Recovering Slut Pt. 03

These events occur in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations. As always, this is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory and no one should ever be deprived of her or his free will. For this episode, MrSmith27 provided me with a definition of Slave Mind which he found in Walker and Sheldon's textbook, Psychological Impact of Slavery. Dr. Nicola Sheldon reads the definition out loud in this story, but is too modest to say that she wrote it.

Betsy Boyce, an average-looking young woman with self-esteem issues, has recently completed ten years as a slave in Texas. Once freed, Betsy was fortunate enough to end up in the Longhorn Slave Market's Trusty program for the newly-freed, working in the cafeteria and sleeping on the premises for three meals a day and $18 per hour while she sorted out her life. Over the ensuing two months, she began to re-establish herself with a driver's license, a bank account, and a few friends. On her second date with a guy named Bill, she had not only displayed the cock-sucking skills she had learned as a slave but also, unthinkingly, called him "master." Like any other young man, Bill had taken that as an invitation to role-play master and slave, with Betsy ending up naked and bent over a couch with her wrists tied while she begged him to screw her brains out. Afterwards, Bill had tried to reassure her that there was nothing wrong with a little role-playing, but Betsy was mortified that, at her first opportunity to have sex as a free woman, she had instead reverted to the learned behavior of a submissive slut. As soon as she got back to the Longhorn, she made an appointment to see the slave psychiatrist Nicola Sheldon, who periodically visited to counsel former and future slaves.

I didn't get much rest on the four nights before "Doctor Nikki" was scheduled to visit the slave market. On the fourth night, I fell into an exhausted sleep. Fortunately, I dreamed not about how I had humiliated myself with Bill but rather about my adventuresome life as a slave.

My long downward slide had begun in the slave brothel where I lost my virginity at age 18 and mastered the arts of fellatio, fluffing the customers for the prettier girls. Because I was so plain looking, that brothel eventually sold me to a BDSM palace, but even there I was a failure if only because my skin took too long to heal after being bruised. So the dungeon master sold my butt to work in a glory hole. Here, at last, I could put my oral skills to work where no customer could see me to be disappointed about my appearance.

I may have told you this before, but my dreams repeated themselves. For some reason, the operator of this establishment, Mistress Alice, took a liking to me so that my next two years passed in peace, or at least as much peace as one can get while sucking off thirty or forty unidentified and often unwashed dicks every evening. Many of the other "cock-suckers," as we frankly described ourselves, were free but submissive men (not women) who actually got a sexual thrill when Alice "forced" them to fellate others while they knelt alongside me until they reached a quota of so many thousand mouthfuls of sperm. Once they fulfilled their quotas and got their own pricks released, they rushed home to jerk off for days on end, only (in many cases) to return a few weeks later for another contract as a belted human sex object.

Perhaps once a week, when business slowed down, Alice or one of her (all female) assistant managers would take me off the line and into a separate room. There, I was unbound and allowed to use my tongue and fingers to please the free woman in front of me. She would pet and praise me while I was bringing her off, giving me a much better experience than I got kneeling in front of a hole.

As a reward for good behavior, Alice would also occasionally permit her "employees," at least those who were legally enslaved, to jerk/jill off or—in even more rare circumstances—to perform 69 with each other. Because my owner disapproved in principle of women being exploited, It took her a long time to believe me when I actually volunteered to reward one of these well-behaved male slaves by having him fuck me in the "normal" way. At the time, I didn't consider myself any sluttier than any other slave, but I'd become so used to being screwed regularly, even as a helpless slave, that I longed for it once in a while. (Having been a virgin when I was sold, I had no experience of "free" sex to compare things to.) Alice insisted that, in each case, I agree to have sex with a particular guy on a particular day so she knew I was willing. Needless to say, volunteering like this made me very popular among the male slaves—I became the slave equivalent of queen of the nerds in high school. For a while I felt truly desirable, even though I knew it was an artificial demand from a desperate group.

