Slave Yoga Ch. 05: Slave-cation

"My shots?" I said. "Yes, I'm vaccinated."

"I'm not sure," Suzie said, answering for me. "She may need boosters. Can you give them to her here?"

"Yeah, sure. $10 each or $30 for the entire set."

Suzie wouldn't pay an extra $20 to get a dog crate large enough for me to turn around in, but she was delighted to pay an extra $30 for the entertainment of watching me kneel on the counter while the idiot clerked jabbed several slave vaccinations into my ass.

"OWWW!" I said. "What are these shots even for?"

The clerk ignored me, and instead simply put his hand against the back of my neck, forcing my face down against the Formica counter so he could jab me with the second shot.

"I'll need to number her," the clerk said. "All livestock has to be numbered for transport."

"I don't have a slave registration number," Suzie said.

"Well, we need a number. It's international law."

I squealed as the next vaccination shot dug deeply in my ass. From his breathy chuckle I knew the bastard was enjoying it.

"Well, a slave registration number is better but a bill of lading will work for livestock that isn't registered."

My attempt to protest that I was NOT livestock was cut short as I squealed like a pig as he drove the next needle into my ass.

The indignities continued. "Do you have the title for her?" the clerk asked as he pushed yet another needle deep into my ass.

"No, do I need one?" Suzie asked.

"Owwwww!" Damn, those shots hurt!

"Not really, unless you want to sell her. You can get one at one of the provincial offices if you show them the bill of lading and her official grade and her import certificate. I'll put all the papers in her cage bag. Do you want a water bottle for her cage?" the clerk asked. "It's an extra $5."

"No, I'm going to gag her with a slave bit," Suzie said. "It will keep her quiet. She can use the water fountain before we crate her."

"How long is the trip?" I asked. "Where am I going?"

"You're a slave being shipped, and I am not your travel agent," Suzie snapped, pushing me toward the water fountain. I knew that Suzie had been angry with me before but I had thought all had been forgiven at lunch. Now I was wondering if I was wrong.

I could feel the clerk's eyes on my naked ass as Suzie held the button on the water fountain so I could take a long, long drink. I slurped the water up eagerly. If I was flying to Hawaii it would be a long flight and I needed to be hydrated.

As I was bent over Suzie kicked my legs apart and began fingering my soaking wet pussy. The clerk laughed at my arousal.

"She's slave hot," the clerk observed. "That wet little pussy will bring an excellent block price."

"You think so?" Suzie said.

"She certainly juices easily enough," he observed, chuckling.

For a moment I lost all concentration and let the water simply bounce against my face and open mouth as Suzie massaged my love button. I didn't want her to masturbate me in front of the clerk, but with my hands cuffed behind me what choice did I have? Responding to her touch I humped her hand eagerly. It didn't take long, and soon the clerk and Suzie were laughing as I quivered through a shattering slave-gasm.

When I finally rose from the fountain Suzie pulled her fingers out of my sex and licked them lasciviously. Smiling at the clerk she said, "The juiciest honeypots give the sweetest honey." I blushed as Suzie and the clerk both laughed.

"Next time, you'll be the one pleasuring me, slave girl," Suzie said with a leer.

"Wait. I think we should...cwahd dawa!" My open mouth was an easy target for the slave bit. Smiling, Suzie pulled it tight, stretching my gums over my teeth and forcing my face into a permanent smile.

Suzie grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and led me to my doggie cage. The bit held down my tongue but I still managed to make noise.

"Avvveling othes. Avelling othes"

"Oh, yes, you're traveling clothes!" Suzie said brightly. "Thanks for reminding me!" Reaching into her pocket Suzie took out a large pink plastic tag with a hole on one end, and a separate "cap" for the hole that looked like it would snap on. She tossed it to the clerk who examined it with a professional eye.

"Sure, this will work," he said. "I can take the bill of lading sticker and put it right on the tag. That will give her a barcode too."

"So you can tag her here?" Suzie said.

"Sure," the clerk shrugged. "We do it all the time."

The clerk guided me to a stock that was built into the edge of the counter. There were round holes for my hands and head, but as my hands were already secured behind my back he simply locked me to the counter by putting my head through the stock and sliding the locking bolt in place.

I wasn't sure what was happening but the queer smile on Suzie's face was making me nervous. My chin was pressed against the Formica counter and I watched nervously as the man reached into his supply door and extracted a weird sort of punch with a long nail on the end.

Seeing the long nail and knowing this wasn't good I screamed lustily into my gag. My frantic "NO!" came out as "Nahhhh! Nahhh!"

"Are you sure you want to do this?" the clerk said. "It really hurts, and I'm just going to write the BOL number on her ass anyway."

