Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 01

She drove us over to the vast parking lot around the Long Horn Slave Market, a place that kept her on retainer as a consulting psychiatrist. She had told me that she intended to have me slave graded and auctioned there, precisely because she had some control over what happened in this place. Of course, that didn't mean that I had any control! Once again, I suffered the acute subjugation and sense of helplessness of being led, nude and helpless, in public. There were only a few pedestrians in the parking lot, but my excited imagination thought every one of them was enjoying the view of my naked exposure. But what I was most acutely conscious of was the bag that contained my clothes and purse was still locked in the trunk. Correction: the bag that contained what used to be my clothes was in the trunk of my new owner's car.

As we waited in line to check in, Nikki reminded me that I had to be completely obedient while arousing myself whenever I got the chance, in order to get the highest possible slave grading score and sale price on the auction block. "No modesty for slaves," she urged me in an undertone--"jill off every time you get a chance and try to enjoy that sense of being a defenseless sex object--that's your best chance!" By now, I had sufficiently adjusted to my situation not to even blush at the idea of masturbating in public view; I meekly agreed "Yes, Mistress" and tried to think myself into a horny state. I was surprised at how easy it was to do--by the time we reached the head of the line for in-processing, I could feel large patches of sticky wetness on my thighs. Noticing that, Nikki cooed encouragingly "GOOD slut" at me.

I had to kneel, thighs spread wide to display this evidence of arousal, while Nikki talked to the huge but shapely female slave wrangler who in-processed me for grading and auction. I'd often had to deal with slave wranglers, most recently aboard the "Yo Ho Ho," but this was the first one whose very existence intimidated me--I was naked, spread wide, and cuffed on my knees while she--her nametag said "Willow"--loomed over me. Quite apart from her boots and a belt hung with disciplinary weapons (Taser, rubber strap, handcuffs, etc.), she was so large and I was so helpless that I was terrified. At least she seemed to be in a good mood, gossiping with Nikki as she in-processed me. The only time she addressed me directly was to make some comment to the effect that my nipples and damp thighs said I was really turned on by being a naked slave. (I later realized that she was right about that, although at the time I was too horrified to recognize that my horniness was not just self-induced but actually natural. This was one of the lessons I filed away for future reference--even though I had been a self-confident, independent free woman, the very fact of being a nude, collared slut, available for anyone's use, was intensely arousing. That was true even though "Willow" did not threaten me with sexual use, nor was I attracted to her, just intimidated by this beautiful, powerful, superior CLOTHED being. Clothes do make the man or woman, and lack of clothes helped make me a subservient whore. So much for my sense of superiority to slave women I had known and casually tormented!)

Mistress Nikki had apparently completed the business of turning me over to the market. She leaned over and gave me a final hug, promising to check on me as I went through my processing. I felt completely bereft, but before I could begin to cry I was interrupted by a male voice telling me to "collar." Since I was already kneeling and my wrists were restrained, all I could think to do was incline my neck, exposing it so he could remove the simple leather collar I'd received from Nikki and replacing it with the heavy, battery-powered shock device with two sharp points protruding into my skin. It felt very tight and heavy, but I found myself being helped to my feet, still cuffed and slave naked. Nikki reclaimed her collar, gave me a sad little smile, and walked away.

I quickly dropped my eyes when I realized I was looking at the face of a young guy, dressed in wrangler's jeans, boots, shirt, and equipment belt. His nametag read "Frank." He WAS kind of cute but also appeared very young, like one of my undergraduate students. Ordinarily, I would have either ignored him or, if he were suitably polite, deigned to answer a question before turning away. Now, however, he was in the power position and I was a quaking, aroused, bound slave under his control. At least he smiled very briefly, squeezed one of my breasts, and ordered me to

"Heel, slut."

With no choice in the matter, I dutifully followed in his wake while he walked me through a pair of double swinging doors to a wooden platform that was already crowded with half a dozen naked figures, both male and female. Most of them wore a purple-banded collar, which Nikki had told me indicated a free person who was temporarily under slave discipline, usually for the purpose of slave grading. I vaguely remembered that the collar Master Frank had put on ME was red, indicating a pleasure slut. Crap--why did I ever think this was a good idea? Too late now.