If you begin with the attitude that slavery sucks—in this case literally sucks—then I was reasonably satisfied with an existence that, viewed from a position of freedom, would seem revolting. After two years working at the Glory Hole, I suddenly had a change of assignment. Mistress Alice, bless her feminist heart, decided to end my downward spiral as a pleasure slave. I'd gone from slave brothel to BDSM brothel to glory hole; about the only form of sexual service that would have been even lower would be serving in an ass and mouth establishment. As the name implies, the slaves in such a place were chained on hands and knees, open to sodomy at both ends and sometimes getting spit roasted by two anonymous customers or having the same guy use both openings. This was not only disgusting but carried with it a much higher risk of disease (ass to mouth) than did other slave sex outlets (or I guess that should be sex inlets. At least all the other places I served required condoms and frequent blood tests.)

Instead, Alice diverted me away from the sex industry by renting me (and eventually selling me, once she checked back and ensured that I was well treated) to TempSlave, the chain agency that, as its name indicates, offers general forced labor on short assignments. Given my nondescript face and body, I had never really belonged in the sex industry to begin with, so being hired out for other tasks came as a welcome relief, as least at first. Naturally, even general labor slaves, or at least the female ones, are still subject to ravishment if the customer or supervisor feels the urge, but both the renters and the TempSlave slave wranglers recognized that time is money, so boinking a labor slave too often or too long would be inefficient, bad for the financial bottom line [not to mention, in some cases, the slave's bottom].

For the next 18 months, I performed every menial job imaginable, from assembling electronic components to mopping floors & scrubbing toilets in public buildings to working in institutional laundries. Occasionally, one of the TempSlave wranglers would bend me over the nearest machine or piece of furniture and fuck my slave brains out, but I was grateful for the attention—by now I was so habituated to being a passive cunt that I became horny if I didn't get six inches inside me at least once a week and preferably more often. Being ass-fucked was much more uncomfortable, but I'd adjusted to that lowly role while working in the first brothel, and at least a guy was giving me some attention while breaking up the monotony. The TempSlave company considered some sexual service to be an ordinary perk of its underpaid wranglers, so long as they always used condoms on my lower holes and didn't affect my productivity as a laborer.

Once, while working a midnight shift, I made the mistake of displaying my oral expertise to a supervisor named Bart. After that, he fell into the habit of using my mouth on his midnight meal break; sometimes he got so preoccupied with having me edge him that he did it for more than an hour, leaving me no time to eat the meager sandwich authorized for each slave—thus giving a different meaning to the phrase "drinking my lunch." Fortunately for me, I guess, the productivity of Master Bart's slave laundry crew fell so low that the customer reviewed surveillance tapes and noticed what was happening. Then the TempSlave manager held a surprise inspection at 1 a.m. and found us, as usual, with Bart's pants around his ankles and my mouth full of his cock. He got fired and I got a rest from providing oral sex, at least for a while. I tried to remember NOT to be too good with my mouth when used on future occasions, but to be honest I kinda missed the human contact and intimacy.

Lost in dream land, that night I somehow remembered one occasion when, while working as a maid in a motel, two young men came back to their room early and found me, slave naked, freshening up the room. They tossed me onto the bed I had just made and used me vigorously and repeatedly. Damn, that felt good, even if I did have to re-make the bed afterwards!

The memory of that unexpected use was so intense that I awoke suddenly in my Longhorn bunk, still shuddering from an orgasm. God, was I really ENJOYING the thought of being double-teamed like that?

* * * * *

I tried to hurry through my breakfast duties at the cafeteria, but I was still almost late for my 9:30 a.m. appointment with the slave shrink. I arrived out of breath at the Longhorn office which Dr. Nikki borrowed for her consultations. I was kind of afraid that she would be impatient with me, but instead she gave me the same smiling welcome I'd experienced when we met before.

She went straight to the heart of the matter: "Jesse Foster said he thought something was troubling you, Betsy—want to tell me about it?"

Now I was even more alarmed: Mr. Foster, the Vice President for Operations, was concerned about me? "I didn't think he even knew my name," I blurted. "Am I in trouble?"