Suzie answered him but was looking directly into my eyes, relishing her position of power. "No. I want the little bitch tagged. Can you do it through her pussy lip?"

"I don't think so," the clerk said. "This is a sheep tag and it's kind of heavy. It might tear."

"Now Tracy, I want you to know I got you a first rate tag," Suzie said, holding the plastic tag up to my face. "All pretty and pink. It's 100% polyurethane. It cost me 38 cents," she chuckled.

He put the adhesive bar code with my tracking number on the tag first, then fit the tag into the long nail of the punch gun, putting the "female" end on the bottom of the device.

I screamed lustily in my gag as he moved toward me. "Nahhhh! Naaaaahhhhh!"

"Hold it's head down tight," he said. "This is going to sting."

Suzie grabbed the side of my head and my free ear, pressing my chin tight against the counter. "Hold it's head down tight." The word "IT" cut me to the bone. I was no longer a person, but a thing, a muzzled animal about to be tagged. I was terrified, yes, but also aroused, as all my fantasies of what it might be like to be a slave washed over me and tantalized my hot, wet slave pussy.

My mind buzzed. "She's really going to do it. She's going to tag me. She took my earrings, but I'll have an animal tag, because that's what I am now. In a moment, I'll be livestock. I'll be an animal."

The pain was incredible! "AWWWWWWWWWWW!"

I screamed lustily into my gag. It felt like ear was on fire. The next few minutes were a blur to me as I sobbed in humiliation, blind to everyone and everything around me. I felt him write on my ass with a felt marker, and I recall backing into the cage and Suzie closing the door and fixing the simple latch.

I winced as the clerk clicked the combination padlock into place with an evil and very final sounding CLICK.

I sobbed.

Suzie and the clerk talked for a moment about my "cargo insurance." I was crying too hard to understand what they were saying, but it had something to do with how the airlines, trucking companies, and railroads were more careful with temperature and breathable air in the cargo hold when the pets were insured.

Of course I knew this was a game, a role-play, and that I wasn't really a slave. I was a free woman, a well-educated psychology student conducting an experiment. But the clerk with the tag gun didn't and neither did the airline, or airlines, if transfers were involved. The fact that I was now just "cargo" with a limited monetary value chilled me to the bone, but I was still sobbing so hard from the pain and shame of the pink tag flopping from my ear and hitting the side of my face that in truth I couldn't even process it.

When the discussion ended my paperwork was tucked into a plastic sleeve attached to my cage. My cage was small enough for Suzie to reach through the bars and wiggle my nose. "You're beautiful when you're helpless," she said, smiling broadly. "Bon voyage, my little slave girl. Keep smiling!"

The cruel reference to my forced smile - which also caused me to drool like a St. Bernard, was the final indignity. The clerk used a handcart to roll my cage into the back room. I couldn't see Suzie but I'm sure her last view of me was my bare ass on a 45 degree angle as the dolly rolled me out of sight and into the cargo area and into a pen marked, "INTERNATIONAL".

I was stunned. International? He had used the word "import certificate" and had referred to "international law" but I had assumed that was just a bureaucratic term, not a reference to international travel.

I screamed into my gag. This had to be some sort of awful mistake! I was being shipped overseas with no passport or citizenship declaration. My only identification was a BOL number stabled to my ear and the paperwork in the sleeve of my cage.

Like a true slave I didn't know where I was going but it didn't matter. Under the law of any country my plane landed in - under international law - I would be a slave wherever my crate landed.

I felt a surge of panic wash over me as the realization sank in. Strangely, I also felt a "slave-spasm" of sheer pleasure engulf my pussy, as my hotbox involuntarily responded to my new legal status.

In an instant everything had changed. In my Slave Yoga class Suzie and Master Mark and Master John knew I was free. Even if I somehow got separated and mixed in with the slave girls through some terrible accident at some point someone who knew me could step forward and establish my true identity.

However, when I landed in a foreign country I would enter that country AS A SLAVE. There was no case to argue for the law was crystal clear. My status as a slave to be bought and sold would be the truth; the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I was a slave.

I couldn't believe it but the papers on my cage and the excitement in my pussy did not lie. It wasn't that someone might mistake me for a slave. The "mistake" was mine in regarding myself as free.

The implications were staggering. What if I were misrouted? What if I were stolen? I had read about sleazy ports where "cargo" was simply sold on the spot when its local market price exceeded its insurance value. On the way to wherever Suzie was sending me I might get routed to Romania, Africa, or Turkey - all markets where a pretty American slave girl with a hot wet pussy would fetch a very fine price.

