Recovering Slut Pt. 03

"That's what worries me." I replied, glumly.

"Well, I hope you don't decide that it would be so much simpler if you just became a slave again. THAT's the Slave Mind talking, the belief that everything would be just great if somebody owned your ass and made all the decisions about what happened to it, including when and how you got fucked. I said it just like that because I wanted to shock you a little, OK? Anyway, if free citizenship really isn't for you, there are a number of options."

She held up her forefinger again. "First, you could remain a free woman but become a submissive, a person hired to let dominants tie her up and inflict pain on her. It's not technically prostitution, because you always have a choice about having sex with the master or mistress; it's also not slavery, because if you work in a reputable BDSM club there are always safe words and people watching out for abuse. I ought to know—my husband Paul runs such a place, and I used to work there. It would be unethical for me to refer you to him for employment, because then I would be taking advantage of privileged information you have told me as your therapist. But I could get Paul to at least answer your questions, and perhaps he knows someone else who might hire you. The thing is, though, that I don't think you really want to do that—of all the lousy things you had to do as a slave, working in that BDSM dungeon sounded as if it were the one time you DIDN'T find anything enjoyable, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm really not thrilled about getting beaten, and I told you that my bruises lasted too long. Besides, I can believe that a knockout like YOU worked in a dungeon, but nobody is going to hire plain old me for such a job."

She shook her head sadly. "We need to work on your self-esteem, but since you brought it up, there probably is stiff competition to work in a good, safe dungeon like Paul's. You have some experience in the field, but that might not be enough. Again, Paul could give you a better feel for it."

A second finger came up, parallel to the first. "So, the next option as that you enter into a Texas Free In Name Only (FINO) contract, a personal services agreement where you ACT as a slave for a given time period, but for specified pay and with some time-outs so you're not overwhelmed by the pressure. That way you get room and board, save money for retirement, and still indulge some of your submissiveness."

I had to interrupt. "Dr. Nikki, I know you told me not to talk about my appearance, but we need to be serious—I don't have any special skills except being a sort of housekeeper and short-order cook. OK, I AM pretty good at oral sex, but I'd rather not hire out to work in another glory hole. Unless, perhaps, Alice wanted to hire me as an assistant manager and trainer who could fill in on Friday nights!" We both snickered. "Besides," I pursued, "Even if there were someone out there who wanted to hire a FINO housekeeper, he or she could probably find someone else who looks a lot cuter to be a FINO, or else just hire a regular servant without going through the expense of FINO. I'd love to indulge my submission while still keeping the protections of a FINO contract, but it's not realistic."

She sighed, then held up a third finger. "So the last option, which I can't in good conscience suggest to anyone, is to re-enslave yourself, with your sale price minus commissions going into a bank-administered fund that would be waiting for you when you finished out your term. But, remember the terror of being a slave—you had it pretty bad before, but your NEXT enslavement might be even worse, not to mention that as your body gets older it will be more difficult to put up with the hard life of slavery. And at the end, you'd still have to face the same situation you're in now, trying to remake yourself into a free person after even MORE experience of Slave Mind."

With that downer of a warning, she reminded me that I still had several months before I had to decide. I made another appointment to see her a month later, and rushed back to work in the cafeteria.

* * * * *

For the next three months, I really tried to break free from my past. I forced myself to make daily decisions, even little ones like which desserts get put on what shelf in the cafeteria line or what shampoo to purchase. I met regularly with the slave shrink, and learned to call her "Nikki" instead of ma'am. I also saved as much money as I could, although I did pay for a Longhorn veterinarian to put another time-release birth control capsule into me when mine expired (the market charged only for the implant itself, yet another example of Mr. Foster's concern for his Trustys.)

Meanwhile, Lorraine and Phil were having a hot and heavy fling, but Bill and I never got much beyond the friends-with-benefits stage. He WAS a nice guy who thought he had somehow crossed a line by playing dominance and submission with me, so a couple of times we had sex as equals. Problem was, it didn't really turn either of us on, and the second time I had to resort to fellatio to make him hard enough to fuck me. After that episode, I told him something about my decade as a slave slut, and with relief we went back to playing master-and-slave again. THAT was a lot more fun, although he naturally enjoyed using my mouth and butt more than my cunt, so we had to take turns getting off, if you get what I mean.

Still, as I said, there was no real spark, and we didn't have much in common other than our enjoyment of slave sex. Neither of us was at a career stage where we could think seriously about marriage. We had almost no money or life plans so the whole relationship, while mildly enjoyable, was going nowhere. How can you plan a more permanent relationship when you don't know where you're going as an individual?

Guided by Ruth in Human Resources, I applied for a few jobs in the food service industry, but the one interview I got wasn't very successful because I was still so unassertive. I barely whispered my answers to questions, so the manager who saw me decided I wasn't really interested. Ruth put a brave face on things, saying I just needed more experience at interviews, but neither of us felt optimistic.

During those three months, my 29th birthday came around. My co-workers baked me a cake and both shifts of wranglers came to congratulate me and graze on the spread. Every one was so nice that I couldn't stop crying.

After five months of freedom, the cafeteria manager, Ben, told me that I had an appointment to see Mr. Foster the next afternoon after the lunch rush. I must have looked terrified, because Ben assured me that it was not a crisis, I wasn't in trouble, the boss just wanted to talk with me about my future. I had already noticed that every Trusty who had been there when I arrived had already moved on to other places, as had several former slaves hired after me.

