Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 02

Gulp. No matter how drugged, debauched, and demeaned I had been at Pearson's Ranch or Master Paul's club, I always felt, at the back of my mind, that the people who controlled me were ultimately looking out for me as a slave. Now I was going to work for a temporary agency that was infamous for supplying slaves--usually high-end female slaves--for all manner of sexual services. He was right, of course--being pimped out by such an agency would undoubtedly improve my understanding and research about slavery, but I felt suddenly as if he were pushing me out onto a high wire without a safety net. He could see the fear in my face but promised me that he would check in periodically and look after me, a promise that gave me some slight reassurance. (I later realized that Paul was just too nice a guy to leave any woman, even one who had profited from the slave industry, to be mistreated.)

There was only one possible response: "Yes, Master." He sent me to see Mistress Cheri who would handle delivery to SlutsRUs. Once again, I was covered in a clear plastic poncho and cuffed/buckled into the passenger seat of a car while she drove me to the local office of that temp agency. Along the way, she tried to reassure me that I would be safe--SlutsRUs was a business that didn't want to incur charges by allowing a customer to "damage the merchandise." Without naming names, she even told me that Mr. Sosa had previously rented out a slave to them with good results--knowing she meant Nikki, I just replied "I know her," which discouraged further talk. Once we reached a building topped with a huge neon sign identifying the company, Cheri removed the poncho, zip-tied my hands behind me, and led me on a leash into the manager's office. The nameplate on his desk read "James Oglethorpe;" he was a fit man in late middle age with a poker face.

I knew what was expected of me, so I knelt, thighs wide apart and head bowed, while Cheri gave Master James the appropriate paperwork and they finalized my sub-lease from Paul Sosa's corporation to SlutsRUs. Cheri gave me a hug and departed, promising to see me soon but leaving me alone and frightened. Master James ordered me to stand, then cut my zip-tie so I could pose in various block slave or yoga moves while he looked me over critically, staring at my body but never touching it.

"I think you'll do fine, girlie. Here's a towel and some liquid soap--the last door on the left is the shower room, go clean yourself up." When I returned, he caged me with a blanket, pillow, some sandwiches, and a bottle of water, then left me to rest before the evening.

About 6 p.m., a friendly, slightly-overweight redhead who introduced herself as "Ginny" woke me up and led me to a crowded closet labelled "Wardrobe." (She may have been overweight and even a little ugly, but I envied her the lack of a collar on her neck.) Once at Wardrobe, she outfitted me as the worst kind of skank one could imagine--pushup, strapless bra with a plunging neckline blouse to display my breasts, a leather micro-mini with thong underwear, fishnet stockings, and a pair of battered platform shoes that were ALMOST the right size. Once I donned this scanty attire, she sat me down with a mirror and a set of garish makeup--pink eyeshadow and what Ginny called "cocksucker red" lipstick. She kept encouraging me to trowel on the makeup until I appeared as slutty as the clothing she had given me.

I soon found out the purpose of this odd outfit when I joined three other similarly-garish young women, each with a different hair color. Master Jim, a beefy guy who looked like a club bouncer, delivered the four of us downtown. I began to get the idea as the three other girls filled me in on their "work."

I'd read about evenings like this in northern cities, especially prior to passage of the 34th Amendment permitting non-hereditary slavery in the U.S. Back then, young women with no other means of support had offered their sexual use by standing on downtown street corners, sometimes just to earn money to feed their children. Both their Johns and the pimps who controlled those women robbed, abused, and mistreated them, which was the principal reason for outlawing prostitution. In the new slave United States, however, slaves could not legally refuse sexual service to free men and therefore were not technically prostituting themselves when hired for sex--all the money went to their owners anyway.

*****

There I was, a Phi Beta Kappa Ph.D. college professor who usually wore upscale suits, standing on a dark street corner dressed literally (a word I don't use lightly) as a whore while looking for unshaven, unwashed men who would pay $20 and up to use me sexually. And I had become such a horny slave that the only thing I could imagine that could be worse would be if I DIDN'T attract enough "johns" to satisfy my lust and SlutsRUs' budget.

