Slave Yoga Ch. 04: Slave Shaming

"Arch your back, slut," Master Mark would say. "Or I'll give you one right across the target."

"That's a fine group of asses in the showers, today."

"Yes, it's definitely a target rich environment!"

The reference to my bottom as a "target" made me feel all the more vulnerable, and I felt a small rivulet of sweat run down my back towards my bottom crack. I wondered if Professor Crush could see it. She was certainly close enough. My bottom was the focus of her attention for even as I bent she never stopped squeezing it.

As she fondled my bottom I realized I was seeing the side of Professor Crush that I had heard about but had never fully experienced before. Born to privilege, Agatha Crush was spoiled and arrogant, and felt quite entitled to anything that she could lay her hands on, which at this moment included my naked bottom.

"It's not really MY brand," I protested.

"Quite right," she agreed, "even burned onto YOUR bottom it would still be MY brand, MY sign of ownership, just as you would be MY slave, under MY control. Now, let's see what that fine bottom of yours would look like would look like properly marked, shall we?"

The cellophane felt cool for a moment, then warm, as it trapped the heat against my skin. She stretched it taught, using both hands, and although I couldn't see it, I knew from the slow, lingering whistle that she gave that my "brand" looked very fine indeed.

"My, oh, my!" she gushed. "That is exquisite!"

"Is it cute?" I said, looking over my shoulder, straining to see it.

"It's more than cute! It's simply ADORABLE!" she said, displaying an enthusiasm I had never heard from her. "Really, Tracy! I've seen my brand on many, many, bottoms. But the curvature of your bottom, and the dimensions... really, your bottom was simply made for this brand!"

My feelings were mixed. I felt proud, no, delighted, that my brand had so impressed my discerning Professor. Her reference to "many, many" bottoms both intrigued and chilled me -- how many slaves did she own? Was she exaggerating? A part of me was appalled at the thought of her sadistically burning her fancy cursive logo into hundreds of naked bottoms for the cruel pleasure of it, but a part of me was thrilled, and hoped that she had done it hundreds of times, making my triumph all the sweeter!

I strained to look over my shoulder, but as it was positioned in the dead center of my bottom it remained invisible. Seeing my struggles, Professor Crush laughed.

"No, Tracy, she said, spanking me sharply on the cheek. Bottom up, head down. No peeking!"

"But I want to see it!" I protested.

"Silly slave! Butt brands are not for the slave girls to enjoy, they are for their masters and mistresses. You see only what I care to show you."

"But I want to see it!" I whined.

"Oh, very well. Reach back, and hold the cellophane taunt."

I obeyed, carefully pulling on the cellophane to free her hands. I had supposed that she was going to use the large vanity mirror on her desk, as it was more than ample for the job, but my mouth formed into a large "O" of surprise when I saw her pick up her phone.

"No" I cried.

"Say cheese!" she said, laughing as she took the picture of the brand stretched across my naked ass.

Embarrassed, I Immediately I straightened up, dropping the cellophane as I hastily pulled up my pants.

"Oh, I got your face, too!" Professor Crush said, laughing as she looked at the picture on her phone. "Your expression -- that look of horrified surprise -- is simply priceless! It's like I was really branding you."

I found myself stiffen under her taunting laughter. "I want you to erase that picture," I said firmly.

"No, it's mine now," she said, laughing. "I can mail you a copy, if you wish."

"No, I want you to erase it."

"You're not in charge, Tracy," she said, retaining her smile even as her tone sharpened. "Don't forget that, or this picture might end up on the class bulletin board, or perhaps even in the book."

"The book?" I said, suddenly remembering the tome we were writing together. "I thought I was going to be anonymous."

"Well, you won't get any credit for your thesis if it's anonymous, silly. Really, Tracy, don't overdue the whole slave stupid thing. It's no fun branding an airhead."

"I'm not an airhead," I protested, "and I don't see how branding me has anything to do with psychology."

"Don't you?" she said. "Are you familiar with social comparison theory?"

"Yes, it's when people take pride or pleasure comparing themselves to others. It's why people buy fancy cars and designer clothes."

"Also called designer brands?" she said, holding up the cursive design. "Did it please you when I told you that out of all the bottoms I branded, yours was the most beautiful?"

