Repaying My College Loans Pt. 01

(This story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author. The HCI slave market appears by permission of Gentleman Mariner. My thanks to both.)

*

"Ms. Sullivan, please come to my office at four p.m. today; we need to discuss your student loans."

These ominous words came from Pamela Williams, the vice president who supervised all the Fort Worth branches of the bank where I worked as an IT specialist. As soon as I realized she had come to my desk, I scrambled to my feet out of respect.

"Yes, Ma'am." I murmured. No one ever argued with Ms. Williams.

Ms. Williams, a tall, well-endowed, and self-confident blonde in a power suit, might as well have been the voice of doom. I had graduated college 18 months ago and was already behind in repaying my college loans. This delinquency not only made me an unacceptable employee for the bank, but could lead to my legal enslavement. The 34th Amendment to the Constitution, which repealed the 13th Amendment that had outlawed slavery, had changed things. Ten years ago, Congress had decided to ensure repayment of college loans by requiring that each borrower pledge her or his body as collateral. The standard loan agreement further required the borrower to waive his/her rights to a court hearing, allowing the lender to just get a judge's signature and send out a slave catcher to apprehend the delinquent borrower. My current debt of $46,000, plus compound interest, meant that mousy little Elizabeth Sullivan would probably spend the rest of her life collared and naked.

Nobody wants to be enslaved, but my shy personality and low self-worth made the prospect almost unbearable. The reason was simple—my breasts had blossomed early, starting in 5th grade. All my girlfriends shunned me, while I nervously avoided boys. I withdrew into myself, wearing over-sized clothing to conceal my chest and legs. I kept my long, brown hair in an ugly bun on the back of my head. I tried to be invisible in class, never asking or answering questions I might avoid. The only human contact I had was with my loving parents, but they died in an automobile accident two years after I finished high school, leaving little except debts. After I turned 18 and entered college, I tried dating a few times, but the habit many men had of talking to my chest rather than my face only reinforced my feeling that I was a freak. I had only one serious boyfriend in college, and he eventually gave up on me because I was so shy.

As part of high school gym class, all seniors who had reached the age of 18 had to practice assuming slave positions and responding instantly to commands. The official purpose of this practice was to give students a practical understanding of slavery as well as healthy exercise. As I shuffled rapidly between various demeaning, subservient positions, I imagined with a shiver what it would be like to be on display nude rather than wearing my gym clothes. On the other side of the gymnasium, a class of 18-year old boys bombarded us with catcalls and crude comments about how much they would enjoy having us as slave meat. (When parents complained about such harassment, the school board replied that the experience should instill in us a healthy fear of breaking the law. Yet late at night, in my bed, I used the class to fuel fantasies of being a chained slut. I don't think I was alone in such fantasies—the recent popularity of Slave Yoga classes attests to that.)

Anyway, I grew up trying to minimize interaction with other people and especially with men. My lack of assertiveness and self-confidence helped explain my B-minus average in school as well as my poor performance at job interviews. Despite being a business major, the only job I could get out of college was doing IT at the HCI slave market in Houston. For a few months, I felt safe, working in a back office and earning enough money to at least pay the interest on my loans. Then the HCI management decided that all employees must undergo a six-month rotation as slave processors in order to understand the business. This was a nightmare for me—I had to take a firm grip on myself when dealing with slaves, many of whom were larger than me and frantic about their desperate plight. Several times, my partner had to take over, shocking a recalcitrant piece of inventory into obedience when I hesitated. Moreover, one of the supervisors, Ms. Hannah Steiner, required all new processors to learn basic slave commands and positions. She insisted that we perform for her while wearing training collars that she used to punish any clumsiness or hesitation. I learned to obey commands blindly, and for once Ms. Steiner was pleased with my performance. Otherwise, she was frequently disappointed. At the end of my rotation Ms. Steiner recommended that I be discharged from HCI for a "lack of assertiveness." I couldn't argue.

After that, I moved to Fort Worth and landed a job working for the XYZ bank. I found myself in a crappy efficiency apartment and driving a worn-out car, making barely enough money to eat. After Ms. Williams spoke to me, my mind ran in circles all day, trying vainly to solve my indebtedness. I didn't accomplish much on my job. Five minutes before my appointment, I logged off and straightened my drab clothing. Dreading what was to come, at 4 p.m. I knocked timidly on Ms. Williams' office door.

Invited to enter, I closed the door behind me and stood in front of her desk, my hands clasped together in front and my eyes downcast like a child about to be scolded. Instead, the vice president shifted to a warm, caring tone of voice and urged me to sit down. When I ventured to look at her face, I saw a smile of concern.

"Elizabeth—may I call you Elizabeth?—you know why I asked you to see me. Let's consider your situation. I get very good reports about your job performance, but how do you plan to repay your college loans?"

I tried to explain my failure to repay, but after a few halting sentences she gently interrupted me,

"It doesn't look as if you'll ever be able to repay this debt, does it? I should tell you that the bank recently bought up all your loans. So, what do you think will happen when you're in arrears for another few months?"

I blushed furiously and again looked at my shoes. "I'll be sold to reimburse the bank—and I doubt that my slave price would pay off the loans anyway. I'd probably end up at hard labor, picking cotton or something."

"Not necessarily as a laborer—you have other assets." She said with a faint smile, but didn't elaborate. "Now, on the one hand, the bank has a responsibility to its depositors to ensure that all loans are repaid, with interest. On the other hand, we try to treat our employees with compassion. So, I'm authorized to offer you an alternative. Would you like to hear about it?"

For the first time in months, I felt a slight sense of hope, but it seemed too good to be true.

"Ma'am—are you saying there is another way I could reimburse the bank? You know I'd work hard, I'd do anything to work off the debt if it meant I could remain free."

She pursed her lips and paused before replying. "Well, not exactly, Elizabeth. Put simply, we are offering you the chance to voluntarily indenture yourself—but only for a short time, perhaps as little as two or three years, depending on how well you can satisfy the debt. During that time, you would still be a slave, but at the end of it you would be free and the court records would be sealed. We would even re-hire you here, in a different job that pays more. Are you interested?"

I tried to speak, but couldn't form the words. She put me out of my misery.

"You shouldn't make such a big decision in a split second. Look—today is Friday. I want you to think about it over the weekend, and give me your decision next Monday morning at 8:30. Be realistic—either way you are going to end up wearing a collar. If you wait for the bank to send a slave catcher, you will be sold and probably end up chained to a bed in some brothel, surrendering all three of your openings to men with poor hygiene." I shuddered at the image, which both revolted and thrilled me. "Or, you can indenture yourself, suffer unpleasantness for a few years, and eventually regain your freedom. Any questions?"

"No Ma'am." As I turned to go, she added one more comment.

"Whichever course you choose, I think you'd better practice calling me 'Mistress' instead of 'Ma'am,' don't you?"

"Yes, Ma—I mean, Mistress."

(To be continued)