Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 01

Sabbatical in Slavery, Pt. 01

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Note: This is a spin-off from "Ellie May Pt. 03: Shipboard Slave Whoring." In that story, Professor Sarah Hollister's rival, Lindsay Williams, not only (unknowingly) abused her when Sarah was masquerading as a slave, but repeatedly badmouthed Sarah to slave merchants and investment people. Restored to her freedom and her clothing, Sarah proceeded to undermine Lindsay's chances for tenure as an academic by "putting out the word" that her research was weak. This led to the situation described in this story. Thanks to Joe Doe for his permission and suggestions.)

(Lindsay Williams' perspective)

I hate to sound like a whiner, but I've been having a VERY strange time for the past two years. I guess to explain myself, I need to go back a little farther.

I love my Mom and Dad, but they're stuck in dead-end jobs as college professors, in Linguistics and Philosophy, respectively. Reminds me of the greeting card I saw once, where the cover of the card read

"This card is like a career in teaching."

When I opened up the card, the inside message read "There's no money in it." Too true to be funny.

So, OK: In my parents' view, I had to be an academic success and then get tenured as a college professor. The first step just took a lot of hard work and neglect of my social life: 6 years of prep school, 4 years at Bryn Mawr, 5 more years of graduate school (Chapel Hill)--most of it on scholarships, so after five years of college teaching I'd only just paid off my college loans.

I said college teaching, but unlike my parents I wanted an academic field that had the potential for some real money and status. The burgeoning new field of Slave Studies, sometimes referred to by the euphemism of "Human Resources Exploitation," seemed to be my ticket. I'd published half a dozen articles and one uninspiring book on various business aspects of slavery, working my way up to associate professor at U Mass--that's University of Massachusetts at Amherst, to be clear. Next, I needed to be selected for tenure and then full professor, plus develop business contacts to sell my expertise.

One of my problems was that the slave industry is a very chauvinistic world--male slaves may be used as laborers as well as gigolos, but female slaves, regardless of their brains or other skills, are evaluated primarily for their sex appeal, as three moist holes connected to boobs, butt, and legs that exist solely to entertain their masters or mistresses. That means that slave merchants evaluate all women they meet as sex objects and more explicitly as "slave cunts."

I don't want to sound arrogant, but I was (and am) a reasonably-attractive woman: high cheekbones, generous mouth with straight teeth, chestnut hair, 38D bust and narrow waist, everything kept firm with frequent exercise. Even more than other men, slave merchants develop vision and hearing difficulties in the sense that they stare at my chest for 20 minutes and never hear what I'm saying to them. Sarah Hollister, that pretentious blonde biotch who teaches slave studies at "Haavaad," somehow used her appearance to get their attention and then talks just as crudely as do they, in order to convince them she's serious about slave business. To give you one example, one of Sarah's best-selling books on the slave business was titled Profit Per Pussy. Need I say more? Somehow, I had to overcome this sexism and show these self-propelled penises that they should listen to what I said, not just stare at how I looked.

Two years ago in the spring I finally got my big break, a chance to impress all the wealthy slave merchants and investors. Sarah Hollister suddenly decided she was too busy to spend spring break with the high rollers on board the "Yo Ho Ho," a specialized passenger ship that, during the ten days of spring break, cruised off Cape Cod. This cruise was an early test of the concept that northern sex slaves--either genuine slaves or skanky young women who enjoyed PRETENDING to be slaves--could be marketed on a no-holes-barred [pun intended] cruise that was, in effect, a floating brothel. Because they were slaves who couldn't refuse to screw free people, these hos (real and pretend) were not technically prostitutes selling their bodies. They could spend the whole cruise servicing the paying passengers--passengers that, in this case at least, included a number of slave merchants and bankers, the people I most needed to network with. And as far as I was concerned at the time, that's all these collared sluts were good for--so many cunts, asses, mouths, and tits all belonging to brainless, horny whores who existed to entertain their betters.

My job was to implement this plan--given an over-supply of well-endowed naked bimbos of various genders, I had to manage the entertainment in a way that amused the guests, impressed the investors, and still turned a profit.