During my classes, I had promoted slavery as a legal, taxable, safe alternative to "lot lizards, human trafficking, and the disgusting sight of hookers shaking their behinds on every street corner." The irony that I was now exactly the sort of human trash that I used to look down over my glasses at was not lost on me.

What made my humiliation both better and worse was that I ENJOYED "shaking my behind" on a street corner; it almost restored my pride to have complete strangers stop their cars and pay for my time, or at least my flesh. Some of my encounters were brief and relatively painless, such as climbing into a stranger's car, riding around the corner to a dark alley, and sucking the stranger off as he forced my face into his groin and flooded my mouth with blasts of sticky cum. I got some cock and male attention as well as a $20 bill to hand to Master Jim, while the John got off in 5 minutes--everyone happy.

Other experiences were more complicated--and scarier. The second night I spent on the corner, a convertible carrying three men stopped in front of me. They were the kind of young guys--perhaps 20 years old--that reminded me of college students taking my slave study courses--immature, unreliable, and driven by hormones. I had never had much patience, respect, or interest dealing with such people. Now, I realized yet again, they had the whip hand. They were free men with money in their pocket, and I was a slave prostitute who was expected to "entertain" them any way they wanted in return for some of that money to give to my masters--all I would get out of it besides attention from immature males would be a mouthful of cum and some slave kibble! To finish the image of young guys out for a thrill, I overheard one of them say "look at the knockers on that one--bet she reminds you of Professor Walker, huh, Bill?"

The driver, who was apparently named Bill, turned red. I picked up on the interchange and decided to play along. Leaning into the front window so that my boobs were practically in one guy's lap, I tried to use a sultry voice with an OxBridge English accent as I said: "Hmmm, Bill. Were you hot for the teacher? What does Professor Walker teach?"

One of the other guys played along, replying "Business Administration."

"Business, hmmm." I replied, trying to play on their fantasies and shifting my weight so my breasts moved side to side. "Well, pretend we're in class talking about prices on Supply and Demand curves. If your demand includes enough money, I'll supply the curves."

Long story short, we negotiated the price for all three of them to use me. Internally, I was frightened but aroused--I crawled into the middle of the back seat, after which the young man in the shotgun seat shifted to the rear, sandwiching me in as I kissed both of them and let them fondle me in a moving car. I tried to keep track of where "Bill" was taking me and was relieved to see him pull up at the local no-tell mo-tel only three minutes later. There was a tracker in my shoes, and I prayed that Master Jim knew where I had gone. When we got to the motel room, I stopped them so I could collect "Tuition" of $100 each, which I hid in a pocket of my jeans while distracting them by flashing my bare tits. After that, the three guys were so eager to paw the merchandise that the only way I could avoid getting my clothes torn was to have them sit on the bed while I did an impromptu strip-tease, all the time talking in that fake "posh" accent. I was babbling a disjointed combination of economics and innuendo, including pointing out my ASSets as I turned away and dropped my thong, then proposing a "Business Plan" that would begin with me blowing each of them before they "gave me the business" on the bed.

During the next hour I lost track of who plowed which one of my openings how many times, but it was fun--or at least, fun for the kind of "cock-obsessed bimbo slut" I had so often sneered at before I BECAME one. I recall thinking that it was a good thing I had given myself an enema and then greased that opening with mint-flavored lube--otherwise the cocks in my mouth would have been disgusting instead of just choking me.

Despite several orgasms (mine and definitely theirs), I managed to remain conscious until all three of them, having come at least twice apiece (me being the piece) collapsed. I slid out from under Bill, collected my clothing, and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. One of the other guys--John?--joined me half-way through, soaping me gently while telling me that I was sexier than ANY of their professors. I suddenly felt a little sorry for the poor guy, who was obviously struggling with learning while distracted by the kind of mature, intimidating female professor that I had been as recently as three months ago. So I spontaneously wrapped my arms around his neck to give him a long, lingering French kiss, then slid down his front to give him a bonus blowjob. At least THIS time his dick was clean--I was again amazed at the resilience of young cocks, as he rose to full erection and even fed me another yummy load.

When we finished, I dressed quietly and John volunteered to drive me back to my corner, borrowing Bill's keys. I could tell the other girls were relieved to see me re-appear alive and unharmed. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and thanked him for "the rides--both of them" before sliding out to resume my post. Even Master Bill was pleased when he heard the story and got the money I had collected.