* * * * *

So that brings me up to the present, this afternoon. I timidly sidled into Mr. Foster's outer office, where I was met by a smiling young brunette, a woman dressed like a slave handler, complete with equipment belt and shock baton, but being much smaller and shorter than any wrangler I'd ever seen—she was even shorter than me! She also seemed friendlier than most of the other people who worked there. Her nametag read "Shirley."

Without even looking at my nametag, she clearly knew who I was and why I was here. "You're Betsy, right? I don't think we've really talked before, probably because I only work here part time. I already have two other jobs, studying organic chemistry and trying to keep Mr. Grumpy [she hooked a thumb towards the inner office] happy." Seeing the confusion on my face, she took pity on me and explained, "I'm Jesse's wife." She leaned closer to me and confided, as if it were perfectly normal, "I'm also his FINO slave on the weekends, so I can keep him relaxed and happy when he comes to work." The thought of this smiling, cute young woman playing slave games with a handsome man like Mr. Foster made me long for my own submissive relationship. Some people have all the luck, and I could never compete with a knockout like her for a FINO contract.

Shirley kept up a steady flow of light conversation, mostly innocent gossip about other employees, for several minutes, apparently trying to reduce my obvious nervousness. Eventually, without any message from the boss, she asked me to follow her through his door, where she formally introduced me and then left us, closing the door gently behind her.

Mr. Foster seemed equally concerned about my nerves, coming out from behind his desk and sitting down with me on two comfortable chairs.

"First of all, you're not in trouble and I'm not about to fire you, so please relax. Ben tells me you've done a good job in the cafeteria, so if you don't go elsewhere we can hire you here, full time with benefits. However, the Trusty program is intended to be for no more than six months--we could go to seven months if you're waiting to start school or a new job at the end of that time, but in general our Trustys turn over fairly quickly. That means that at some point fairly soon I will have to ask you to move out of your dorm bunk to make room for someone else. Do you have any plans?"

I told him, haltingly, that I was not having much luck finding another job in food service. I could tell he already knew that from Ruth, although he said nothing. I also realized that, although a permanent cafeteria job would pay a few bucks more per hour, once I gave up that bunk I would have considerable extra expenses in terms of housing and transportation. From my job prospects, he gently led me into talking about my personal problems—not my horniness, but the Slave Mind problem.

"Dr. Sheldon never violates confidentiality about her patients, but I'm not surprised. Believe me, Betsy, you're not alone. One of the reasons I set up the Trusty program is because MOST people who have worn collars for long periods of time have major problems transitioning back to freedom. If anyone can help you with that, it's Nikki—she's the best slave psychiatrist in Texas, but she stays on retainer to the Longhorn because she wants to help people like you."

I had to confess that, despite her best efforts and mine, I wasn't making much progress. I could probably scrape along, barely making ends meet and living a rather lonely life, but it didn't see a future in that. I even told him that, if only to shock me, Dr. Nikki had suggested three extreme alternatives: working as a free submissive in a BDSM club, signing up as a FINO, or re-enslaving myself to earn money for my retirement.

"Mr. Foster," I concluded, "We both know that I don't have the body for those first two suggestions, so the only thing left is for me to self-enslave, and I doubt even that would bring in too much money."

He tried to be optimistic. "I don't know, Betsy—from what you've told me, this time you know a lot more about marketing yourself as a slave, so you'd probably get higher grade and better price at auction. That on top of the fact that you have experience at being a housekeeper/bed warmer, so you might be surprised at how much money you bring at auction. In fact, you should set a reserved minimum price, so that if the bids aren't high enough you remain free. That still seems like an extreme option, though. I hope you won't rush into self-enslavement, and if you do you'll first get some advice from the staff here about how to go about it. I would feel a little guilty about making a profit off you in such a case, though, so if you decided to do that perhaps we could arrange to have you graded and sold elsewhere."

I shook my head. "Sir, the idea of being a slave again terrifies me, but if I do decide to do that, the Longhorn is the only place I would trust to do it. You and your staff really care about the people who come through here, and that's the reassurance I need if I'm going to sell my butt again."

He smiled a little sadly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I still hope there is some alternative to that. Think long and hard about it, try your other options first. If you finally decide that you'd be happiest back in a collar, please come back here and tell me so I can try to ease your way."

"I appreciate your concern; thanks for listening."

* * * * *

That conversation was three hours ago. I returned to my job in the cafeteria, ate supper, and now I'm back in my room, staring at the ceiling. There's a newly-freed girl in the other bed, Jill something-or-other, and I've tried to be sympathetic and helpful to her, but how much help can I be when I feel like a failure at what matters most to her, re-entering the free world?

Dr. Nikki is right—not only am I barely making it on the outside, but much as I hate to say it, I miss the stability and the sex—even abusive sex—of being a slave. Terror, yes, but no decisions to make, no reason to resist—just lie back and take it when some master wants to shaft me, enjoying the intimacy while I can. After ten years in a collar, I'm legally free again, but my mind is still in bondage.

What am I going to do? Once again, just like that first day, five months ago, when Master Kevin dropped me off at the Longhorn, I can't make up my mind—a marginal and lonely life as a free woman, or a secure if uncomfortable existence as a slave slut. That way, I should at least get plenty of sex.

What do YOU think I ought to do?

The end