rituals. Sort of like a wingman. Do you have a roommate here?"

I nodded, and said, "Lorraine. But, she's so pretty I'm sure she's never had any trouble getting dates."

The slave psychiatrist smiled. "I know Lorraine—she'd be perfect. You're right, she doesn't have any trouble GETTING dates, she has trouble fighting the guys off. Who better to show you how to deal with men? Again, I'm not talking about today or even this month, but fairly soon, when you've got your feet on the ground again, go with Lorraine for a girl's night out."

"Well . . . OK, but it sounds really risky," I said, finally meeting her eyes.

"There's always a risk." Came the reply. "You need to protect yourself. Keep track of your purse, and get a cheap mobile phone to carry with you everywhere. Don't accept drinks from someone unless you see them open and pour the container, and even then don't leave your drink alone when you dance or visit the ladies' room. Stick to beer or wine and sip slowly so you don't get dizzy. Talk to Lorraine some time, I'm sure she can give you other tips like that."

* * * * *

That same afternoon, about 4:30, Doctor Sheldon invited me to a group therapy session with four other ex-slaves. My boss, Ben, let me off work early, saying there never was much business for supper anyway.

I tried to get there early, so when I arrived the only other person in the meeting room was Lorraine. She smiled happily when I entered, and remarked, "Welcome to Sluts Anonymous!"

I must have looked shocked, but she giggled and assured me this was just her name for the group sessions. "If you're at all like me, you're so used to servicing anyone who demands it that you have to remember NOT to just kneel down and open your mouth!" I blushed again, thinking about how I had behaved with Roscoe. "Got that right," I mumbled. Since we were alone, I brought up Doctor Nikki's suggestion that she give me some dating tips, and she readily agreed, even suggesting we go out together some evening. I was nervous about venturing out so soon, but I couldn't turn down the chance to have something like a social life, so I agreed.

Soon thereafter, the psychiatrist showed up with the other recently-hired "trustys" (trusties? I don't know how to spell the plural, but certainly NOT trustees—we were ex-slaves, not business executives). Nikki emphasized the usual rules about respecting other people's privacy, and added that no one should take advantage of any vulnerabilities that came up in our talks. When she said this, she looked directly at James, the only male ex-slave in the group.

I later figured out that Roscoe had been free so long that he no longer belonged in this group. As for James, he was very hesitant to speak at all in front of so many women, but his story confirmed what Josephine had said the evening she had found me swallowing Roscoe's salami—almost every female slave, even me, gets more sex than any free woman could imagine, while most male slaves get nothing but frustration. James had spent seven years in a collar, most of it wearing a chastity belt as well, so he was even hornier than the average guy in his late twenties. And, like most female slaves, he often had to service free men's cocks with his mouth and butt, satisfying the master but disgusting the slave. James didn't blurt all that out in front of four women, but the problem was obvious even to me, who had never as an adult met a guy who DIDN'T get his rocks off regularly, even if he was only using my body.

As for the other participants, two of the girls claimed to have hated their sexual servitude, and did nothing except complain about the men (and some women) who had exploited them sexually in every imaginable way. To hear them tell it, their entire servitude had been one long gang-rape, whereas I had learned that even designated sex slaves had many unpleasant duties that had little to do with fucking. Still, I had to admit that the prettier sluts spent a lot more time servicing men than they did scrubbing toilets and changing beds with me, so perhaps their recollections weren't entirely inaccurate.

Only one other woman, a slightly-plump brunette in her 30's named Sue, hesitated but then agreed with me that, at least when the masters weren't too brutal or disgusting, it was kind of fun to perform without having to pretend to any modesty or reluctance. Although Dr. Nikki listened carefully to everyone, she was clearly more concerned about James, Sue, and me, who seemed more damaged by our slavery than the others. She didn't SAY "damaged," of course, but that was the attitude.

After talking for two hours, we got a supper of left-overs from the cafeteria. I showered and went to bed early, hoping to get a good night's sleep so I could make up for the time I'd spent away from the kitchen with Doctor Nikki. Only, I didn't sleep very well. All that talk about slaves and forced sex left my mind revisiting my own experiences in a collar. I was dozing, half asleep, while remembering my start in the slave brothel that had purchased me when I was an 18 year-old virgin . . .

To be continued