Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 03

That evening she was full of her usual B.S., boastful attitude as she tried to impress a new investor. In the process, Mistress Sarah lashed me several times and then shoved the thongs of a short whip deep into my lubricated twat, remarking "See how this horny little bitch loves the whip? The great thing about a rented slut like this is you can whip her lazy ass and not worry about the marks, because you know she's not yours, and you don't have to wait for her to heal. You just move on to the next rump."

Then she giggled in a tone I found evil. "Besides, it's fun to beat a slave's butt. The power is such a rush. She likes it too, see?" The fear of discovery combined with the sense of being a toy on display intensified my arousal, so I moaned on cue. When I felt Sarah withdraw the whip from my cunt, I knew without even looking that the lashes were now soaked in my juices. A moment later, the professor brought the whip down HARD across my exposed butt.

I had always heard that wet leather had a bigger sting than dry--that night I confirmed the rumor. The pain was intense, but even worse was the fear of discovery. Sarah had just repeated almost word for word what I had said when I whipped that skank Flame on the spring cruise. Surely that meant that Flame had recounted the incident and that the professor recognized me! But I couldn't do anything. A moment later, I felt her fingers manipulating my erect clit and then releasing an alligator clamp on it--the pain was intense, but at least it gave me an opportunity to get off, and I barely held my position rather than faint. A few moments later she jerked the clamp off, got up and walked away, giving me a final slap on the butt.

*****

Silly me. I thought that I was safe--surely, if Sarah had recognized me, that was the perfect moment to "out" me and humiliate me publicly, making sure that every slave merchant on the ship knew that Slut 6627 was really Lindsay Williams, a wannabee slave studies professor at an inferior state school who enjoyed wearing a collar so much that she had pimped herself out for this cruise.

Three days later, when the cruise was approaching its end, Sarah--I mean, Mistress Sarah--had a slave wrangler bring me to her cabin with my wrists cuffed behind my back as usual. I immediately knelt and bowed, still trying to hide my face. To be honest, I felt bedraggled after days and nights of salt water and de-lousing dunkings, whips and clamps on all my most sensitive areas, having my brains pounded out and then immediately being sent to fetch something. I knew my hair was a mess, and in general, as I had heard people say in Texas, I had been "rode hard and put up wet." On the rare occasions when I caught sight of my reflection, I didn't recognize myself.

Without any hint of modesty, the professor shucked off her elegant pants and panties, pulled up the desk chair in front of me, sat down with her legs apart, and ordered "bring me." I dutifully set to work, trying to use all the oral skills I had learned at Pearson and elsewhere in Texas. I even began to get a response from her in the form of a gentle moan and a soft "that's a good pussy-licker; right there, bitch."

Suddenly, my mistress-of-the-moment and long-time rival asked me, quite calmly and deliberately, "So, how do you like being a pleasure slave, Lindsay?" I tried not to react, but licked a few times before saying, very politely, "Excuse me, Mistress?"

"Oh, come on, slut. I noticed you the first day on the cruise, so I looked up your Slave Identification Number in the National Data Base. I will assume you're smart enough to know that the data base includes a digital copy of the power of attorney and self-indenture papers, both with your name on them. Not to mention your slave pink photos that show every inch of you in dripping, horny color. I checked the UMass website, and you're on a "sabbatical" [her fingers made hooks in the air] this year. You've about half-way through a year-long enslavement, right?"

No sense arguing; I was caught. "Yes, Mistress." Now what, I wondered?

"To be honest, I'm impressed. I didn't think you had the guts to put your body where your mouth is and actually enslave yourself. I'm not in the habit of repeating myself to sluts, but in this case I'll make an exception, 'How do you like being a pleasure slave?'"

"I dislike it, Mistress, but I'm learning a lot about slavery, which is why I did it."

She considered that for a moment. "Well, that's half an answer. You always had an exaggerated idea of your own worth, so I'm sure you don't enjoy being spanked and cuffed. I almost believe that you did this to understand slavery, which is to your credit. On the other hand, I've seen you have at least half a dozen climaxes just in my presence, so I imagine you're having a lot of slutty fun on this cruise, aren't you?"

Lying can get a slave girl whipped. Besides, I had to cooperate with her if I had any chance of surviving this encounter. "Yes, Mistress--it's fun to just let go and enjoy myself." She didn't reply, but instead got a far-away look in her eyes and a little smile as if she were remembering something.

