Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 01

Master Frank held me firmly, his face a mixture of impatience, lust, and compassion. "Come on, cunt, you've got to do this. I'm sure it's scary but think about how you'll look afterwards. Having a major slave house's brand, denoting you as Prime pussy, is a mark of quality you'll wear proudly for the rest of your life. Even after you're freed, everyone who sees that brand when you wear a bathing suit will know that you're a first class sex object who sold for a metric ton of money. It's gonna hurt now, I won't lie, but your new owner wants you to wear it, and this is your first chance to please your new Master. Wearing that brand will be a source of pride for the rest of your life. Think of it as being an Ivy League, Phi Beta Kappa slave, proof that you're one of the finest pieces of ass in America. Heaven knows I'D love to possess a prime-rated pussy like you." He held me for a moment as I gradually ceased to struggle, feeling his erection as proof of his words. He was right. I dimly recalled seeing the Big D brand burned into the shapely backside of Sarah Hollister's slut Flame, who had certainly been popular with the customers. This would be the ultimate proof that I not only understood slave psychology, I was also a match for the finish slave meat in America. Come on, girl, I told myself--you've decided to be a slave and gone through the agony of grading and sale, so why not be the best?

"Yes, Master," I meekly replied, relaxing in his arms. He promptly turned me around and walked me into the branding room.

The heat and smell struck me like a wall of sensations, but I grimly took control of myself. Frank helped the smith strap me down, immobilized, to an elaborate framework that held every limb, and especially my buttocks, immobile. I almost lost it when the smith, grinning like a fool, held a glowing Longhorn-shaped brand within a few inches of my face to show me what was about to happen.

He remarked to my handler, "I'm short handed today--how'd you like to hold the branding iron handle to her twat so she can wank herself before I do the deed?"

Behind me, I hear Frank laugh. "I'd much rather fuck her, if you want to know the truth--she's the finest piece of pussy I've handled in several months, even though she's older than most freshly-caught sluts." That crude compliment almost made me miss his concluding sentence, "But, yeah. She's been a perfect little bitch, very cooperative and sweet, and if I can help her get off one more time it should make the branding easier for her to handle." Amazing--who would have thought a slave wrangler actually cared about how the slaves felt?

A rough wooden handle rubbing against my damp labia and clitoris produced a friction that soon re-ignited my arousal. Or maybe it was just the warm glow I felt from Frank's comments, with slave mind motivating me to please him by climaxing again, less than ten minutes after coming at the moment of slave auction. I was soon conscious, but in a dreamlike state, focused on getting off for Master Frank. "See that?" the smith commented on my squirming. "A real pleasure slut like this one can't help humping the branding iron--it's a sign of their true nature!"

My orgasm came quickly and full blown, but less than 10 seconds after I clenched and released, I felt the firm impress of an enormously-hot metal object diagonally across my ass cheek. My mind, caught between pleasure and pain, screamed and cried at the same moment; my new owner later showed me the photograph of me at that moment, with erect, pencil-eraser nipples and a bizarre mixture of emotions on my face. At least the orgasm had gotten me over the trauma of that horrible burning, although a minute or so later I felt a new, more focused point of pain. (I later concluded, looking at my lacerated backside in a mirror, that this second pain came when the smith added a "P" for prime immediately above the bovine skull of the main brand.)

I was weeping and moaning, but someone--perhaps the smith, perhaps Frank--sprayed the charred area with a painkiller that partially deadened the pain. A minute later, I felt another cooling spray that was apparently liquid bandage to cover the affected area. The pain receded to a dull throbbing, while Frank offered me two ibuprofen and a swallow of water. A stray thought came to me: other students had frequently described me as a "smart ass" while I was in school, but this was the first time (other than rare spankings) when my ass had literally smarted as a result of my accursed pursuit of knowledge.

Non-medical people like me tend to forget that the words "trauma" and "traumatic" refer to tissue damage. Somewhere in an undergraduate psychology course, I had read about the concept of "traumatic learning"--that is, if you suffer tissue damage, it tends to hardwire your mind to avoid ever repeating that situation or mistake again. Lord knows that I would do ANYTHING to avoid another enslavement and especially another branding. As it was, both my mind and my butt were permanently marked--scarred--by the experience of slavery. Even if I were released at that moment and teleported back to my classroom, I would never be the same.

*****

Frank gently walked me out of that den of horrors to an empty cage, where he released my wrists and gave me another bottle of water. "The sign on this cage tells everyone you've just been branded, so they shouldn't expect you to kneel to them just now, although when you get shipped out of here, you'll have to kneel in a poodle cage. For now, just bow very deeply when a free person comes into the cage, got it?"

"Yes, Master. Thank you for taking care of me."