"Ummm... Yes, it did," I admitted, not liking her inference.

"It's obvious why I would take pleasure in branding your bottom, since it marks you as my property. But it's YOUR psychology that fascinates. Is it possible for you to take pleasure in BEING branded, because of a sense that having my logo burned into your ass elevates your status in some way?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly. Thinking about it I changed my answer. "I don't think so."

"That's what you say now, with your pants up. But you were humming a different tune when you were begging to see your brand. Still, it's impossible to say for sure, unless..."

Her voice trailed off.

"Unless what?" she said.

"Unless we really branded you. That reminds me, I am taking a class to a slaving house. They do real brandings there, and with any luck you might be able to witness one. Are you interested?"

"Maybe," I said, careful not to overplay how much I wanted to go.

"If you are interested, be at the Gates of Roman House at 10AM tomorrow. You can join my class on the tour."

That night I called Suzie's voice mail and apologized for telling her to "fuck off" and being so rude. In truth, I was a bit worried about our relationship as we hadn't spoken since our argument and I was worried that Suzie was still mad at me. I vowed to apologize personally when I saw Suzie in class.

I checked my e-mail constantly, but Professor Crush never sent me the picture of my brand. That night at home, I found myself staring at my bottom as I imagined what the brand might look like. I event held up a piece of her stationary against my bottom cheeks, but it was the wrong size and looked quite silly. Frustrated, I debated reminding her to send it to me, but remembering her threat to post the photo online I decided to let the matter drop.

To satisfy my intellectual curiosity about the slaving business I agreed to accompany Professor Crush on her class field trip to Roman House. The class was composed of two sections of about 50 students total, equally divided between boys and girls. As I wasn't much older than the Juniors in the class I was able to slip into the group very comfortably. What was less comfortable was the extra precautions the female students touring Roman House had to submit to, including a fingerprint scan and a photo ID on their lanyards, which also had a chip on them so we could be tracked constantly. A few of the girls objected to the fact the boys simply had to wear simple clip on VISITOR badges on their belts or shirts, but Professor Crush's cheerful reminder that "girls who choose to ignore the rules may find themselves reclassified as inventory," quelled the minor rebellion.

After passing through numerous layers of security we finally entered an area ironically labeled RECEPTION. We entered a large hall that contained about a dozen tables about three feet high. The young man conducting the tour explained that this is where slave girls were given their initial grading, unless they were dirty in which case they might be showered and deloused first.

"The preliminary grading only takes a few minutes, and while it's not the legal grade used at auction our statistics show it's accurate to within plus-or-minus half of a letter grade about 90% of the time. This grade can be used to determine if the girl is going to be a domestic, a work slave, or a pleasure slut."

"What percentage of girls are pleasure sluts?" a muscular frat boy asked.

"Any girl can be a pleasure slut, with the proper training." the guide explained, "however only the top 5% are graded prime plus."

"Can we see a girl graded?" another boy asked.

I noticed the boys were asking all the questions and crowding toward the front while the female students stood nervously in the back. "Perhaps one of our female students would like to volunteer for a free grading," Professor Crush said, smiling at me. I suddenly regretted coming on the field trip as I realized that my "hands on" research might involve "hands on" me.

Fortunately, I realized that she was actually looking at the girl next to me, a pretty blonde girl with a slight Danish accent who gave me an insight into what my deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression must have looked like. "Julie, you need a recommendation for graduate school, as I recall. Why don't you earn it? Take off your clothes and get up on the examination table so the entire class can see you."

"Take off my clothes?" Julie stammered, scarcely able to believe what Professor Crush was suggesting.

"Yes, everything off!" Professor Crush replied cheerfully.

"You can put your clothes and purse in the box," the grader said, casually pointing at an open cardboard box with a bar coded label on it. "Put everything inside the box, purse, phone, jewelry."

"How do the bar codes work?" a boy asked.

"Simple," the grader said. Crossing to Julie he reached into the box and extracted a barcoded wristband and slid it around Julie's right wrist, clicking it into place. Using the scanner on his belt he PINGED Julie into the system. "The bar code on her property box matches the bar code on her wrist, which will tie to her slave grade in the computer system."

Julie nervously fingered the band. "How do I get it off?"

