Repaying My College Loans Pt. 05

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, women are not property and informed consent is always MANDATORY. 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.)

(Elizabeth's story, continued)

As I fell into exhausted sleep in the HCI slave market, where I used to work as a free woman, I couldn't help re-playing the first day of slavery in my mind. Despite my D-cup breasts and curvy body, until today I had a low self-image and shied away from any contact, so I had very little sexual experience for a woman in her mid-20s. That was changing fast. To avoid lifetime bondage for non-payment of my college loans, I had let my bank supervisor, Ms. Pamela Williams, persuade me to petition a court for the "opportunity" to voluntarily indenture myself (for up to 5 years) to the bank. To get this so-called deal, I had to strip, perform various slave postures, and then worship the judge's cock. I was still coughing from trying to swallow his shaft and semen when Ms. Williams hustled me to an office of the Livestock and Slave Division for the Texas Department of Agriculture.

There, I formally indentured myself, after which I was immediately stripped, collared, and gagged with my hands zip-tied behind my back. The staff of the office had a lot of fun taunting and fondling me while my new owner led me by a dog leash to the loading dock. Forced into a metal cage intended for a French poodle, I certainly felt like a prize bitch being trucked to HCI. Only a real dog doesn't have to wear zip-ties on its wrists and fake cocks in both openings. When I got to HCI, I experienced probably the most embarrassing in-processing ever witnessed there—because I was led around by my former partner, Cindy, who gleefully showed me off to my former co-workers. Cindy was convinced that I was "called to the collar," and in a strange way I got a sexual thrill from being belittled, felt up, and generally subjugated by my former acquaintances. I learned to my dismay and excitement that everyone who knew me privately thought I belonged as a slave. Finally, I was put to sleep in a dormitory cage. In order to establish my value to my new owner, I needed to get a high price when I was graded tomorrow.

I didn't get much sleep. I had no means of measuring time, but it felt like midnight when I awoke to the sound of handlers shoving two other young women, both bigger and apparently stronger than me, into the same cage. Feigning sleep, I listened to them talk, or rather, argue. I gathered that the two had a history of assaulting weaker teenagers, at first as school bullies and later as robbers. But they had both turned 18 since their last apprehension. This time, an El Paso court had sentenced them to ten years' slavery as adults, and one of them was angry that the other had ratted her out in a vain attempt to avoid that fate. Their argument escalated to shouting and fighting. I cowered on my bunk, knowing that the night security crew would not tolerate such disturbances.

The cage door banged open and four fit young men in khakis and boots stormed inside. I knew the drill, and immediately slipped off my bed onto my knees, thighs wide apart, hands behind my neck with downcast eyes. The other two girls were not as submissive and paid for it. In short order, the two found themselves shocked, gagged and cuffed, spread-eagled against the cage wall where they each got twelve lashes across their backs and buttocks. For good measure, the staff gave me the same treatment, without the electric prod and with only two lashes. They didn't really hit any of us hard. Nothing broke the skin, although even those two strokes were painful. By the time they released me, the guards—for that's what they really were—had bent the other two sluts over their bunks and re-cuffed their hands behind their backs. I got about the same treatment but ended up back on my knees; apparently they had realized that I wasn't part of the disturbance.

I began to worry what else might happen. Think about it: here were four strong men with all the tools of bondage and punishment, looming over three young, naked women who were handcuffed. The guys were irritated and there was no one else around in the middle of the night. Things could get really bad here.

I had heard rumors of the "discipline fuck," in which guards forced themselves on recalcitrant slaves to ensure order. Of course, slave market corporations did not acknowledge anything that harsh, and HCI in particular kept their employees in check. Still, there were those urban legends. One even more improbable story concerned a free woman, held overnight as part of her grading, who panicked and got a discipline fuck in response. The guy who told me this claimed that the poor woman enjoyed the rough sex so much that she enslaved herself voluntarily a few weeks later, but I always thought that was male chauvinist wishful thinking. Abuse is abuse.

Fortunately, the leader of the guards suddenly recognized me.

"Beth! If I'd known you were here, I'd have come to visit you earlier. Always wanted to get to know you better. What brought you back here?"

Mousy Elizabeth Sullivan would have been overcome with embarrassment naked on her knees in front of a former co-worker, but the newly-liberated Slut 8276 decided to risk flirting a little bit: "A shipping cage brought me here, Master James."

"Ha!" Thank god he was amused rather than angered. "You know what I mean—why are you a slave?"

"Repaying college loans, Master."

