Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 03

After another 10 or 20 invasions at each end, Charles told his wife, almost as if he were announcing the exact time, "Time to switch, honey." A scant second later my two openings were empty. I was just realizing that I had been cheated out of a submissive orgasm when the strap-on, coated in my own juices, invaded my mouth and I felt a warm, real-life penis occupy my lower intestine. "That's what a brainless whore like you wants," Emily murmured quietly, "to get both face- and ass-fucked by a big, hard cock. Isn't that nice, bitch?" Heaven help me, I was such a slut that I was sincere when I nodded and mumbled "yes," still trying to conceal my face from her gaze.

Having done his best to drill his way from my anus to my mouth, Charles again took the time to fondle my boobs and nipples, muttering "That's a GOOOD little ass-whore. Nice tits!" And then I felt a warm flood inside my lower intestine--he had just discharged, bareback, up my ass. (Good thing the kennels gave us STD tests every week.) One more flurry of frantic fucking and the two ravishers withdrew, leaving me well-used and exhausted while still trying to conceal my face from them.

"Thank you for correcting this humble slave, Mistress," I half-whispered.

"You're welcome, slut. Just remember, your purpose as a slave is to be a cum-dumpster and a whipping girl, not to compete with free women for the attention of real men."

"Yes, Mistress," I again whispered. "Is there any further service I may perform for you?"

"No, get your skanky ass out of here and leave your betters in peace." So spoke Charles as he grabbed me by an arm and my collar, spun me around off the bed, and shoved me towards the door, adding a resounding slap on top of my branded buttock. "Thank you again, Master and Mistress," I said. Since my hands remained cuffed, I was fortunate that the wrangler must have heard this last passage as he opened the door and took me back into the Kennels, not forgetting to feel me up thoroughly. Once we reached my locking cage, he demanded a blow job which I was happy to give on my knees, this time according him the full smiling worship with my mouth full of cock. Somehow, I had managed to be well-used and spanked by two colleagues who knew me, without their looking closely at the face they had both fucked!

(In case you're wondering, a year later when I had regained my freedom I gingerly asked Emily whether she thought slaves had any value. She responded, dismissively, that they were good for only two things: absorbing the vulgar lusts of men and serving as whipping girls for the frustrations of "real people." I agreed easily, surprised that she had changed her "moral" stand! She even agreed with me that "slave whores" relieved "real women" of having to do repulsive things for men.)

*****

For 3 weeks, I had counted the days while I serviced all cumers in the Harvard Slave Brothel, while making what few friendships I could among the other slaves. Steve Wilson became my closest acquaintance, perhaps because his chastity belt made him even more frustrated and depressed than I was. He still had to go to school and do his homework, but on the other hand he was rarely in demand at the brothel. I was happy to proofread his essays and other written work, and we had some interesting academic discussions on those weekend days when I wasn't serving as a slave whore. All I could do was put up, put out, and pray that Sarah would indeed send me "home" to Texas. I found myself thinking fondly of the most humiliating experiences I had, including street walking, tub slutting, and sucking dick in a glory hole--at least, doing that, I got more dick and less risk of exposure than I encountered at the kennels outside Boston.

Then one evening, to our mutual surprise, Steve and I were both booked for service in the same bedroom of the brothel. The wranglers wouldn't even say who had reserved us, just deposited us at the appointed time and place, unhooking our cuffs and pushing us gently through the door.

You'll probably be less surprised than I was when I tell you that the only other person in that bedroom was Professor Sarah Hollister. Dressed stylishly in a business suit and Givenchy high heels, with perfect hair and makeup, Mistress Sarah made an unspoken but humiliating contrast to me, slave naked, bedraggled, and wearing nothing but a collar, flip-flops, and a garish brand on my ass.

"Good evening, guys," she remarked with a slight smirk. "Before we get to the main business of the night, I've decided that you both have worked so hard that you deserve a reward." So saying, she casually unlocked Steve's chastity belt, pointed at the bed, and told us to "Breed, animals." Then she picked up a glass of champagne and sat down to watch.

Our surprise must have been evident in our faces, as the professor deigned to explain herself. "Slaves don't have friends, or relatives, or boundaries. We're going to demonstrate that right now. Go ahead and fuck. While I watch."

The thought of providing a pornographic floor show for this hateful woman was beyond humiliating. Still, although I had been getting shafted by insensitive louts for weeks, I was almost as horny as poor Steve who, as I said, normally got only 1 chance a week to get his rocks off. We were at least friendly, and had seen every inch of each other naked, so it didn't take much for us to put a lip-lock on each other. Grinning, I knelt down in front of him and gave him the best blow-job I had ever delivered. His long-restrained prick swelled until it almost filled my mouth; I knew he was close to unloading when I heard a little click. Looking sideways, I saw a smiling Sarah taking my photograph with her phone. Think about the humiliation later, I thought, and focus on giving poor Steve a good time. Less than 20 seconds later he blasted into my mouth. By now, I was so practiced as a slave whore that I saved some of his cum and displayed it to him after he withdrew. At least Sarah didn't take a photo of that!

I thought Steve deserved more than just that, so I went back to licking and sucking to help him retain most of his erection. I knew he wouldn't want to smell my cum-breath, but I stood up, embraced him, and laid back onto the bed, encouraging him to climb on top of me. He was still sufficiently erect to mount me, but the fact that he had just climaxed meant that he gave me a VERY long, sensuous, almost loving ride (not to mention sucking on my breasts) before he finally discharged into me. I'd been fucked dozens, probably hundreds of times in the past seven months, but that coupling was, for once, more like lovemaking than sex. We ended up breathing heavily, smiling at each other, still connected by our genitals.