I did pretty well at it, too. I didn't hesitate to show the money men that I could be just as cruel and dominant towards slave bimbos as they were. To be honest, it was kind of fun to belittle and whip a sex-obsessed bubblehead while driving her to an involuntary orgasm. The sense of absolute power I had over these cunts was addictive.

My main plan was to transship and sell off the surplus pussy while we were on the high seas, sending some of these brainless blonde bimbos to be sold to Middle Eastern harems. But somehow, that damn Sarah Hollister found a way to sabotage me even though she didn't even come on the cruise. One of the skankiest slaves on board, a redhead who went by the name of "Flame" and had a tramp stamp and slave brand to match, was on my list to be sold. The problem was that Flame not only belonged to Sarah but somehow had SARAH'S OWN SLAVE IDENTIFICATION NUMBER bar-coded on the inside of her lower lip. That meant that we didn't have clear title to sell her, and (conveniently) Sarah wouldn't answer her telephone to give us permission to dispose of the slut, even at a huge profit for the owner (Sarah). One of the biggest slave merchants in the business, Jake Henry, lectured me about the risks of improper sales, so I lost more ground than I gained in networking with the high rollers.

*****

I came home from this cruise frustrated and embarrassed. And THEN I found out that the U Mass tenure committee had failed to recommend me for tenure that spring, my fifth year teaching and the first of three opportunities I had to make tenure before I had to look for work somewhere else, my academic reputation permanently tarnished by being adjudged unworthy of tenure.

I suspected that Sarah had sabotaged me, but when I politely asked Alistair Buchanan, the silver-haired chair of the tenure committee, what I needed to improve my chances the next year, he turned red in the face and then said that my work "did not show an understanding of the psychology of slaves." He even had the nerve to cite Sarah as an example of someone who DID understand how slaves thought. Because of the outmoded idea that slave whores were still people, anyone who didn't show empathy and understanding for their "plight" was (according to the political correctness police) unqualified to teach the subject.

I had to admit that he had a point. Part of what made Sarah Hollister so effective was that she designed processes, such as the one used by the Big D Slave Market in Dallas, that psychologically manipulated fresh-caught slaves to make them not only docile but eager to act like the brainless sluts they were born to be. The committee was right--if I could better understand and empathize with slaves, I could be far more useful as a business advisor, let alone as a slave studies instructor.

Well, the first step was obvious--consult with a real expert. I actually knew one whom I had met at several conferences--Nicola (Nikki) Sheldon, co-author of the classic text, Psychological Impact of Slavery and a practicing slave psychiatrist who worked with several slave markets and similar businesses in Texas. I telephoned her, told her my basic problem, and offered to pay her standard consultation rates for advice.

She giggled with that infectious laugh that made her everyone's favorite shrink. "No need for that, Lindsay--at least not just to talk to you on the phone." She paused, then became much more tentative in her speech. "The trouble is, you won't like the advice I have to give you. Sweetheart, the only way to really understand how a slave thinks is to BE a slave, and for long enough to feel the helplessness."

She went on to tell me an amazing tale. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recalled that the American Psychological Society required anyone who wanted to qualify as a slave psychiatrist to spend 180 days in a collar. Nikki described the emotions she had experienced when she self-indentured herself straight out of medical school--terror, helplessness, horror, humiliation, and sexual arousal.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "You actually got AROUSED by being a slave? I thought that only happened to brainless bimbos."

After a pause, she replied. "Well, YEAH. I think most newly-caught slaves get aroused. They are suddenly aware that they can be forced to perform ANY sex act in ANY hole for ANYone, no matter how debasing the act may be or disgusting the people involved. That means that all their sexual fantasies and fears run amok inside their heads. That's how slave markets like the Big D can arouse a slave so that she'll be auctioned off for top dollar."

"Damn Sarah Hollister, anyway." I muttered.

