Repaying My College Loans Pt. 07

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, people are never 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.)

For the third time since I had volunteered, at age 23, for indentured slavery to repay my college loans, I was locked inside a dog cage in the back of a truck, unable to see where I was going. As usual for such shipments, I was gagged, collared, cuffed, and slave naked, kneeling helpless in the cage. About the only difference from my last shipment (people travel, slaves are shipped, passive voice or direct object for English grammar fans) was that the dildoes in my ass and cunt were vibrating randomly and were not connected to a shipping seal to discourage tampering. (I know that "cunt" is an inaccurate and insulting term, but it's the way most people refer to a slave slut or the genitals of a slave slut, which I was. Same for "pussy." My apologies, but the longer I remained a slave the more appropriate such crude terminology seemed.) This time I was headed from the ranch that had trained me as a pleasure slave to the home of my owner and former boss, Ms. Pamela Griffin. Although she had strong-armed me into this situation, then shipped me to slave auction and sex training, she was also my only hope for anything like a future. She would decide how much of my 2 to 5-year indenture I had to serve before regaining my freedom.

After hours on the road, I was once again becoming desperate to pee. I know this sounds like I have a weak bladder, but you try being immobilized for 4 or 5 hours with vibrators agitating your insides and with no chance of relieving yourself that does not involve kneeling in your own urine. Even assuming the best possible travel time, I imagined we had "miles to go before I wee"—I mean, sleep—at Mistress Griffin's house. I was therefore both relieved and alarmed when the truck swerved, rolled forward slowly for two minutes, and came to a halt. When the driver opened the back door, I realized that he had halted at a highway rest stop.

The driver unlocked the cage, ordered me to crawl forward, and then (for the first time in my indenture) draped a translucent slave poncho over my neck before pulling me out by the leash. He had to help me down from the truck so that I didn't fall.

"Do you need to take a leak, slut?" he asked in a surprisingly kind voice. Still gagged, I could only nod vigorously. "Come along, then," but he began pulling me in the direction away from the restrooms. A moment's thought gave me the explanation—as a female, I would be unwelcome in a men's room with him, just as he could not lead me into the ladies' room nor (since I was in his charge while in transit) let me go there unattended. Instead, he led me to the pet walking area at the end of the rest area, and even behind a tree so that I was not completely exposed. He rolled up the back of the poncho, stuffed the excess into my bound hands, and told me to squat and do my business. Once again, I was being treated like a dog, but I was quite happy about it when the alternative was fouling my cage. The urine flowed rapidly around the dildo's base and onto the ground without, thankfully, getting on my legs. He even looked away while I did so—what a considerate guy, I thought! Too bad that, as a slave, I had no way to reward his superior service.

Turns out there was a way to do that, by providing my own superior service. The graduates of the Pearson Pussy Ranch were renowned for their sexual skills, although I think the usual terms used were "great pieces of ass" and "world class cocksuckers." He took out his tip in services, having me sit down on the back deck of his truck (which was facing away from the restroom), spit out my gag on command, and get to work. Never was my smile and eager lip-smacking more genuine. I really was glad to bring a little pleasure to such a nice person, and I exhibited many of my oral skills until he finally grabbed the back of my head and told me to hurry up. The customer is always right, and he came less than 60 seconds after the order was given. Bless him, he even gave me a drink of water to wash out the cum taste before he restored the gag, ensured that my vibrators were still deep inside me, and locked me back on my knees in the cage so that we could get on the road again.

The next time he opened the truck doors and led me out, still wearing the poncho, it was late afternoon and we were walking up the front steps of my Mistress' opulent house. I had only been there once before, to attend a holiday party, but I was eager to see my owner.

I was quite surprised when the front door was opened not by Pamela Williams but by her executive assistant, Lily Randall. Not only that, but Ms. Randall was dressed as if she lived there, wearing a very short green satin nightgown that barely covered her crotch and chest. With her long red hair, she looked amazing. At the driver's request Lily produced identification that matched the shipping manifest, then signed his tablet and led me inside. She immediately removed my gag and asked if I needed the toilet, but when she led me to it I emitted only a short, thin stream. She grinned, knowingly.