He looked momentarily surprised at the unnecessary words, but then responded, "You're welcome, cunt. Good luck with the rest of your service; whoever bought you is a lucky man." And he left abruptly, pausing just long enough to padlock the cage door and then walking down an echoing corridor and out of my life.

I don't know how long I stood there alone, ass still hurting. I do recall that I finished the water bottle and even painfully spread myself over a piss grate to relieve myself. I was just wondering if I had been forgotten when I heard two people walking rapidly towards me--and one of them had shoes that sounded much less substantial than the heavy boots used by wranglers. A moment later, another wrangler appeared with a man wearing a visitor's tag; the wrangler unlocked the cage and left the visitor looking me, sizing me up as I bowed. I was acutely aware that I was not only bedraggled and limping but stark naked in front of someone who did NOT work for the slave market, but for some reason I trusted him.

The visitor was about 45 years old with slightly greying dark hair. He was well over 6 feet tall, wearing a suit with a smile on his face. A handsome face.

"In case you haven't figured it out, I'm your new owner." He began, rather abruptly. "How's the brand feeling?"

"My ass is still on fire, Master."

"Sorry about that, but I decided you needed a brand to get the full slave experience. Besides, being badged makes you more marketable. I know your number is 6627," he continued, "but tell me your name."

"It's Lindsay, Master."

"That's what I thought." Came the surprising answer. "Truth time, Lindsay--my name is Paul Sousa, and you may recall that my wife, Nikki, asked your permission to tell me why you were self-indenturing. Am I correct that you did this to understand slave psychology, just like Nikki did a few years ago?"

Whoa, I thought--where is this going? I knew that I was expected to say something even though I had no idea what, so I settled for "Yes, Master."

"Just because I'm married to Nikki doesn't mean I'll go easy on you," he cautioned me. "Her parents asked me to rescue an innocent young woman who had foolishly self-indentured, but YOU know, or should have known, exactly what would happen to you because you teach slavery, right?"

Frowning, he continued, "You even consult with slavers advising them on ways to maximize their profit on human suffering." As he talked, Master Paul gently and then more firmly hefted and fondled my breasts, flicking my nipples. I SHOULD have been outraged by this familiarity, but I recognized that my boobs and every inch of me now BELONGED to him, absolutely. Still, his next comment shocked me.

"These tits will look really good with some whip marks on them; same for your ass. Your breasts have nice big nipples; my clients will enjoy using clamps, vises, stretchers, electric shock clamps, weighted clamps, forceps, and double bar pinchers on them." As if he were promising a treat instead of torture, my nipples stood up even farther while he continued talking, half to me and half to himself. "I run a high-end BDSM Club in Fort Worth, and you will probably spend parts of the next year working for me there as a submissive. I take the safety of my submissives seriously, so even though working for me in my club may be painful and humiliating you'll actually be safer there in some respects than most pleasure sluts are." Oh. I nodded, still terrified at what he had threatened, as he continued. "But that's in the future--your butt needs to heal, and besides you need some training before you get put to work. So, I'm sending you for a quick four-week course at the Pearson Pussy Ranch. I hear you're from the North--do you know what Pearson does?"

I'd heard of Pearson's, but "slave stupid" had taken over my brain, so I mumbled,"No, Master."

"Pearson trains pleasure sluts to entertain both genders using all of their orifices and assets. The ranch will have to go easy on your ass for the first two weeks or so while you heel, but they're used to that and will ensure you get every inch [he smirked] of training you need. After that, you'll get shipped to my house where I'll give you a few days with a laptop so you can record your first conclusions about slavery. From then on, we'll play it by ear. At some point you'll be working at my club, but at other times I'm going to lend you out so you can experience different forms of sexual slavery. As time permits, and provided you cooperate, you'll get additional breaks at our house to make notes, but this isn't a vacation. Questions?"

It sounded tough, but just what I needed for my "sabbatical research." Besides, I was his property, with no say in that matter. "No questions, Master; thank you for explaining things to me, and for spending so much money on me; I hope I can repay you somehow."

"My wife thinks the world of you, which is the main reason I bought you. Still, this is NOT a free ride, so be prepared to work hard and give your body to every customer who rents you. I don't like involuntary slavery, but you knew when you indentured yourself that you were selling your body to anyone who could afford to rent it for his pleasure. Are we clear?"

That I understood, even if it made me cringe mentally. "Yes, Master."

He banged on the cage door, which brought back the same wrangler to release him. As Mr. Sousa's footsteps faded in the distance, this unidentified wrangler cuffed me and guided me out of the cage; at least he was grabbing my undamaged ass cheek!