"Well, that sucks." He said, briefly empathizing with my plight. In the ensuing pause, I suddenly thought of a way that might both defuse the tension and release some of the horniness that had built up in me all day. I was amazed at my own daring:

"Umm, speaking of sucking: Master James, I'm sorry these two acted up on your shift. Is there something I can do to make it up to you and your crew?" I hung my mouth open, licked my lips, and winked at him. Fortunately, Ms. Williams had put a seal on my lower openings, leaving only my mouth available.

"Well, since we're here . . . You're sure you don't mind?" He really was a good guy, offering me an out when he could have just forced me. I shook my head in response to his question, smiling and looking hard at his groin (which was also getting hard).

"Guys, Beth here used to work at in-processing. You can see what a little hottie she is. Anyone else interested?"

One after the other, starting with James, three different men offered their pricks to me. They didn't force me, but once I took them in they began pumping faster and faster. I remembered Ms. Steiner's instructions, looking lovingly up at each one, licking my lips lasciviously, and smiling as much as possible around his prick. Once I learned each one's personal rhythm, I found I could breathe a little each time he pulled back. Two of them even encouraged me, bending over to squeeze my breasts almost gently and say I was a good little cocksucker. I became a willing participant because the sense of subordination and manipulation thrilled me.

By the time they were done, I was exhausted. The other two girls were left handcuffed and moaning softly, but James released my hands, gave me a drink of water to rinse out my mouth, and let me curl up to sleep again. I had been enslaved for less than 24 hours, and already my mouth had serviced four men and a woman. At that rate, I would have several thousand oral encounters before I regained my freedom! Being a slave literally sucks, except when it blows. Perhaps my helplessness had twisted my thinking, but I had enjoyed the encounter, only regretting the lost sleep.

It seemed like only a minute later when harsh lights came on and buzzers sounded to awaken the inventory—I knew that meant it was 6 a.m., so I rolled out of bed onto my knees and assumed the position. The floor was cold and hard, but I wanted to minimize the chances of being disciplined. An unfamiliar handler re-cuffed me and led me in one direction while the two girls, visibly subdued, went another; I never saw them again, even though I may have saved their asses, literally. By the time I had waited my turn for urination, another shower by hose (this time warm, thank goodness), and more kibble and water for breakfast, Cindy came to find me. It seemed almost normal and appropriate to be led around, slave naked, by my former friend, and I realized she was right—I was sort of prancing, docile and eager to get on with my new life and depart HCI.

She led me to Preferred Preparation, where I learned that Ms. Williams had again given me a gift, paying to have me groomed and prepared for better grading. This was not quite the level of Premiere Grading, where free women paid extra for a package that included real food and being held in private cages before viewing, but it still meant that HCI beauticians washed, curled, and combed my hair, put on more makeup than I'd ever worn in my life, and selectively re-shaved parts of my body even though I had shaved everything 36 hours ago. Whenever the beauticians worked on me, their free hands also fondled my breasts, ass, neck, and so on, beginning the process of arousing me so that I would look hot for public display.

When all this was done, Cindy led me to a restroom where she went through the same process I had experienced the previous evening, filming and recording the procedure of cutting the shipping seal, extracting the two dildoes from me, and having me use the toilet and enema packet. This time, however, the dildoes were discarded, leaving me feeling even more exposed. Cindy took me to a group holding corral and run me through slave commands and positions again. Then, a sad look came across her face. "Ms. Steiner instructed me to turn you over to Bill at this point. Before I do so, you know what comes next, right?"

"Yes Mistress." I knew it was inevitable, so I opened my mouth to allow her to spray a can of Devox inside it, instantly depriving me of any speech or sound. I was already as helpless and exposed as possible, but psychologically the inability to talk made me feel even more defenseless.

"OK, 8276," she said, resuming her professional impartiality, including fondling my nipples slowly to keep up my arousal. "I waited until now to tell you what happens next, because protests would just get you in trouble. You will now go through the grading process, after which you will wait your turn for the auction block. I can see the panic in your eye—yes, you're being sold today; try not to freak out. Ms. Steiner told me to pass on assurances from Ms. Williams that this was all part of establishing your value to repay the loans. Do your best to get a good price, so you don't end up as a cheap labor slave and still owe money after your term is up—that would really suck, in both meanings of the word. Head up, don't forget your slave postures, and everything will turn out OK. See you in two or three years!"

My heart started pounding, but I recognized that she was right—I had no more choices, so I might as well be the best slave I could.