"Don't tell me—the nice man let you pee at a rest area, and then had you suck him off as a thank-you, right? But, Mistress Williams specifically paid the delivery service to ensure you got a rest stop. It's an old trick for those guys; they treated me the same way when I "graduated" [she did the hand motion for quotation marks] from Pearson."

My face must have registered shock—it had never occurred to me that she had been to such a place, which implied that she was either a manumitted slave or, like me, a product of indenture. After freeing my hands and handing me a bottle of water, she briefly told me her story—six years ago, she had borrowed heavily to start her own business in Fort Worth, only to lose the business when her father came down with a terminal illness that required much expense and care. Ms. Williams, a branch manager at the time, had offered her a deal similar to mine—voluntary indenture to work off the loan, followed (after much sexual service) by rapid promotion in the bank to become her assistant.

This story sounded so familiar that I hesitantly inquired if she had been required to convince Judge Bean that she was worth the deal. (Lily appeared so beautiful that I thought no such proof was required.) She nodded and giggled. "That horny old goat never passes up a chance to get our type of "services" from the bank. Just last week, Ms. Williams sent me to his office to get his signature on three foreclosures that resulted in civil slavery. He signed them, of course—and will get thousands of dollars as his cut off the deal—but first I ended up bent over his desk, ass in the air while he rammed both of my holes! He didn't even bother to close his office door while he fucked me, so his administrator saw and heard everything! I'm sure you'll have to go service him sometime in the next few weeks, all in the name of verifying that your indenture was worth the investment."

She went on to explain that, although she was now free again, she continued to service VIPs when her boss needed it to facilitate operations. Not only was she paid extremely well, but she wanted to please the woman who, in her mind, had saved her. "Think about how you feel concerning your Mistress. You have been trained to instant obedience and sexual servitude but be honest—if you could take off that collar and put clothes on right now wouldn't you still feel beholden and subservient to her? Two months ago, you were looking at a lifetime of slavery, probably in a whorehouse. You OWE her, and you know it. If you can make her happy or advance her business by providing sex, you do it, without hesitation." She was right.

"Now that you're here, your Mistress will use you for the majority of sexual services, although I should tell you that she has other sluts in training to help out. With your gorgeous body, face, and hair, you will be very good for business. But, I still live here with Ms. Williams and I'll probably still be pimped out as necessary. Most of the sex is enjoyable, so why not? The only difference between you and me is that now that I'm free I can ask that the guy wear a condom."

She paused, then continued. "Look, this is between the two of us. If you have questions about how things work, come to me and I'll tell you whatever I can. That way, she can pretend that she doesn't know the sordid details of how we keep customers and associates happy. That aloofness maintains her appearance of control both at the bank and in sex games. OK?"

I took this to heart and resolved never to trouble my Mistress with any qualms. When she came home from work, she found me inside the front door, showered, wearing light makeup, kneeling naked, and smiling happily. She greeted me warmly and for the rest of the weekend treated me much as had Mistress Sylvia at the ranch—as a cute and eager puppy who could serve and entertain her. Sometimes I was a maid of all work in the house, and sometimes she let me cuddle with her or even tongue her to orgasm. Inside the house, the only clothing I wore was a transparent apron to protect me from hot oil while cooking.

Monday morning, it was back to work, which I was dreading because I would now be a naked slave with so many people who had known me as a co-worker. In fact, I got relatively little grief, although guys frequently copped a feel or goosed me when I came within their reach. Usually, Lily acted as chauffeur, with Ms. Williams sitting in the rear seat while I knelt next to her on the floor. After dropping the boss off at the door, Lily parked the car and led me by the leash inside the bank. Except for bad weather, when I wore a slave poncho or (very rarely) skin-tight leg warmers when outside, I was butt naked all day.