We walked--or perhaps I should say he frog-marched me--over to a large area of the loading dock, littered with small animal cages and marked with a hanging sign as "Shipping." There, my unidentified wrangler turned me over to an older guy who could have been a body double for Mr. Shively at the Department of Agriculture--middle-aged, balding, paunchy, etc. The free me of yesterday would have dismissed him as insignificant and repulsive, but the newly-enslaved and butt-burned me recognized him as a master who could make my miserable existence even worse. I knelt down promptly, although I tried to keep my thighs almost vertical so that my abused rear end didn't rest on my heels. The shipping manager--his nametag read "Patrick"--knew immediately why I had taken up such an odd position. He gave me an evil leer as my previous custodian disappeared down another corridor, no doubt having already forgotten me.

So there I knelt, slave naked and in considerable pain, waiting for whatever ignominy Master Patrick wanted to inflict on this once (and I hoped future) Associate Professor of Slave Science. I was not at all surprised--and tried not to grimace--when Master Patrick unzipped his jeans, fished out a (fortunately clean) set of "wedding tackle," sat down on a swivel chair in front of me, and unemotionally directed me to "Suck my dick, slave." I didn't even pause to count how many dicks I had already swallowed that day--just threw myself into my work, frantically licking and sucking that warm, hard, penis as if it were the greatest lollypop I had ever tasted. Part of my motivation was self-defense; the last thing I wanted to do was anger a free man, however repulsive he might be, who for the moment had control over my fate as a slave. But, I realized later, part of my reaction was the well-drilled submission of a pleasure slut. Not only was I obligated to obey his command, but I was still basking in the afterglow of hours of mental and physical manipulation to turn me into the kind of brainless, cock-hungry collared bitch who gets off humping a branding iron, the slave whore that (up until today) I had always despised. If the Master wanted a blow-job, then I would give him the best one of which I was capable.

The servicing was not entirely one sided, although there was no doubt that Patrick was in complete control. He took the time to stroke my hair, praise my performance, and even flick my nipples, all of which reinforced my desire to pleasure him. When I showed him his cum on my tongue, he graciously allowed me to swallow it. I found myself debating which had tasted better--his warm, smooth, hard shaft or the white stuff that came out of it. I suddenly realized how far I had fallen into subjugation--up until today I had always hated having to suck guys off, spitting out their disgusting cum, and now, suddenly I ENJOYED it? I even found myself longing for this greasy twerp to pound my slave cunt and asshole. WTF? That realization brought me up short, but I wasn't completely able to escape my submissive mindset.

Once I had finished licking his dick clean, enjoying every morsel of semen I had missed when he blasted into me (damn! There I go again!), he gagged me firmly with a fabric band between my teeth and tied behind my head, then exchanged my heavy shock collar for a simple leather shipping band. Next, he encouraged me to shuffle backwards into an open poodle cage, the standard means of rendering slaves helpless while shipping them from one place to another like the horny bitch animals we had become. Once I was inside, he used zip-ties to secure my ankles to the rear corners of the cage and attach the chain of my cuffs to the back side of the enclosure. Before he did that, he gently reached around me (casually fondling my clit, labia, nipples, and boobs as he did so) to insert a soft cushion between my heels and my sore tush. I was so turned on by his sensual teasing that I found myself thinking,

"Geez--all it took was a blow-job to get this nice cushion to protect my ass? I wonder what he'd give me in return for bending me over the cage and fucking the crap out of me?" Once again, I brought myself up short with the realization of how effectively the slavery system had controlled my thoughts. I was just as horny as the skankiest slave ho I had ever belittled and jeered at. Besides, if he wanted to fuck me, he could fuck me--my body was available to every free man who had control over me; it wasn't a bargaining tool for better treatment, just a convenient set of moist openings.

While these thoughts ran through my head, I was only half aware that he was locking me into the cage with a cheap padlock, adding shipping instructions to the outside, and then, with a bar-code reader "beeping", recorded my departure from the Long Horn Slave Market. Which didn't prevent him from reaching through the mesh to pat my head and diddle my nipples, causing my pussy to throb with need, all while praising me as a "Good little bitch." I still blush when I recall how much I enjoyed this condescending attention to me, the newest slave slut destined for training and sexual exploitation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two other naked girls, similarly caged and restrained on their knees while the all-powerful free man, Master Patrick, a man who could NEVER dream of even touching such women if they were clothed and free, controlled and toyed with us. I realized that I, too, must look like that, just another piece of slave meat being shipped somewhere to serve my betters.

After a remarkably short wait, a panel van backed up to the loading dock with the usual series of beep-beep-beeps. Patrick used a forklift to deposit all three of our cages inside that van, and I remember thinking again how skillful and powerful he was, a free man disposing of all three of us overpriced pussies. Then the doors slammed shut, plunging us into darkness. Completely defenseless and restrained, we were lost in our own thoughts--probably all three dreaming of a powerful man fucking our brains out! In a few minutes, the van picked up speed, roaring down an unseen highway to take us to the Pearson Pussy Ranch where, presumably, we would be well trained. Not to mention well used; THAT thought consumed my interest.

(To be continued)