"It's not the wristband that comes off, it's your clothes, dummy," one of the frat boys said.

"Yeah, come on, Julie, show us the merchandise!"

"Let's see some skin."

The boys were all encouragement; the girls less so, although a few were smiling at Julie's predicament.

Ignoring the boys Julie launched her appeal with Professor Crush. "You want me to take off my clothes? HERE? With everyone watching?"

"Of course, my dear. He can't grade you with your clothes on. This is for science. Do you want to go to graduate school or not, Julie?" Professor Crush asked. Her arms were folded and she was smiling.

Julie stared at her.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," Professor Crush said, tapping her foot.

Julie looked sick as she saw the man open up the end of the table and click two shiny steel gynecological foot stirrups into place.

Julie hesitated, uncertain as to what to do. Professor Crush, while enjoying the game, decided to make it easier for her. "Forget about graduate school; this is the sort of decision that can make or break your thesis, let alone your grade in this course. What will it be, Julie? Would you prefer a free slave grade or a career at the coffee shop? We can't wait all day."

Julie, looking quite seasick, answered by unbuttoning the top button of her baby blue blouse.

"All right! It's SHOWTIME!" one boy shouted.

There was laughter and murmurs of approval from the frat rats, but the feeling of 50 eyes staring at her clearly unnerved her, and changing her mind she undid her shoe laces and slipped off her light brown shoes. She was dressed nicely but fairly conservatively, as were most of the girls. Although I haven't fully thought through the psychology of it for the most part free women tend to dress a bit more sharply when they know they are going to be female slaves around. Perhaps it is a defense mechanism; perhaps our natural competitiveness kicks in and we want to show up the naked slave girls all the more by looking our best. It certainly didn't have anything to do with the men, for it was clear by their reaction that every male in the room -- and more than a few females -- preferred the "suit" Julie was about to put on to the clothes she was wearing now.

Julie placed her shoes in the box and after hesitating for a moment, removed her tan leather belt, rolled it up neatly, and placed it in the cardboard box. The socks were next -- rainbow striped and quite cute, but they had to go into the box,too. Barefoot, she stood before the anxious crowd, her toes scrunching up on the cold industrial cement floor. Shoes, socks, & belt were gone. Whatever was coming off next it would be far more interesting to the boys than what had come before.

When she began unbuttoning her blouse the reaction was immediate.

"Whoa! Titty time!"

"Let's see those hooters."

"More like grapes if you ask me," one of the girls observed.

"Yeah, like two bee stings," her friend added.

"Maybe she's a boy."

"We'll find out soon enough."

By the time Julie got to the last button her eyes were glazed with tears. As if being forced to strip in front of her classmates wasn't bad enough, Professor Crush was letting the class bully her, and now the girls had joined in on the cruel "fun."

A part of me wished to intervene. I looked to Professor Crush, who smiled knowingly at me, almost daring me to speak. I did not.

I understood fully what Julie was experiencing for her experience neatly paralleled the experience I had performing naked in front of my former students. Naturally I felt sympathy for her, but I was also deeply curious.

I had been reluctant to describe my own experience as "Slave Shaming" as that was typically a term used to describe the actual transformation from a free woman into a slave girl, whereas I was merely engaged in an academic research project. Although Julie was going through a similar experience for reasons I could not fully articulate it seemed much closer to "Slave Shaming". Why was that? Was her shame and embarrassment deeper and more transformative than mine, or was it merely a case of being able to view the process more objectively when I was not the subject? Clearly Professor Crush had setup this scenario so I could explore my thinking on this topic -- and indeed, my emotions -- more fully.

"Nice training bra, Julie," one of the girls jibed.

"I don't care if they are small, I still want to see 'em" one of the boys countered.

"Yeah, we're the itty-bitty-titty-committee!"

Everyone laughed at this witticism, except Julie, who looked like she wanted to sink through the floor.

"Come on Julie, shirt in the box."

"Yeah, quit stalling. It's not like you have that much to hide."

Biting her lip Julie slid her shirt off over her shoulders.

"Nice bra. Love the red!"

"Yeah, kind of slutty. Just like her."

"Hey, Tad, didn't you try to hook up with her at that party Freshman year?"

"He sure did. But she shot him down!"