*****

After nine days of my walking the streets, Master James heard good reports and began to give me different "assignments." Some were better that standing on a corner, such as being a lap dancer at a strip joint, while some were far worse. Let me mention a few of the most horrifying temporary assignments--and admit in advance that the humiliation only INCREASED my arousal:

First, I got hired out at an actual glory hole, where a line of females--and a surprising number of males, some of them apparently free yet for some reason wearing cages on their own equipment--spent their evenings kneeling, chained in front of holes where they had to fellate (this is no place for euphemisms--suck off, OK?) anonymous cocks thrust through those holes into the darkened room where we all waited. The lady--and she was a really kind person--who ran this darkened establishment encouraged us to get the customers off as fast as possible. Each time we swallowed ten loads from the Johns, we got a short break and a disposable toothbrush to try to clean out the disgusting taste. I will say that giving 40 or more blowjobs every evening for a week gave me ample opportunity, not to mention motivation, to perfect my technique so I could get to the next breaktime faster. Who would have thought I would be proud of becoming a champion cocksucker? One night, with my mouth full of swelling dick, I recalled breaking up with one boyfriend in graduate school when he complained about my lack of oral skills--I couldn't help wishing that I could encounter that boyfriend someday (after I had regained my freedom, of course) and show him how much I had improved! Sigh--my branded ass and my enlarged boobs weren't the only changes I'd experienced.

At the time, I thought that working in a glory hole was about as demeaning and disgusting as I could get, but SlutsRUs found even greater humiliations for me. Since I'm on the subject of cock-sucking, I should mention my absolute LEAST favorite place to work--the "Spit-Roast Bar." As the name might suggest, this fine establishment capitalized on the widespread male fantasy of being able to sodomize a helpless woman at both ends. In practice, this meant that I would be bound on knees and elbows to a typical slave rack, held about three feet above and parallel to the floor with all three of my openings available. To make sure of the latter, the manager tied a ring-gag into my mouth to hold it open. Once I was in this humbling, defenseless position, the management of the "Spit-Roast Bar" would cover most of my body with a lightweight, plywood table surface that in turn would be covered by a tablecloth and then rolled out into the dining area. Both the meal and the slaves were served "family style" with two guys--or sometimes a guy whose adventurous date wore a strap-on, casually sodomizing and fucking the immobilized slave while eating--and sometimes trading seats or holes as they went along! For an hour, I was just a mobile cum-dumpster, and it wasn't unusual for me to get a load in all three holes, not to mention having to swallow somewhat unclean dicks and strap-ons! Once the meal was over and the bill paid, I would be rolled back out to the kitchen and allowed to stretch, gargle, and clean up before being strapped back down for the "next sitting."

At first, I found this treatment so horrible that I had to struggle not to barf all over the customer's crotch. Gradually, however, the passivity of slave mind set in--if free people wanted to use my unworthy body that way, they had the power and I didn't, so I might as well relax and enjoy being an (almost) human fleshlight. I imagined Professor Williams of U. Mass, dressed in a sequined evening gown, having dinner while casually pumping vibrators in and out of Slut Lindsay's cunt and ass. I even got off (mentally, at least) every time I felt one of the dining guests withdraw from my "juicy little twat" and ram himself into the winking opening just above it. This, after all, was what my extensive Pearson education was intended to prepare me for; an anonymous piece of slave ass/cunt/mouth who serviced free people joyfully without their ever perceiving me as a human being.

Talk about being a cheap date--the customers didn't even have to buy me dinner or wait while the waiter delivered it, since they fed it to me directly! To be honest, despite (or perhaps because of) the ignominy of being used like an anonymous piece of slave meat, I still craved semen, another complete reversal of my pre-slave attitudes.