"Not at all," Dr. Sheldon tried to reassure me. "I thought you knew that the whole 'Trusty' program was Jesse's idea, and both he and the shift managers try to look out for people like you because we know what a tough time you're going through."

"Got that right," I mumbled. After a few false starts, I told the psychiatrist how I had disgraced myself with Bill, turning my first opportunity to have adult intimacy into an exhibition of what a slut I was, a slave in all but name. By the time I finished, I was fighting back tears and couldn't look her in the eye. I'm sure I was blushing, and just wanted to slink away. She handed me a tissue and asked me, very kindly, to look at her face.

"Oh, Sweetie," she murmured. "I have to ask you the standard shrink question for all situations, so forgive me: How did that make you feel?"

I had expected condemnation of some kind, but her actual question floored me. "Isn't it obvious? I'm humiliated and embarrassed, a failure as a free woman."

Nikki touched my wrist gently. "We'll come back to your embarrassment later, but what I MEANT to ask was, how did you feel AT THE TIME, while you were having sex? Did you act like that because the guy frightened you? Did he force you in any way?—if he did, I'm personally help you castrate him." I giggled in surprise as she continued, "Or did you enjoy it? Did you climax?"

I flushed even more. "To tell you the truth . . . I hate to admit it, but the sex was wonderful! I'd been really nervous when we were necking because I had no dating experience, but the moment I wrapped my lips around him, I felt like I knew what I was doing, as if I had some control over the situation by giving him a thrill. And when he tied my wrists, bent me over, and rammed into me, it was fantastic, like a combination of all the best fucks I ever had as a slave. All I had to do was obey him, and he took care of both of us. Truth to tell, but having him control me like that made me feel desirable. The whole thing was sexy and comforting all at the same time. I lost count of how many times I came."

"So, if you enjoyed yourself, what's the problem? I mean, yeah, you need to avoid calling some random guy 'Master' and giving him evidence to declare you self-enslaved. But other than that, it's OK for you to let a good guy tell you what to do so long as you enjoy yourself and he doesn't hurt you. You don't HAVE to feel embarrassed about submitting in the bedroom; didn't you ever hear the old cliché that goes 'If it feel good, do it'?"

"Well, yes." (I almost said yes, mistress, because however kind she was Dr. Sheldon was still an authority figure in my mind.) "But, I thought as a free woman I shouldn't just obey every guy who tells me to such or fuck him."

"And you shouldn't—rule number one is never do something that YOU don't want to do. I mean, sometimes when my husband is upset or distracted I let him do things to me that will make him feel better—and BOY, is he kinky, leaving marks that hurt every time I sit down . . ." she closed her eyes, as if remembering, then abruptly resumed. "Never mind. But making my guy happy once in a while is part of being in love, not 'surrendering my autonomy' or something like that. I don't do it for just anyone I meet."

Nikki paused, then plunged ahead. "What I think you're worried about is the fact that you ENJOYED having a guy order you around and use you, right? That's related to the problem you mentioned last time, that you have trouble making decisions on your own."

"The technical term in psychology is 'Slave Mind.' Let me give you the book definition." She grabbed a well-worn, thick book off the shelf in that office, flipping through the pages, and quickly found the passage to read aloud:

The slave internalizes his or her slavery, comes to see that slavery as natural, identifying as a slave and not his or her former free self. When a slave, especially a female, succumbs to Slave Mind she develops positive feelings towards her master along with a dependence on the master who runs the slave's life making all of the decisions for them. The obedient slave develops a belief in the humanity of the master who cares for her; she ceases to perceive the master as a threat. The slave often feels safest while existing within the parameters of the routine daily existence of slavery.

"In other words, Slave Mind is sort of like the Stockholm Syndrome on steroids, where the person who controls and oppresses you begins to feel like a benevolent dictator. Does that sound like you when you were a slave? Or maybe how you felt with Bill?" Dr. Sheldon asked. I nodded, again casting my eyes down out of embarrassment.