"Can you believe it? He struck out with Miss A Cup."

"Tits look fine to me."

"Naw, it's all padding! Look at that bra."

Pushing past the others Frat boy Tad moved to the front row, so he was standing directly in front of Julie. "Yeah, I remember her. Stuck up little Princess thought her shit didn't stink. Well I guess I'm gonna see everything's she got, and I don't even have to buy her a drink."

Tad, tall and wide and big enough for the football team, towered over the cowering Julie, who literally shrank back under the bully's shadow. "Please... Professor Larson... Don't make me strip. Not in front of him."

All eyes turned to Professor Larson, 48, a tweedy academic in the back of the room. He was tall and lean authoritative looking, with the bearing of a man used to being in charge.

"Yes, this has gone far enough," he said. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Julie."

Professor Crush was not pleased. "Of course she does. Doing things we don't want to do is part of being an adult. For example I keep you on staff, Charles, even though I know of any number of reasons I could have you dismissed."

"I'm tenured, Agatha," Professor Larson replied. "Don't overplay your hand."

"I might say the same to you. Is that your tenure in your pocket, or are you just enjoying the show?"

All eyes immediately went to Professor Larson's pants. He was wearing khakis and the tent-like bulge in the front looked like a flagpole. Looking down, he realized his turgid stage, and tried to use his binder to cover himself, a gesture that simply made everyone in the class laugh harder.

Professor Larson tried to turn and exit, but Professor Crush stopped him short.

"No, Larson, no running off to play with yourself. I know how popular you are with your female students. Too popular, in a couple of cases I still have documented and on file. Still, so strong and brave, always ready to leap to a pretty girl's defense. I know you and Julie are friends. You wouldn't want to leave poor Julie in her hour of need, now would you?"

Larson looked like he was going to be sick. Whatever leverage Professor Crush had on him I knew it had to be damning.

Professor Crush smiled. "Move to the front row, Larson, so you can have a closer look. A MUCH closer look."

The crowd parted and Professor Larson made his way to the front row to stand next to Tad. My heart went out to poor Julie. Although Professor Larson looked heartbroken and Tad looked delighted, both men -- and indeed all the males in the room -- had noticeable erections. Friend or foe, everyone wanted to see Julie stripped naked.

As did Professor Crush. "Fold your shirt neatly, Julie, and put it in the box."

Professor Crush's tone wasn't angry, or confrontational -- indeed, it was almost maternal, albeit very much in charge.

Julie had been shielding herself with her shirt, but as she neatly folded it I got a better look at her bra. It was plain cotton but red and lacy and had a pretty floral pattern. Although it might have been a personal preference it struck me that Julie's choice of underwear was sexier than her exterior attire. Girls were naturally competitive. Had the psychology of visiting a female slave-processing center influenced her choice of lingerie?

"The skirt now, Julie," Professor Crush said. "In the box."

Julie was wearing a light, knee long skirt which like her bra had a floral pattern. It was a warm day, and as she slid down the skirt I saw that she wasn't wearing any hose and her sexy red panties matched her bra.

"Nice. Red all over," one of the boys snickered.

"Yeah, even her face," one of the girls chimed in.

It was true. Julie, mortified beyond words, was blushing beet red. Tad was smiling broadly, clearly enjoying the humiliation of the girl who had rejected him. But it was the eye contact between Julie and Professor Larson that fascinated me. She was staring at him, trying to make eye contact with him. Although standing only a few feet away, he was clearly trying NOT to return her gaze, even as he openly ogled her body and vainly hid his erection behind his folder. Clearly he didn't want to be there, even if he was aroused by the view. I wondered which of them was more embarrassed.

"Nice ass," one of the boys commented.

"Yeah, makes ups for the tits."

"You can't suck on her ass, brainiac."

"Yeah, but you can squeeze it."

"And you can fuck it."

"I bet she's tight back there. Stuck up little bitch has probably never bent over in her life."

"She will."

Professor Crush's voice cut through the chatter like a knife. "Why don't you turn around, Julie. Give the boys --- I mean the class -- a better view."

Julie obeyed.

"No, Julie, turn slowly. No need to rush this part. We want to give everyone a good look. Okay, now stop."

The class observed Julie in profile.