"Yup, Sarah Hollister designed that process. Look, Lindsay, I've never talked to Sarah professionally--and if I did talk to her, I'd be bound by professional ethics not to reveal what she said. But, when I read her writings it's OBVIOUS to me that Sarah has worn a collar at some point in her life--it's the only way to explain what she knows and how she describes turning slaves into sexual servants."

I took a moment to reply, slowly. "So, you're telling me that at least part of what makes Hollister so effective is that she's actually BEEN a sex slave? How come nobody has ever called her out for that, tried to embarrass her?"

Nikki sighed, "I hear the North is a different place, but down here in slave country that are so many influential women who once wore a collar that you'd better NOT try to embarrass them--no telling but what the person you're talking to was herself a slave, either outright enslaved for crime or debt or went through Broadstone or one of the other schools that train consorts."

I didn't like where this was going, but I might as well get it out in the open. "What I hear you saying, Nikki, is that the best way for me to understand slavery is to become a slave myself."

Nikki came back, very gently. "Afraid so, girlfriend. The minimum time for enslavement in Texas is 180 days, because the slave merchants have convinced the legislature that they can't make a profit in any shorter period. Even then, most owners won't spend the money to train a new slave properly unless they're going to wear a collar for more like a year instead of six months."

She had to have heard my sharp intake of breath. I blurted out, "I'm signed up for a sabbatical that runs for 14 months, from June this year through August of next, so I can find the time, but it still seems terrifying not to mention demeaning."

Nikki: "I'm not going to lie to you. This is really scary stuff and living through enslavement may have a traumatic effect. Still, just the POSSIBILITY of being a slave has already shown you some of the stress involved, so imagine how much you'd learn if you actually indentured yourself for a year."

*****

We agreed to discuss it again in a few days, after I'd had a chance to think about her suggestion. Truth be told, I had a hard time thinking about anything ELSE. I had always regarded slaves as commodities, or at most misguided bimbos who deserved both my contempt and my pity. The thought of ME stripping slave naked and surrendering my body to be used by some uncouth slob with more money than sense was terrifying and disgusting.

I found myself re-reading both Nikki's books and Sarah's writings and realized that my favorite slave shrink was right--at some point Sarah MUST have been a slave to have learned so much about how slaves thought and acted. Well, if that arrogant bleached-blond slut could handle being a slave, so could I! In a rush, before I could lose my nerve, I called Nikki back and asked her to arrange things, to draw up a one-year indenture agreement designating me as her property. That also involved her making an appointment for me, two days after the end of the spring term, to surrender myself at an office of the Texas Agriculture Department, followed by my auction at a slave market. I would send her a check to cover her expenses in doing this, and she would hold my sale price until I regained my freedom (gulp.) I tried to suggest that she keep the money in return for her trouble, but she said that would be unethical. (I don't know how that girl ever made any money--oh, wait, she MARRIED money. Sorry; I get snippy too easily.)

She promised to keep things as close hold as possible, but reminded me that, once I did this, my name and photographs would be in the National Slave Registry. She asked my permission to tell only one person--her husband, who could help because he had contacts in the business. Realizing I needed to trust her, I agreed without asking why. Instead, she told me to get into physical shape for the experience--ramp up my exercises, take frequent slave yoga practice under a genuine former slave wrangler, and (just before I flew down) get my hair done and my entire body (especially my pubes) waxed so I would get the best possible slave grade and sale price. Things I never expected to be worrying about, but Nikki was right--the higher the grade and price, the better my slave life would be.

I stayed in a hotel room for my last night of freedom; I hate to admit it, but the prospect of being a naked slave led me to masturbate until I fell asleep. Then Nikki picked me up early the next morning. I signed a power of attorney giving her control over me, but I was secretly shaking at my vulnerability. Then it was off to the Agriculture Department office. Even though she had made an appointment for my indenture, we had to wait--Nikki had warned me that this was SOP, designed to begin the process of reducing me to sub-human level. I noticed that the secretary pointedly ignored me and talked only to Nikki while we were waiting. The whole time we waited I was terrified, wondering whether I could really commit myself to being the kind of mindless sex object I had always despised.