The wrangler who controlled me released my wrists, told me to mount the platform, and hurried me along with a sharp slap on my right buttock. My first instinct was to whirl around and demand to know how he dared touch me, but fortunately I remembered that I--like a little fool--had given EVERY man the right to touch me intimately any way and any time he wanted. How dumb could I be?? If Nikki was correct that Professor Hollister had undergone this gauntlet of helplessness, I would have to treat the professor with more respect.

Fortunately, the wrangler in charge of the group, another hulking, massively-endowed woman (this time African-American) began snapping out block commands and I started obeying automatically. Thank heavens Nikki had insisted that I practice slave yoga before coming to Texas! Now I found myself flaunting my body every which-way--thighs apart, breasts swaying, butt upthrust, twerking my hips--in the most obscene, suggestive manner, all while begging an unspecified master or mistress to "Fuck my brains out," "buy me and stuff all my holes," "fill me with your huge cock and pound the crap out of me," and so on. I had been angered and mortified when required to practice this in Massachusetts, but now as a genuine slave that subservient attitude seemed perfectly normal. Almost unconsciously, I found myself trying to entice "Master Frank" with my undulating body, and it all seemed perfectly normal that I should try to gain the sexual attention of free men. Part of me was doing this consciously, trying to follow Nikki's advice about making myself desirable for slave grading, but a large portion of my mind found this normal and even exciting. I realized with a start that slave mind had already invaded my consciousness, depriving me of any resistance to the idea that I MUST be an eager, obedient sex object.

The final command brought a row of collared cavorters, including me, to our knees, thighs apart and hands interlocked behind our necks, three feet from the edge of the battered wooden platform. Almost on command, the slave wranglers who were in charge of us stepped up onto the platform, unzipped their jeans, and presented half-erect dicks for our worship. Master Frank ordered "suck cock, slut," and I felt no hesitation about doing something that, before today, I had only done reluctantly for guys I really liked. I found myself licking and slobbering all over his (fortunately clean) shaft, frequently withdrawing and then lunging forward, trying to cram more and more of that large, warm, tasty shaft into my mouth and down into my throat. I felt his hand cupping the side of my head, gently guiding but not forcing me to abase myself before him. After what seemed like only a couple of minutes, I heard him remark, quietly, "Good job, cunt--swallow my cum," and a moment later my mouth and throat were flooded with several large squirts. I barely remembered, again, that I had to retain some of his jism for display. So my mouth was crowded for a moment until he allowed me to lean back, releasing his shaft and then sticking out my well-coated tongue for his inspection. With his permission, I hastily swallowed what should have been a disgusting goo, and then I voluntarily, gently licked every inch of his cock and ball sack clean. Only then did I realize that I had been focused totally on pleasing him rather than my usual silent litany of complaints about how arrogant men were to expect women to submit to the almighty prick like that. Yup. Slave mind had set in after only about four hours in a collar--where would I be mentally after a year? This experience was excruciating, but I had to admit that Nikki had been right--that was the ONLY way to understand slave psychology.

*****

A few minutes later, once again cuffed, I was marched over to a row of complicated cameras and computer set-ups. Master Frank guided me with his hand holding my buttock while his fingers were well up into my butt crack, goosing me and in one case casually fondling my anus. The horrifying thing was, I actually ENJOYED this intimate invasion by a college-aged kid (the kind I regularly belittled in class) who temporarily owned my body, and I automatically put an extra wiggle into the ass that was under his control (and hand).

