Repaying My College Loans Pt. 02

(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.)

From Pamela Wright Vice President, XYZ Bank: Before Elizabeth Sullivan continues her narrative of how she indentured her body to pay her college loan debt, let me interject some thoughts. By now, you may suspect that I'm not acting in good faith as I guide her through the process. And you'd be right, up to a point; I'm looking out for my own interests and those of my employer, which owns the unpaid loans and needs to make a profit. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions, although I would contend that I'm working for the best outcome for all those concerned, including Elizabeth.

The advent of enslavement for debt has been revolutionary. For creditors, the ability to apprehend adult deadbeats and sell their asses at auction has done wonders for the bottom line (pun intended.) The only absolute rules were that slavery was not hereditary and that only people over the age of 18 could be collared, even for a voluntary slave grading. Otherwise, slavery has provided cheap labor for everything from cotton chopping to customer satisfaction—and yes, that's what I mean by "satisfaction." Major depositors and investors expect a level of sexual service that was illegal only a decade ago.

Still, the presence of slaves (of both sexes) to service high rollers has not eliminated the tendency of fat cats to hit on females in the workplace—if anything, that tendency has increased. In a society where slave pussy is plentiful, people with a sense of entitlement became even more obsessed with "winning" by pressuring free women to abase themselves. BDSM clubs, slave yoga classes, and fantasies of sexual slavery have become common. That's the main reason why young free women are expected to get themselves graded as potential slaves soon after they turn 18, willingly enduring naked humiliation and even branding to get the social caché of being judged hot enough to be a pleasure slave.

I'm not the only independent woman who fantasizes about being a slave. But that's all it is—a fantasy for masturbation or (with a carefully vetted, trusted partner and lots of duress precautions) bedroom play. I enjoyed taking a slave yoga class last year, but quit when I found myself reflexively obeying any firm male command. I have no intention of yielding power to a guy outside the bedroom, and not always inside it. Last Saturday (his birthday) I let my longtime boyfriend collar me and put me through various slave poses until I begged him to "f___ your slave in any hole you want." Humiliating, but a lot of fun. My rear end still stings from the spanking and thrusting he gave me back there, but don't worry—on my birthday I got to dominate him the same way. My ten inch strap-on certainly made him moan. See—just like a guy, I'm bragging about my equipment!

What has this to do with Elizabeth, the meek IT specialist in her mid-20s who's overdue on college loans? Once in a while, a dominant person identifies a natural submissive, usually a woman with a sexy body who can find joy through servicing others. I intended to bring out the natural submissive in Elizabeth, just as I did with my executive assistant, Lily, five years ago. If she performed as I expected, Elizabeth would emerge from her indenture as another beautiful, confident woman who, on command, would happily submit to any VIP looking for a "free" woman with the heart of a slave slut. She was better suited than I for such a life, and I could get a vicarious thrill from watching her subjugation. The bank would get its money back and acquire an employee with sexual skills that were in high demand. We just needed to overcome her shyness.

Let's return to Elizabeth's narrative. I had offered her the chance to avoid lifelong slavery by indenturing herself to the bank for 2 to 5 years.

Elizabeth's story:

I spent the weekend trying in vain to solve my problem. In desperation, I even bought a few lottery tickets, but that just left me poorer. Monday morning found me again in the vice president's office, meekly agreeing to her offer. She showed no surprise although she did compliment me on making a mature, responsible decision—as if I had any choice. A silence fell between us until I mustered my courage to inquire:

"Mistress, may I ask what happens next?"

"Well, first we have to get a judge to approve the deal. Fortunately, the bank has an arrangement to expedite that." She pivoted in her high-end office chair, snatched up the telephone receiver, and dialed a number from memory. Her usually-commanding tones turned to honey.

"Ms. Campbell? This is Pamela Wright of the XYZ Bank. Yes, it's been a while, hasn't it? How are you? Good. I know you're a busy woman, so let me get right to the point: is there any way that we could get on His Honor's calendar this week for approval of a voluntary indenture for debt? Ten o'clock on Wednesday? That would be great! The petitioner's name is Sullivan, Elizabeth R. Sullivan. Thanks so much for your help—I look forward to seeing you Wednesday." She hung up, gently.

"OK, you heard that. Wednesday morning I'll drive you over to the courthouse in Dallas, which is where the bank's corporate headquarters are located. Assuming the judge approves the deal—and he might not—I'll take you across the street to the nearest office of the Livestock and Slave Division for the Texas Department of Agriculture. Then you will be videotaped as you read and sign the indenture agreement. From there the division will ship you to the slave market the bank usually uses—HCI in Houston—for processing and grading."

She came to a halt when she saw me turn white and almost faint at the mention of my previous employer. I had a vivid image of the processing area of HCI, where I had once worked, only this time, instead of wearing an HCI uniform and carrying an electric slave prod, I would be a new item of inventory, bound and naked. Slave naked.