That sweet moment was interrupted by the sound of 1 pair of hands clapping--I'd almost forgotten that Sarah was in the room. "Well done, kids," she commended us. "And don't worry about that photo of Lindsay sucking dick. I'm keeping that just as a memory for myself, and maybe a little insurance. Neither of you want the world to know you were pleasure slaves, do you?" We shook our heads.

"Good, neither do I. So, we pretend this never happened. Steve, I can't control your future but you know I'll help you as much as I can. As for Sarah, you told me you self-indentured to understand slavery, right?" I nodded as she continued. "So, your time in Massachusetts should have really helped your 'research.'" Once again, her hooked fingers indicated quotation marks around the last word. "Tomorrow, the kennel staff has instructions and a shipping invoice to send you back to Texas in a poodle cage. Not as comfortable as a ULD-40, but at least you'll get home, and your owner has been notified to pick you up. Have a nice time!" My heart surged inside of me--finally!

"Not as comfortable as a ULD-40" turned out to be a massive understatement. I spent eight chilly hours gagged, bound, and kneeling on the hard tray of a poodle cage. Yes, I'd travelled that way before, but this was longer, lonelier, and colder than my previous truck-mounted movements between slave establishments. I was therefore doubly exhilarated to finally get to a shipping warehouse, where Master Paul met me and insisted that I be released immediately. I could barely stand after all that time on my knees, but he was such a sweetheart that he got my cuffs removed and then CARRIED me out of the warehouse and over to his Mercedes. Seeing I was shivering (it was, after all, December, which even in Texas is wintertime), he wrapped me in a warm blanket and turned up the car's heater full blast. If I didn't know that Paul was hopelessly in love with Nikki, I would have thought he loved me; instead, he was just a caring guy who wanted no slave to ever suffer unnecessarily.

A week at their home followed, with both Nikki and Paul pampering me and allowing me plenty of time to rest and write up my "research." You've already read the humiliating conclusions I arrived at concerning the reality of modern slavery, so I won't repeat them. I took the opportunity to submit two papers for publication. Then I went back to Master Paul's club for the holidays. It was fun to see friends and acquaintances, and even being a submissive was a lot more fun (with more safety measures) than being whipped by Emily Harrison. I still managed to get used in my various openings and enjoy myself at the holiday parties.

Then it was on to a second lease to SlutsRUs, with all the familiar humiliations of sucking smelly dicks, getting screwed by pimply-faced young men in flophouses, and even--you guessed it--another week being publicly fucked in that pillory as a tub slut. I don't think I learned much that was new in the process, only reinforcing my determination NEVER to wear a collar again, not to mention wishing to alleviate the suffering of other slaves. In a final break at the Sheldon-Sousa household, I finished additional writings on the psychology and business of slavery. I also polished most of the memoir/diary you're reading, then went back to the club for another largely-enjoyable round of ass-paddling and pounding.

The anniversary of my self-indenture finally arrived. After a final, fun threesome in their bedroom, Mistress Nicola and Master Paul both took me to the Agriculture Office for my manumission. Once Mr. Shively issued the manumission certificate, Nikki handed me the bag containing the clothes I had surrendered a year earlier. With two exceptions: Nikki had told me in advance that she had purchased a stylish new bra and blouse to accommodate my expanded "breastworks."

*****

Paul bought me lunch and a plane ticket, allowing me to return to the same airport that I had departed as a caged animal five months earlier. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Sarah Hollister to destroy my career by announcing my slavery and illustrating it with that picture of slave-naked slut Lindsay sucking the cock of another, much younger slave. I even met her at several conferences, but she said little beyond smiling enigmatically and asking me how I was doing. With a wicked gleam in her eye, Sarah even complimented me for the "exceptional research" of my latest publications on slave psychology!

The following spring, on my final try, I was granted tenure and promoted full professor. In that sense, I had gambled with my body and my freedom, and won! (AFTER the decision, I played slave girl for Alistair on two occasions, but that was just satisfying our mutual lust, not a quid pro quo.) To be honest, I had even gotten a LOT of unexpected fun out of surrendering my body to unlimited sexual use by dominant males like Alistair. My sex life and my mental happiness were transformed by becoming a slave whore! Who knew?

Still, there's one nagging issue in the back of my mind. Paul Sousa had been correct--I built my academic career on the loathsome institution of slavery and had even tried to make money by advising slave merchants. I had regarded slaves and especially female slaves as brainless bimbos who almost DESERVED to be punished and used. Now, I want to do something to expose their sufferings. I find myself expanding and polishing my memoirs, of which this is only the short, factual version. I might change the names and schools involved, but the industry would figure out who I was. Besides, I might as well include that Harvard Kennels photo of me in Present, which I downloaded and saved once I got home. I wonder whether I have the courage to "out" myself as a slave slut by publishing these memoirs so that the public can see both the good and the evil of slavery. Publishing would be more than professional suicide; if I angered the slaving industry sufficiently, they might haul me into federal court and present the book as evidence that I was a natural slave who should be put back in a collar.

To be honest, the thought of being enslaved again, taking all that dick into all my openings, is part of what makes the temptation to publish so great. "Oh, Master, I've been such a BAAD girl. Please use your monster cock to teach me the error of my ways. Slurp, slurp." I'm planning to entitle my story Slave Slut Like Me.

Dare I do it? Do you think it would sell?

(The End)