I don't know how I got the courage, but that look made me ask, "Mistress, may I ask a question?"

"You may ask, Lindsay, but remember that slaves have questions and only masters have answers."

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I told myself. "Mistress, you know so much about slavery. So, with all respect . . . have you ever been a slave?"

Sarah smirked. "What I hear you asking, slut, is whether I've ever been dumb enough to do what you have done, and deliberately enslave myself?"

Ooops. "I meant no disrespect, Mistress." I mumbled, then resumed tonguing her, which seemed to conclude our "discussion." Only later did I realize that she hadn't denied being a slave, simply avoided the question.

*****

The endless week of sex, seawater, and subjugation finally came to an end as the Yo Ho Ho docked in Boston. I was relieved to have survived, even though the threat of Sarah identifying me as a slave still hung in the air. I was again kneeling cuffed on the deck, wondering how soon my fellow Texas sluts and I could get back to the airport, when Sarah, on her way off the ship, paused to nudge my bare shoulder with her elegant high heel. Not knowing what to do, I raised my head slightly but focused on her midriff, only seeing her face out of the corner of an eye--slaves are not to look free people in the eye unless, of course, they're pleasuring those free people.

"I thought you should know that I've decided to help you with your research, 6627." The fact that she didn't call my Lindsay in public was encouraging, but I dreaded whatever "help" she had decided to give. "So, I've contacted your owner and arranged to extend your time in Massachusetts a little." Crap! I thought--that can't be good. "For the next three weeks, you'll be housed at the Harvard Slave Kennels. If you have any questions when you get there, just ask Steve Wilson, a slave I control there. You can't miss him--he's the studious-looking fellow wearing nothing but a collar and a chastity belt. You'll be fine, slut."

The first step was for each of us to get ANOTHER brand--fortunately a small one, but it still hurt like a mother when they stamped my RIGHT buttock with an anchor to denote my cruise on the whore ship. After that I watched, wistfully, as a van trundled off with the other five women I had arrived with, while I got shipped, along with a large number of other slaves, to the Harvard Slave Kennels. I had once taken a tour of the place--because it met federal standards for slave restraint, a large number of schools in the area used the Harvard kennels to house their slaves, both students who had been repossessed for debt and the slave servants of students who hailed from the South.

I found Steve, and he told me how the place worked. He had a sad story about being threatened into enslavement in Texas; he was allowed to finish his college education but outside of class and studying he had to stay in the kennels, where his dick was only unlocked for one hour a week. Otherwise, only Professor Hollister and an ex-girlfriend were allowed to check him out of the building or authorize additional sex time. Given the overwhelming horniness that had blossomed inside me over the past six months, I could really sympathize with him.

The part that really worried me, as Steve confirmed, was that Harvard financed the operation of the Kennels by running a slave brothel. For $50, none of which went to the slaves or their owners, anyone could have an hour in a bedroom with any of the slaves on residence. (OK, the students could be excused from sex up to four nights a week for studying purposes, but that didn't apply to me.) The sex was no problem--in fact, if Steve were any indication, there wasn't enough cock available WITHIN the kennels to keep me entertained, let alone any of the other sluts.

The first day I was there, the staff took a color photograph of me in the "Present" position: full frontal nudity with my fingers interlocked behind my neck so that my arms pulled up my boobs, legs spread apart to expose my shaved cunt. That evening, Steve used one of the public access computers to show me how I was listed by the kennels: The photo was humiliating, but at least it identified me as "Slut 6627, graded Prime Minus." My name, thank god, was not there, and Steve tried to reassure me that most people shopping for a slave whore would focus on my double Ds rather than my face.

He turned out to be right. Beginning the next evening, a steady stream of customers, mostly pimply-faced young adults (one had to prove age 18 or older to enter) rented me and a bedroom for an hour or two. It was disgusting to have to smile and accommodate these jerks, praising their (allegedly) big cocks while they mauled and gang-banged me.