She went on to explain that there were several ways that Slave Mind could develop. Some new slaves, especially those who resisted orders, are sent to breaker schools where they're brainwashed until they become obedient. Eventually, these schools chain them to posts outside, staked out like animals, while a crowd of spectators watch them being face-fucked, mounted doggie style, or whipped until the slaves lose any resistance--it becomes normal to be naked, humiliated, and used even in public.

"The only problem with schools like that is that sometimes the slaves end up broken, almost mindless zombies. You didn't go to a school like that, did you?"

"No, ma'am." I replied. "I went straight from my sale at the Longhorn to the first brothel."

"So, you apparently developed Slave Mind all on your own. Long periods of slavery will do that to you. Can I ask, when you were first enslaved did you resist what you were told to do?"

"No—I was too petrified to do anything but obey, although sometimes I still got shocked or spanked because I was slow to respond."

The psychiatrist nodded. "That's what I thought—you were being realistic, trying to minimize your suffering. Don't feel bad—acting like that proves how smart, how practical you are. Eventually, however, it became automatic for you to obey any order, perform any act, without thinking about it, right? That's when Slave Mind took over."

* * * * *

Nikki called down to the cafeteria and got me excused from lunch duty so that we could have a longer discussion about my ten years in a collar. I'll skip over most of it, except to say that she pointed out how I had adjusted to and even ENJOYED being used sexually, even when the free people who used me had no regard for my feelings. When I mentioned becoming a fluffer at my first brothel, she asked if that was where I had developed the oral skill that had so impressed Bill.

"Only partly, ma'am," I replied, shaking my head. (No matter how many times she told me to call her Nikki, I kept addressing her formally, which she gently pointed out as another symptom of submission or Slave Mind.) "I really perfected my technique when I worked for two years at a glory hole in Dallas, a place run by a woman named Alice."

A sudden grin came over her face. "Working there must have given you a lot of experience. Was Alice satisfied with your performance?"

I saw my opening to ask the question I had recently formulated. "She said that she'd only known one other slave who was a better cock-sucker—a beautiful honey blonde who, Alice claimed, had gone on to be a slave psychiatrist. Do you know such a person?"

Nikki's smile became even wider, and with a twinkle in her eye she murmured, "I'm surprised that Alice remembered." I grinned back, my suspicions confirmed without her admitting directly that we had both been chained to give anonymous blowjobs in the same establishment.

When we finished the leisurely review of my sordid past, emphasizing my submission to any free person, the Dr. Sheldon suddenly shifted from older-sister confidante to formal advisor.

"Betsy, you're the ONLY person who gets to decide what you should do. All I or anyone else can do is offer suggestions. On the one hand, you were so embarrassed when you came in here this morning that it seems like you want to work on overcoming Slave Mind and developing your experience in dating, including sex as equals. For your sake, I really hope that you do that: move on with your life and eventually fall in love with a guy who loves you for yourself. That relationship might or might not involve some role playing in the bedroom, if that's what you want, but the rest of the time you have to be complete equals or the marriage probably won't work in the long run."

She pursued. "That's the intent of the 'Trusty' program: you stay here a few months, get your feet on the ground, learn to function as a free woman, and then move on into society as a whole. Think about it—you've already way ahead of where you were two months ago, right? You've got some savings, a few friends and clothes, and you know that you can perform a responsible job and earn at least a little money. The next stage, regardless of where you work, will be to move out and become responsible for your housing and food. The Longhorn will give you a job reference and I'll be glad to talk things over as you look for a job and then a place to stay. Then you build up your Social Security credits, start saving for retirement, and have a little fun while you look for Mr. Right, or at least Mr. More-Than-OK!" She suddenly became almost fierce: "I KNOW you're capable of doing all that."

"BUT!" Nikki held up her forefinger. "At some point you may decide you don't want to do that. I repeat, you CAN do all that, but it sounds as if you're not really sure whether you WANT to live the life of a free woman. Please don't just give up, but maybe three months or three years from now you decide all this isn't for you. Then what do you do?"