It goes without saying that my body was still at a boil when Frank posed me in various obscene positions, all the while fingering my nipples, clit, and anus to keep me excited as he photographed me. (When I looked at the photos later, after regaining my freedom, I was horrified and yet aroused again by the sight of these pornographic displays: Full frontal in the display position, then on my widespread knees, one hand spreading my damp labia while the other cupped an erect breast and I stared at the camera with a vacant, lustful gaze that seemed to beg to be fucked, and finally a rear (in both senses) shot, my head on the floor, buttocks raised high, hands back to spread my cheeks and display my dripping pussy and winking brown butthole.) After that, Master Frank numbed the inside of my lower lip before inscribing a Slave Identification Number there, then continued to pet me like a loyal bitch while he entered my data into the national data base. I emerged from my lustful haze just long enough to recall what Nikki had said about how many people--undoubtedly including Sarah Hollister if she heard I had self-indentured--would have access to this ultimate proof of my enslavement and humiliation. The thought was humiliating and yet strangely exciting. Frank also gave me the same advice I'd received from my new owner that I should play with myself to heighten my arousal for better grading and sale.

Next, I enjoyed feeling Frank's hand goosing me as he walked me over to the tables where slaves (real and temporary) were spread-eagled on their backs for public inspection and groping. Before I knew it, I had joined them, even more exposed and helpless than I had been all morning. And THEN the first group of gawkers (anyone who had 50 cents and could prove to be over the age of 18) appeared.

It's a good thing that Frank had devoxed me, spraying a chemical down my throat that deprived me of speech. For the first few minutes on that table, my sense of outrage (which I should have checked at the door when I self-indentured) overruled my fear. Young adult males, most of them as pimply-faced and loathsome as my undergraduate students at U Mass, casually fondled and toyed with me, pinching my clit and nipples so hard that they actually hurt, all while talking casually about how much fun it would be to fuck, "choke," and "cornhole" this "little whore." Without the hovering presence of handlers such as Frank, I'm sure a few of them would have stepped between my widespread legs, pulled out their cocks, and made good on their boasts to penetrate me.

Paradoxically, the young women, most of whom barely touched me, were even more humiliating. They giggled and snapped bubblegum while disparaging me as a "skank," "slut," and "whore" who was obviously "gagging" to be used in the most humiliating manner imaginable. And when I blushed with embarrassment, they pointed THAT out, too. I could easily imagine myself being one of those women a few weeks ago, convinced that slaves were sex-crazed bimbos who were eager for whatever sexual use they suffered. Trouble was, those women were right--the combination of my exposed situation and my self-induced arousal had transformed me into a brainless, cock-obsessed "ho" who, up until they pointed it out, was captivated by the idea of having guys plunder all her openings. In the far recesses of my remaining braincells, I recorded this as the kind of lesson that Nikki thought I needed to learn. The trouble was, this was only day 1 of 300-plus days I had obligated myself to spend in a collar--too bad I couldn't stop with what I had learned after five hours and go back to Massachusetts!

Then the real slave merchants appeared, identifiable by their bored looks and constant reference to tablets containing our data. A few of them finger-fucked me or gently touched my most sensitive parts, but I knew they were assessing my arousal rather than enjoying themselves at my expense. I was amazed to think that men could become so habituated to the sight of nude women, spread-eagled and at their disposal--so habituated that (to judge by the front of their jeans) they didn't even get aroused.

My "time on the cross" (apologies for the sacrilege) came to an end; the last viewers departed and Master Frank released me from the table and goose-walked me back to another anonymous cage, which I shared with two other red-collared women who had just come off display. He sprayed the antidote down my throat, handed me a bottle of water, and reminded me to keep jilling off in preparation for the afternoon auction.

*****

Upon his return, Frank was all smiles, informing me that I had been graded as Prime Minus, which meant a higher profit for both my owner (Nikki) and the Long Horn when I was sold. The idea of being sold as a sex toy finally penetrated my mind. Frank could see that I wanted to say something but he cut me off, telling me that if I started talking I would just end up de-Voxed again, from which I might not recover for days. All my life, my mind and my voice had been my primary tools to control my life, but this time they were useless. I felt even more helpless than before but resolved to redouble my masturbation if only to distract myself from the ordeal to come.