That first day, Lily took me to Personnel to in-process me. Because Mistress was renting me out to the bank I was in a peculiar position: legally, I was property rather than an employee. My ID card, soon clipped to my collar, depicted me in full frontal nudity and identified me as "Contractor-supplied equipment" rather than a contractor. My new computer log-in name was "ConSlave8276," with the digits referring to my slave identification number. I went to work in the IT support division where I had been a few months earlier, but because I was "on call" I could only be assigned the most basic, repetitive duties.

I need to explain "on call"—at any time, Ms. Williams or Lily would summon me to their shared office. Sometimes, one of them would show me an aspect of their work so I could fill in for Lily when she was absent (it felt bizarre to sit perfectly naked behind her desk, then drop to my knees beside the desk to welcome outside visitors. She quickly decided that I had to put a towel down to protect her chair from my near-constant arousal). Other times, I would just kneel in the corner while my two supervisors chatted with me. However, I came to look forward to the instances where my new training was put to use. Whenever my Mistress or Lily had to visit someone (including governmental officials, senior officers of the bank, and major investors) on bank business they took me along, and I often found myself swallowing cock or bent over a desk and shafted while a conversation went on as if I weren't even there. Think of me as lubricant (and the humiliation of being casually used certainly got me lubricated!) to grease the wheels of commerce.

As Lily had said, a lot of this sexual service was enjoyable for a submissive, things I would have willingly done if I had been free and lacking in modesty. Much of my "customer support" was to real alpha males, muscular, handsome guys in custom suits who would never have looked twice at mousy, shy Elizabeth Sullivan. Now, they began to ask specifically for me, although thankfully Ms. Williams was choosy about loaning me out for fear I would be injured. Other users were nerdy people from whom the bank needed technical or other favors. I felt a form of kinship with these people as a former unassertive, easily-overlooked person. I enjoyed the thought of giving them a level of intimacy and pleasure that they might have dreamed of but had rarely experienced, having sex any way they wanted with an eager, big-breasted slut. Only a few times did I have to service creepy or smelly men, because my Mistress did not want to associate the bank with such people.

Some creeps were unavoidable, beginning with Judge Roy Bean V. Within a week after my return to the bank, I was following Lily on a leash into the same courthouse where the judge had put me on my knees while he approved my indenture. Having been in my flip-flops (slaves only wore shoes when an owner had a high-heel fetish) a few years earlier, Lily always let me wear a poncho on these forays outside the bank, but I had to remove it as soon as we reached the judge's chambers. I understood the pecking order here, and I was at the bottom of it—or in terms of sexual power I was the bottom at the bottom, about to take it up my bottom. Ms. Williams was always respectful to the judge, but didn't like encountering him, so she would often delegate Lily for routine tasks.

Lily, in turn, took me along so that the constantly-horny judge (who was very virile for his age, I must admit) would take his pound of flesh from me (or rather, pounding my flesh?) rather than her. That first time in his office as a slave, I not only demonstrated my improved oral skills but also bent over his office couch, hands bound behind me, while he stood behind the couch and vigorously pumped my anal opening for what seemed like an hour. Anticipating this, Lily had instructed me to use a well-lubricated dildo to prepare the opening before we got out of the car. After a few minutes when I felt like a baseball bat was invading me, I adjusted to his considerable girth and began to enjoy my role as a submissive sex toy. Still, I was always glad when he finished, signed whatever documents Lily had brought, and released me with a sharp slap on my bare behind.

My original auction as HCI had already netted a healthy profit for the bank because it had purchased my $46,000 in school loans and sold them (and me) for $57,000; now Ms. Williams, who had bought me, was recouping her own investment by selling my ass re-tail and piece-meal (I can't resist the puns, sorry). I soon learned another reason, besides loyalty, to cooperate enthusiastically. After I'd been screwed several times a week for a month, given numerous blow jobs and endured constant fondling by horny co-workers, Lily quietly showed me the ledger that she kept, for my mistress, that recorded every sex act with an appropriate valuation. Like a cheap street walker, I learned that I was worth $20 for a blow-job, $50 for straight sex, $100 for anal penetration, and various odd amounts if I were bound, spanked, nipple-clamped, or otherwise slightly mistreated.