Finally, we got to see the appropriate official, a Mr. Shively, a middle-aged pot-bellied bureaucrat with a goatee and thinning hair. Nikki presented him with both her power of attorney and a one-year contract for slave indenture. At least, thank heavens, both documents specified no foreign travel or sale--once in, say, a Persian Gulf country, that one year limitation could be converted to a lifetime in a collar. Shively looked it over, then stared at me coldly and asked,

"You were a college professor?" (I had foolishly listed my real occupation on the application.) "Well, la-di-dah. You understand that, for the next 365 days and nights, you will be required to act as a slave under the laws of Texas?"

"Yes, Sir," I said, struggling not to hyperventilate. After a few similar questions, he had both Nikki and me sign the indenture contract. As soon as he finished, Nikki looked significantly at me, and I knew what I had to do.

I hastily stripped naked in front of this complete stranger, passing my clothing piece by piece to Nikki, who had just become my owner. Mr. Shively leaned forward in his chair, watching closely, with a smug, satisfied grin on his face. He'd doubtlessly stripped a lot of new slave girls in his office, but I got a feeling that he was the sort of man for whom this never got old.

Mistress Nikki stuffed each lost piece of my modesty into a large canvas bag. Blushing deeply, completely naked, and (surprising myself) feeling very horny and sticky down below, I knew enough to assume the position called "Present"--legs slightly apart so that everyone could see and smell my arousal with hands behind my neck, which in turn caused my breasts to jut forward. I was again surprised to notice that my nipples were rock hard, sticking out from my bosom like the fuses on the tips of bombs. And I felt like the bomb about to go off!

Nikki had warned me what to expect next; she ordered "collar" and "back hands" as she installed first a heavy leather collar and then a pair of cuffs behind my back, which again pushed my chest forward. At her instruction, I shuffled on my knees around to the other side of the desk, where Mr. Shively had already released a respectable-sized dick. My first sex act as a slave--undoubtedly the first of many, I thought. Determined to get it over with, I used my tongue to lever his prick into my open mouth, then began doing everything I could think of to complete his arousal.

It must have worked, because in about two minutes he mumbled "GOOOD slut" and grabbed the back of my head, forcing yet more of his rod into my mouth. I almost gagged when it hit the back of my throat, but fortunately I had aroused him so much that he blasted several squirts into me in what seemed like seconds. Remembering my instructions from Nikki, I managed to retain at least part of his jism on my tongue; when he released my head I sat back and stuck my tongue out to display the loathsome load. Fortunately, he didn't hesitate more than a second before nodding permission, which Nikki reinforced with a command to "swallow it, bitch." It was as salty as I had expected, but at least, I thought, the first of many demeaning experiences in a collar was behind me. My first taste of slavery.

I felt Nikki--excuse me, Mistress Nicola, now--fastening a leash to my collar, then ordering me to stand and heel. What followed was the legendary walk of shame for new slaves--being led through a cluster of office cubicles while state employees jeered at and toyed with my naked, helpless body. It was terrifying, and I was incredibly thankful that my new owner set a brisk pace, almost dragging me through the maze to reach the elevator. Once the door (finally) closed to hide me from all those sneering free people, Nikki gave me a tight hug, saying she thought I needed it. Boy, was she right! I was humiliated, horrified, helpless--and absurdly aroused.

The elevator door opened at the main floor, where Nikki towed me into the ladies' room, freed my wrists, and produced a bottle of mouthwash to cleanse the taste and smell of cum from my breath. Then she told me to use the toilet and wash my hands, after which she handed me a precious chocolate bar as a final snack. Next, she resumed her "tough guy" act, cuffing and leading me butt naked out of the restroom, down the front steps, and around the corner to her parked car--all in broad daylight in a crowded city with what seemed like hundreds of people gawking. Once at her car, she moved my cuffed hands from back to front, had me sit in her car, then draped a blanket and clipped my shoulder belt over me. The woolen blanket was scratchy but was a blessed respite from my nude vulnerability.

*****