This time, when Frank re-cuffed me and moved my Prime-rated slut body to the waiting line for the afternoon auction, he took advantage of the situation to THOROUGHLY fondle and grope me at the beginning and end of our short trip. The sensation of this young man casually invading my body was astonishing--I almost came on the spot! For the next hour, as the line of human sacrifices moved slowly towards the entrance to the auction block, I tried to keep myself as aroused as possible, aided occasionally by Frank praising me ("You're a hot little whore" and the like) and occasionally fondling me again. When the slut in front of me disappeared through the door to be sold, he even told me to rub myself off on his leg. Like the bitch in heat that I had become, I frantically humped his leg, enjoying the friction as I left a damp strip on his jeans. All the time he quietly reminded me of what I had to do and say when it was my turn to be sold.

That turn came with terrifying suddenness. Through the door, we heard a baritone voice announcing, through a booming public address system, "Going three times, SOLD to number 42, for 130 thousand dollars!" Frank pushed open the door, whispered "Make me proud, cunt," and propelled me through the door with a loud slap on my buttock.

No time to think now. I recovered my balance, dashed to the center of the of the stage, and assumed the Present position, displaying my entire body to the largely-invisible audience beyond the lights in my eyes. "Please, Masters, buy me and fill all my holes," I half-shouted, half-begged. It was a shock to realize that I really DID want to be degraded and used sexually by some faceless but (for me at least) all-powerful man. I didn't want love, respect, or friendship--just fucking!

The next five or six minutes were a blur. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the auctioneer, a well-muscled, buff African American. The irony of a white woman being sold into slavery by a free Black man struck me as infinitely amusing, but I had no time to think about it then. The auctioneer announced that I had been graded Prime Minus, with an indenture contract for one year beginning today. After that, he ordered me into various block positions in rapid fire, adding fatigue and panting to my arousal--I imagine the panting made my breasts rise and fall, but I was too busy being completely obedient and visibly horny to think about it at the time.

Once, he snapped a whip that barely grazed my bouncing bottom. I shied and squealed in response, but in retrospect I realize he had gone easy on me. Still, the mostly-unseen audience laughed at my painful dance, and between the glare of various lights I saw Nikki sitting, watching me with great attention but only giving me a thumbs-up when we locked eyes. For the first time since I mounted the platform, I felt embarrassed, knowing that (in Nikki's mind at least) I had permanently destroyed my image of the poised, confident professional woman. Then it was on to more obscene block moves, showing off every inch of my toned, nude body. I concentrated on the commands the auctioneer gave me, in between his patter of constantly-rising bids on the unlimited use of my body for 12 months. The situation, my naked submission and total subservience to these men--it all added up to a rising sense of arousal. I couldn't believe it--I was actually getting off on being sold as a sex object!

The dream-like experience of being a collared exotic dancer came to a sudden end, in almost the same words that had started my auction, "Going three times, SOLD! To number 17, for 88 thousand dollars." The sound of those words was the last impetus I needed, as I crashed into an orgasm, actually shooting fluid onto the auction platform. The paroxysm left me even more breathless and dizzy than before, barely able to keep my balance. Who would have thought that being sold as a slave would give me the greatest climax of my life? Another idea to file away; I began to understand why slave whores were so constantly horny, begging for their next ration of cock.

[If you're wondering, the girl before me was probably enslaved for life; $88,000 was an astonishingly high price to pay for only one year of my total service, and I began to worry about what I would have to do to justify the cost.]

In a daze, I came to a halt and had enough presence of mind to move towards two wranglers, one of whom I recognized as Frank, beckoning me to the edge of the stage. They lifted me down effortlessly, cuffed my hands again, and peeled down my lower lip to display my newly-installed bar code to the seated clerk who was recording the sale. Then Master Frank marched me out of the noisy, bright auction pit into a corridor that was (by comparison) silent and dimly lit.

*****

He congratulated and praised my performance as we moved down the hall, petting me like a prize bitch (which I was, in a sense) but then I realized where we were headed. I could feel and even smell the heat as we approached a door decorated with a 9-inch wide burned-in imprint of the Longhorn logo: an outline bull's head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. I had often seen slave women with brands on various parts of their rear ends, but I suddenly realized that this was about to happen to ME. The thought of my ass being fried like that was terrifying. My bare feet scrambled, trying to find enough traction to halt my forward progress towards this living hell.