For example: Three Caucasian guys, each about aged 20, rented me for an hour--let's call them Larry, Curly, and Moe. They were casually dressed and closely resembled any of the undergraduate louts I usually taught at U Mass, but at least they had clothes, while all I was wearing was a leather collar. When the wrangler released my wrists and pushed me into the bedroom, Larry immediately latched onto my boobs and French-kissed me, but the other guys, who had been stripping rapidly, told him not to waste time. Turns out they a very clear plan, which was to make me airtight--I had never expected to be thankful that I'd had to experience that several times in order to "graduate" from Pearsons! Curly, a six-foot something football type with a nicely-sized cock, led me over to the bed, lay on his back, and ordered me to straddle him and "swallow that with your cunt, sweetheart." I couldn't help smiling and even groaning a little bit--it was fun to get completely stuffed down there, and besides he was teasing my nipples as I sank down onto him. Then he pulled me forward into an embrace and a nice kiss with lots of tongue. While making out, I caught sight of Moe's dick as he climbed on the bed behind me; I was relieved to see that it was relatively small, by which I mean about six inches long. Small was important because he was obviously intent on ramming it up my ass! At least he was a gentleman, in that he shoved two fingers coated with lube up my anus and played around for a minute. Then came the moment of truth; I asked the "Master" who had already pronged me to hold still for a moment while I struggled to accommodate Master Moe's cock as he slowly worked it into my rectum.

Once I adjusted, I couldn't help giving out a happy "humm," which Moe immediately pointed out as proof that I was "a natural-born slut who can't get enough dick in her." I blush to admit it now, but the guy was correct. Almost before he finished speaking, Larry, who had finally undressed, straddled Curly's head and presented me with a full sized boner that I happily tongued and swallowed. I don't know what Curly thought about having those balls dangling in his face, but I certainly enjoyed getting another jism injection. My arousal at getting those three healthy young pricks inside me at the same time was increased by my silent sense of humiliation, being casually used and ravaged by three of the same type of hormonal illiterates that I often had to waste my time trying to teach at U. Mass. But then I realized that I was now playing the role of an hormonal illiterate slut myself, so perhaps we were suited to each other. For me, at least, the sexual thrill of submitting contains a large component of having to bend to the will of humans who were normally inferior to me. Anyway, all three of those guys immensely enjoyed using me, and actually rented me again on the following Friday--only this time I had to accommodate Curly's much larger member up my butt! What was even worse was that I enjoyed being reamed like that while overwhelmed by the sensation of getting pounded in my other two openings as well.

*****

The best I can say is that all that young dick helped satisfy my submissive addiction to cock and cum. Still, I preferred being violated by gross young adults to being rented out to members of the faculty, most of whom claimed to be above such urges. About a week after I got there, I had to service Lawrence Canning, a professor at Harvard Business School whom I had met several times in academic conferences. He had always given the appearance of a kindly, older guy who was respectful of women and would never dream of even looking at my chest--who knew he was such a dominant, horny old goat? For a guy in his fifties, his Viagra-fueled stamina was remarkable--if it were not for my terror at being identified, I might have totally enjoyed him stuffing his dick into all three openings. (I begged him to ream me doggy-style because that way I could turn my face away from him. All right, to be honest, it was fun to be butt-fucked by the old fart, but you know what I mean.)

Screwing a Harvard professor had been kind of fun, but the very next night my luck ran out, when Alistair Buchanan, Professor of Philosophy and chair of the frakin' tenure committee at U Mass Amherst, rented my ass! I was dumbfounded when I first entered the bedroom and saw who it was.

"So it WAS you, Lindsay!" He exclaimed in a jovial way as I knelt in front of him, blushing furiously and feeling sick to my stomach. "I'm in Boston for a conference and was perusing the Harvard brothel web site to pick out an evening's entertainment. Imagine my surprise when I saw a pretty young brunette who looked remarkably like Lindsay Williams, only this slut had tits that were far larger than I remember Professor Williams possessing." So saying, he reached out to fondle my breasts--the nipples were already erect at the prospect of another dicking, but I became painfully aroused to have such a powerful colleague toying with my helpless body.

"This poses an interesting ethical dilemma." Alistair murmured. "I've rented a beautiful colleague for the evening, but if I have intercourse with her, it might be construed as accepting a bribe the next time you applied for tenure."

I tried desperately to escape this situation in a way that would reduce the likelihood of my being exposed professionally (I was already exposed physically.) "But, Master, don't you recall advising me that I needed more understanding of slave psychology? Clearly, you're so thorough that you've decided to check up on how I'm doing about learning to think like a slave!"