Ms. Williams invoiced every thrust, every slurp, and every hand-spank to the bank as Customer Relations or Operations Support. Since slaves were not free people, this wasn't considered prostitution. Each Friday after that, Lily would show me the new total that I had achieved as my mouth, cunt, and ass gradually worked off the $57,000 (plus accumulating interest) that I had cost at the HCI auction. Sometimes, if the customer/John praised my performance or was particularly loathsome, Mistress would add an extra bonus to the ledger, although she didn't pass those costs on to the bank. When Lily pointed this out, it only reinforced my (perverse?) sense of docile, enthusiastic subordination. Working my way to freedom, and (at least sometimes) enjoying myself in the process.

The more I settled into my role as the live-in slut of XYZ Bank in Fort Worth, the better I adjusted. There was no question that Mistress rented my ass (and other orifices) to almost anyone, and then billed the bank for contractor services to pay for me. And, I was definitely her slave—the least resistance would see me posing in various humiliating slave yoga positions to remind me of my place, then put into stocks to be paddled, stuffed with uncomfortably-large and vibrating sex toys, and left alone for the night. Mistress' executive assistant Lily was only slightly more flexible about discipline.

Otherwise, they took affectionate care of me. After two weeks working at the bank, Lily took me for something I never expected—clothes shopping. We went to a specialty shop that provided underwire bras for slaves. These specially-fitted devices matched my skin color so they were almost unnoticeable. Where most bras had cups or triangles to cover the breasts, these slave bras lacked any fabric in those areas so that my nipples and boobs were fully available for looking and touching. This meant that there was no real violation of the expectation that slaves remain naked. Lily explained:

"You have great boobs, but we want boobs, not udders. Your rack is bigger than mine, and if you walk around without any support for the next several years your nipples will end up near your waist. Not healthy and not sexy. You can't wear any of these bras when servicing clients and customers, but around the house and at work you will wear them all the time. Got it?"

Within a few weeks, I was no longer the only slave slut at the bank, as 25-year-old Clarice Johnson graduated from Pearson and went to work. My mistress owned her indenture just as she did mine, although Clarice lived and worked with the manager of the second-largest XYZ branch in the city. (That guy certainly had a pleased expression on his face every time I saw him, but Clarice told me privately that he was very kind and never abused her.) Clarice was a smart, statuesque young Black woman with a gorgeous face and the carriage of a model. Her beauty and self-confidence intimidated me. Unfortunately, the Dallas police caught her with enough hard drugs to earn slavery as a dealer; an acquaintance had dumped the drugs in her car when she gave the woman a ride. The arrest was kept out of the media. Her father, a wealthy oilman in Austin, could not bear the idea that his daughter would, like her ancestors, become a slave in America.

Enter my Mistress, who made Clarice her usual offer: convince Judge Bean to intervene in her case. She would be indentured for a 5-year term, and if she performed well she would still be a sex slave but her records would be sealed and she would someday be able to go back to Austin society as a free woman. Clarice was not a natural submissive like me but was smart enough to recognize that this was her only chance, so she gave every appearance of eager, lascivious cooperation. She later confided in me that before he agreed to the deal, Bean had ravaged her while she was handcuffed to his office couch and still technically a free woman. He also demanded that she scream how much she enjoyed being his slut. Having been on the receiving end of the judge's baseball bat-sized cock, I could sympathize completely.

The judge also required that, as part of the plea deal, she be branded like any other criminal convict. A 3-inch Texas star and circle marred the mocha perfection of her well-rounded ass. The man was a dick, in both senses of the term. The brand would discourage any bikini wearing, although maybe she could pass it off as part of the new trend where young free women, voluntarily undergoing slave grading to prove their attractiveness, got branded as part of the deluxe package. Glad I didn't have my butt burned like that, but then I was only involved in civil indebtedness, not drugs. "Only?" Who was I kidding—this slavery stuff in any form was overwhelming to those who experienced it.