I stuttered. "I thought that I could just be indentured here. I know I have to be processed, but isn't there some way to do that locally, like at one of the department stores just before they close for the day?"

She frowned. "Here's the thing. In order to justify giving you this special deal, we'll need to have you officially evaluated, establishing your slave grade and auction value as high as possible. Otherwise, an auditor might decide that the bank had acted irresponsibly by letting you off. You understand that has to happen, right? So we send you to a major, official market that processes thousands of slaves per year and has no other business contact with the bank. And we try to get you classified as a Pleasure Slut and graded at least Choice. Oh—I get it, you're worried about being processed by people with whom you used to work, right? Well, you won't look much like you did when you worked there—How many of your co-workers ever saw you naked? Don't call any attention to yourself—be the perfect obedient little slut, and perhaps no one will look closely enough to recognize you, That's the best I can suggest, OK?"

I didn't have a choice, so I let myself be swept along by her commanding demeanor.

She resumed her instructions. "I'll give you the next two days with pay to get your affairs in order—shut down your social media accounts, vacate your apartment, renew your license so it doesn't expire, give someone a power of attorney for your possessions."

"Umm, Mistress? I'm an orphan and I don't have many friends. I appreciate all the kindness you've shown me, and I'm sorry to take up more of your time, but could you possibly act for me about my property?"

For a moment, her professional demeanor cracked and something like pity showed in her eyes. "OK—ask one of the customer service representatives to give you a power of attorney form and notarize your signature. Here's my business card to include my name on the form. Give me a dollar bill so we can say I'm your attorney. On Wednesday, drive your car to work and give me the car keys plus a single folder with all your documents—birth certificate, social security card, license, transcripts, and so on—so the bank can hold them for you. You won't need any of that stuff for the next several years." The last statement sent another chill up my spine.

"I want you back here by 8 a.m. on Wednesday so we can drive to Dallas and get there in plenty of time. Last thing: Try to make yourself look attractive for the judge. As I said, we need to convince him that the next few years of your life will be worth $46,000 plus interest to your new owners. Find the tightest sweater and shortest skirt you own, trim the ends of your hair and brush it out, and for heaven's sake put on some lipstick and mascara. Don't bother with stockings, though, you'll just have to take them off. Questions?"

I'll spare you the details of the quiet agony I experienced over the next several days. Shirley, an acquaintance at the bank, spent an evening trimming my hair to shoulder length and persuading it to curl slightly. When she finished, she exclaimed that I looked so pretty that I should always wear it down. Knowing that she would probably meet me as a slave, I told her why the hair had been up before and why I needed it trimmed. Tuesday evening, I carefully shaved my entire body, including my pubes; I knew HCI would do it if I didn't. On Wednesday morning I packed my few belongings into boxes in the back seat of my ten-year-old Toyota and drove to work with an enormous sense of dread.

Ms. Wright had me rotate in front of her desk, looking carefully at my appearance. For the first time in years, my boobs were on prominent display in a sweater. She insisted that I roll the waistline of my grey skirt under itself several times, raising the hem to four inches above the knee. Then she smiled.

"Much better. I thought you were hiding a good body under all that drapery—now you look slutty enough to sell. Let's get going." She tucked my documents file into a carry-all bag and handed my car keys to her assistant, Lily, asking her to ferry my car to the vice president's house sometime that afternoon. I wondered if I would ever see car or contents again.

As she drove us to Dallas, she returned to her theme of convincing the judge. "Judge Bean is doing both of us a big favor. Ordinarily, you would have to wait months to get a court date, and by that time you might well have been enslaved. In fact, he could just wait until the bank presented your overdue loan for his approval, and he would get a percentage of your price at auction. Furthermore, as I told you Monday, you need to convince him that a limited indenture will defray the money you've cost the bank. That means that whatever he asks you to do—and I do mean whatever—you do it instantly and eagerly." She took her eyes off the road for a moment to stare at my face. I understood her meaning, nodded and swallowed hard. I could imagine what else I might be swallowing that day . . .

After Ms. Wright chatted with the judge's administrator for 20 minutes, a tall, grey-haired man in a robe breezed past them and called us into his office. He tossed his robe onto a hat tree and sat down heavily behind his desk.

"OK, Ms. Wright, what do you have for me?"

She handed him a file of official-looking documents. He glanced through it, then leaned back and addressed my boss, almost ignoring me.

"You know my position on this, Counselor. In order for me to approve this petition, I need solid evidence that this woman's indenture will reimburse the bank for its investment. I need to examine her assets and test her performance."

Ms. Wright turned to me and commanded, as if urging a recalcitrant child: "You heard His Honor. Strip."

(To be continued)