*****

Another time, the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch needed more pony girls--or more properly pony sluts--for some large social function. The ranch manager, an older but fit woman named Mary Jacobs, had apparently gone through the entire SlutsRUs on-line catalog for the State of Texas and selected me, along with one male and four other female slaves, because we had the long legs, firm boobs, and toned muscles appropriate for ponies. When Master James called the six of us into his office, he tried to pretend this was just another sex gig, but I heard the awe in his voice when he said that Ms. Jacobs had hired all of us for three weeks straight, to ensure we were properly trained to perform as ponies. She had also paid a premium so that, for the one male and two females who were not already branded, she would be able to fry their butts with the Spinning Wheel brand--for once, that made me thankful that I was already "badged!" As it was, we all had to get nipple rings installed before the due date; with the possible exception of a nose ring, having my nipples pierced was the ultimate dehumanizing experience.

The up-side of this three-week gig was that I didn't have to risk my body walking the streets every night, but the downside was a lot of uncomfortable time sitting around. First, we all had to be shipped to the ranch, and Ms. Jacobs had specified that each of us make the trip with a 2-inch circumference plug in our butts, making the cramped travel in a poodle cage even more uncomfortable than usual. At the time, I thought the buttplug requirement was just a customer being sadistic, but when we arrived, I realized that she had actually done us a favor, stretching our asses in preparation for the pony tail butt plugs we would wear throughout our stay. I had found the doggie tail plugs at Pearson's to be irritating, but these huge intruders were far more... well... intrusive! You know what I mean, damnit. (I had already noticed that my vocabulary and much of my esoteric education was receding into the distance as I spent most of my time focused on pleasing men and getting them to shaft me. No more reading or contemplation. For a woman who, until now, had made her living using her mind, this was worrying. Slave Mind was one thing but becoming a brainless bimbo seemed potentially worse than any indignity I had suffered up until then.)

More time passed as we were individually dressed up as ponies, which included a tight leather bustier, tall boots with horseshoes on the bottom, and an elaborate headdress outfit that including not only reins to a large gag-bit in the mouth but also a second pair of reins connected to--you guessed it--the new nipple rings. Believe me, when a driver pulled back on those two sets of reins, it felt as if he were about to tear off my nipples, so I tried to stop on a dime! Most of the drivers also liberally used the whip. They used it lightly, but damn, did it hurt, and spurred me on to be a better pony girl, prancing proudly.

Plus, of course, Ms. Jacobs decreed that each of us would get a shot of horny juice every third day we were on the farm. With my mouth and nipples tightly controlled, I was in no position to tell her that I'd already had plenty of whore-moans at Pearson's. The injections, on top of my natural slave heat and exhaustion, really got to me. My mind went into passive la-la land as I dutifully pulled and halted when ordered to do so without thinking of much else except where I could get my next ration of cock and jism.

Fortunately, the ranch hand slave wranglers who taught us the rudiments of being ponies were horny young adults, mostly males but with a scattering of females so that we could demonstrate ALL our oral skills when necessary. Like Pearson's, the Spinning Wheel used sex--or rather deprivation of sex--to reward and motivate our behavior. I had once written a paper on the value of orgasm denial as a training technique, but now I realized how insidious that technique could be.

When I didn't get enough cock [I defined "enough" as something pounding every hole at least twice a day] during the first few days, my consciousness receded even farther. Then my dutiful if brainless obedience earned me a reward--being strapped onto a mounting stand and pile-driven into unconsciousness by one of the well-hung stallions of the place. Well, why didn't you say so? I thought to myself. Once I realized the reward system, I became the very model of a sex-crazed pony girl, throwing myself into whatever I was told to do--which earned me two more sessions with a stallion!

I finally figured out what was going on after we'd been training for two weeks--nobody bothered to tell the sluts anything. The Spinning Wheel was hosting some kind of pony races, which meant that most of the Ranch's trained ponies were preparing for those races and couldn't provide transportation for the visitors. I and my fellow rental sluts were taught just enough that we could be "Picnic Ponies"--that is, not championship racers but able to pull visitors to the racetracks or to various scenic sites--ponds, groves, etc.--where those visitors could have a picnic and then use the ponies for sexual entertainment. Now THAT sounded like the kind of job for me--for the four days of the races, I eagerly towed visitors as fast as possible wherever they wanted to go, and in return they tied me spread-eagled across the back of the racing sulky so said visitors could plow me fore and aft for our mutual enjoyment. In those four days, I estimated that I got as many inches of cock and ounces of cum as I usually ingested in ten days anywhere else except the Glory Hole!