Being chained spread-eagle and on display, naked and voiceless while strangers pawed me, began as a horrible experience. I suffered through the gawkers who were only there for the chance to grab my pussy and boobs. One even rammed a finger up my rear. After that, I was able to control my panic and submit, all smiles, to the real buyers who looked me over dispassionately and wrote notes on their tablets. Suddenly, the next buyer looking at me was Ms. Williams, smiling back at me. I opened my mouth but realized that I couldn't greet her. She told me I looked very sexy, taking the opportunity to finger my clit and thereby keep me simmering. Then she moved on, but I hoped against hope that the whole idea of selling me was just a scare tactic.

Before I knew it, my two hours on display was over. As he led me back to the holding corral, Bill remarked that he'd heard very good things about me from the buyers. Then he sprayed my throat again, released my wrists, and handed me a bottle of cold water. Slowly, over the next few minutes, I regained my voice, but the experience left me frightened of the process.

Only a few minutes later, Bill reconnected my leash and led me briskly to the waiting line for the auction block. Fortunately for my anxiety, I was third in line, and soon found myself mounting the block. I reminded myself to smile and perform. Sensuality still felt odd to me, so I decided to treat this as the ultimate fantasy of a submissive—being sold as a sex slave.

I stepped out onto the block, floodlit so I was completely exposed but could not see the audience. I assumed the Present position and waited to begin performing. My nipples stood out plainly and my breathing turned into a low pant that caused my boobs to move up and down. I almost lost my concentration when I heard the auctioneer announce that I had been graded Choice Plus, far above what I had expected. Then Bill began ordering me into different slave positions, each one more revealing than the last. I felt a trickle of arousal dripping out of me as I flaunted myself to an audience that I imagined ran into the hundreds, although when I worked here I'd never seen more than two dozen buyers. I had tuned out the auctioneer's constant chatter until I heard him acknowledge a bid for $45,000 and keep asking for—and apparently getting—higher bids. By the time he finished, I was so aroused that I could barely hear the announcement that my indenture had been sold for $57,000!

Bill led me away, washed me down with warm water, and let me catch my breath with another bottle of water. I was definitively a pleasure slut. Yet, I had no idea who owned me.

Two hours later, I could hear the auction breaking up. I knew there would be another delay while the buyers paid for their winning bids. Eventually, Bill got a text on his tablet. He ordered "back hands" and I automatically surrendered my wrists to be restrained. By now, I was fully docile and cooperative. He led me off to a single cage, ordered me to kneel and stay.

I was lost In my thoughts—mostly reflecting what a turn-on the auction had been—when I looked up and realized that Ms. Williams was standing outside the cage, smiling at me.

"Mistress! I—" but I couldn't continue. I didn't know whether she had come to claim me or to say goodbye. She put me out of my misery.

"Don't worry, sweetie! I bought your ass."

"I'm overjoyed, Mistress, but I don't understand. I thought your plan was to have me work at the bank in IT."

She replied, "I, personally, bought you so the bank can close out your debts. I took out a loan with you as collateral, based on your Choice Plus grading. That way, I can rent you out to the bank for IT and . . . other services."

"Oh." Ms. Steiner's talk of training me in sex suddenly made sense; boy, was I an idiot!

"Mistress, do I go home with you now?" I asked, hopefully.

"Not quite yet, slave—first, I'm shipping you off for training to live up to your classification of Pleasure Slut. In just one day, you've come a long way in that direction. You've shown the right attitude but need to acquire some skills. You'll try hard in training, right?" I nodded vigorously. "I'll send for you." And she left.

Minutes later, it seemed, another slave handler—one I did not recognize—entered the cage. Clicking on a leash, he led me the restroom, freed my hands, and let me relieve myself, douche, and get a drink of water. Then:

"Back hands." Instead of cuffs, I felt a zip tie like the one that had first immobilized me in the Department of Agriculture—was that only yesterday?

He next ordered me to open my mouth. After the horrible experience of being devoxed, I didn't want to, but made myself yield. Instead of a spray can, he used another bit gag, pulling my lips back into a slave grin. He even repeated the tired joke that I looked happy to be a slave. The handler then took the opportunity to feel me up thoroughly. On the one hand, he was yet again demonstrating my helplessness, but my submissive self took his attention as a compliment, a comment on my desirability as a sex toy. I was really getting into the slave mentality.

For the last time, an HCI slave handler pulled me on a leash, this time back to the loading dock where he had me kneel with my back to an open shipping cage. He finally removed the shock collar and affixed a label to my temporary, Agriculture Department collar. On order, I obediently crawled backwards into the cage. A final beep from a bar code reader, and a forklift deposited me, along with another caged female, inside a truck with no markings. The door rolled down and locked, leaving us in darkness as the truck rolled away. As bound merchandise, no one had bothered to tell us where we were bound (in the other sense of the word).

(To be continued)