His brow cleared. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that? I'm glad to see you're working so diligently to master your subject. Can I help you with some in-depth research?" Alistair asked, leering at me.

"Judging by that bulge in your trousers, the depth must be at least nine inches," I replied, winking at him.

"You flatter me, professor, but let's test it out, shall we?" he responded. In seconds I was happily hoovering his cock while smiling around it and looking adoring up at his face. If his dick wasn't nine inches, it was certainly more than the usual five or six. In fact, he managed to check the depth in all three of my openings, leaving deposits in my mouth and butt in case I was low on fluids. When we finished, he agreed that I had indeed learned a great deal about the life of a slave!

Another memorable pair of users/abusers were the doctors Charles and Emily Harrison, married economics professors whom I had also met professionally; I had even collaborated on a paper with Charles. The two were roughly my age (late 20s or early 30s) and had always seemed like the model of political correctness--Emily had politely but firmly disapproved of my involvement in slave studies, professing to be disgusted with the slavery system that deprived human beings of their rights and objectified and exploited women.

When I realized who had rented my body I was again very concerned that they would learn my identity, but they were so fixated on dominating a helpless female that I don't think it ever occurred to them to regard me as human, let alone someone they might have known previously. Indeed, the way they used me was completely at odds with their professed beliefs, not to mention that I immediately saw that Emily had a slave quirt in her hand while a large strap-on, sheathed in a condom, was already buckled around her waist. With my hands still cuffed behind my back, Charles grabbed my right tit and practically threw me face down and crosswise onto the bed, while his wife announced, ominously,

"You've been a bad slut, 6627, haven't you?"

With my face temporarily hidden on the bed, I recognized this treatment as a prelude to a BDSM session, and answered accordingly, trying to change my voice and be as meek as possible, "Yes, Mistress, I'm a horrible, needy cunt who needs to be punished."

I felt sharp but not too serious swats on first my left and then my right buttocks. "That's right, you're a brainless little bimbo who is so promiscuous that she disgraces real women." (Even when acting out a BDSM scene, she STILL sounded like a feminist academic!)

I didn't want to be whipped, of course, but I wanted even less for them to recognize me, so I played along. "Yes, Mistress, I'm a horny little whore who needs to be whipped. Please give me the correction I deserve!"

She immediately whacked me several more times, growling "Take that, you skanky bitch." Meanwhile her husband had walked around to the other side of the bed, unzipping his pants and presenting a rather sizeable cock to my lips. "You love to suck cock, don't you, cunt? Well suck THIS, and remember--no teeth!"

"Yes, Master bleeth." I didn't even finish responding before he stuffed my mouth and the top of my throat. To make sure, he grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head forward, practically choking me but fortunately obscuring my face in his crotch.

I felt several more, stronger strikes on my upturned ass, but then Emily used both hands to pry my cheeks apart so she could drive the strap-on into me. I felt the harness pressing against my rear end after only 3 hard thrusts--she had reached the equivalent of "balls deep" in my intestines. As she rapidly slammed in and out, over and over, she coldly observed that "You're such a cock-hungry whore that you probably ENJOY getting ass-fucked, don't you, slut?" Truth to tell, I HAD learned to enjoy this kind of treatment, but all I could do was nod and mumble around her husband's invader.

For an unimaginable time the two of them gave me the rotisserie treatment; with each forward thrust of cock and strap-on I felt as if the two would meet somewhere in my intestines. Charles shoved his two cold hands underneath my chest and began to maul my tits (which honesty requires that I admit were much larger than his wife's) like they were two bags of mashed potatoes. In the back of my slave mind, I remember feeling humiliated to be abused so casually by my colleagues, but the FRONT of my mind was reveling in all the fondling and especially all the cock (real and imitation) I was getting. All I had to do was lie there, thoroughly cuffed and cocked, and remember not to clamp down with my teeth. They may have thought they were ravishing a bimbo slave, but to be honest I was enjoying myself. Eventually, though, I felt that large dildo come completely out of my anus, followed by a snap that sounded like a rubber band--Emily had apparently removed the condom from her plastic pseudo-penis, which two seconds later brushed past my labia to fill me all the way to my cervix. Damn--if I'd realized this woman knew how to drive a dildo like that, I would have propositioned her years ago. I had never felt any lesbian attraction, but she was GOOD.