There would be no investigation of my disappearance. Indeed, the corrupt local officials would most likely get a percentage of my sales price. I would be sold and Suzie would receive an insurance check and the matter would be immediately closed. No wonder she was so concerned about my insurance.

Alas, the insurance was monetary compensation for her. There was no insurance for me.

I struggled to get a grip on my panic and fear. As a trained psychologist I knew that each step in this process was designed to dehumanize me, to make me feel like livestock. I felt glad for my education, for I knew that no matter how many indignities I suffered my understanding of the psychology of this process would inure me to the effects, even if my racing heart and the cold sweat running down my back said otherwise.

I looked up at the padlock holding my cage door closed. With my hands cuffed behind my back I couldn't reach it and with the bit gag in my mouth I couldn't chew it. If I pressed my face against the bars I could hit it with my nose, which I did several times in an gesture of utter futility. It wasn't an expensive lock - it cost $10, tops, but it had a ¾ inch steel shackle. In my present situation it might as well have been Fort Knox.

I continued hitting the lock, hoping to discover some weakness, but to no avail. I stopped only when I remembered the way the puppies at the pet store sadly sniffed and pressed their noses against the door of their cages. Realizing I was mimicking their behavior, and noticing the security camera watching me, I suddenly felt a flush of humiliation wash over me, and abandoned my exploration of the lock.

I thought of the psychology of denial, and how we so often fool ourselves into absurdities. Even if I were able to nudge the padlock off with my little wet puppy nose, what then? I'd be in a locked cargo area, stark naked, with a tag in my ear and my hands cuffed behind my back. There were a dozen more locks and checkpoints and guards and obstacles between me and freedom. Even if I surmounted one or two of them inevitably I'd be captured and led back to my crate, perhaps with a few chuckles or swats to my bottom, a naughty puppy who escaped from her puppy crate.

As I waited, chewing on my bit, the need to pee became nearly irresistible. Knowing that I would be forced to kneel in whatever I dropped onto the floor of my cage I fought the urge for as long as possible. I knew that if I succumbed that on some level I'd be admitting I was an animal. As a slave I didn't even have the dignity of controlling my own bladder.

Remembering the psychological power of mantras I knew winning was a simple question of mind over matter.

"I'm not an animal! I'm not like the other slave girls. I'm a Ph.D. student. I'm not going to pee in my cage. I'm not. I'm not! I have my dignity. I'm not going to pee myself. I will never let them take my dignity away. Ever. I'm not going to pee on camera, and let Suzie and the clerks and anyone else who might be watching laugh at me."

The pressure grew and grew and soon each second seemed like an hour as I stared up at the security camera and wondered who might be watching.

I tried to distract myself from my bladder. I diverted myself by admiring the simple but brutal efficiency of my packaging. In a matter of minutes I had been stripped of my clothes, my money, and my identity.

Was Suzie going to be on my flight? I imagined her above me, drinking champagne in First Class. If it were a long flight she might have a lie-flat seat, or perhaps even a bed. After a gourmet meal she would be able to stretch out, have a glass of wine, and dream sweet dreams of me down in the cargo hold, teeth chattering, cuffed, tagged, and cramped into my ultra-cheap economy puppy crate, drooling and struggling against painful leg cramps and the urge not to pee all over myself. Knowing Suzie the thought of me straining to hold my water would be the reason she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Where on earth was I going? I had assumed I'd be flying to another state, perhaps one of the rural states where female slavery was popular. Now, however, I was a caged animal bound for parts unknown. If my master didn't speak English my education would be meaningless and I'd be an ignorant, illiterate slave girl with a mouth useful for only one thing.

Would I be branded? In most third world countries slave brandings were common, as for centuries it was the cheapest and fastest way of marking livestock. In most African countries butt brands were practically de rigueur and I knew that if I were unfortunate enough to land there I would be marked before I even left the airport.

I was terrified, of course, as I knew the psychological effect of branding was far more damaging and long lasting than the physical scar, even if to the people doing the branding my marking would be absolutely routine. A heated iron, a stick between my teeth, and it would be done. I would be a slave forever.

I pondered Agatha's comment that my experiment would be "double blind." In a blind experiment, the patient doesn't know if they are receiving the experimental medicine or the placebo. In a "double blind" the patient and the doctor administering the treatment don't know, which avoids the doctor unconsciously signaling something about the treatment to the patient.

I understood how my experiment could be "blind" if my "owners" didn't know that I wasn't a leased slave, but rather a scientist researching a slavecation. But how could it be double bind? Surely I knew I wasn't a slave, right? Perhaps it was a joke, but I knew Professor Crush was always very careful in her choice of words, particularly professional terms like "hypothesis", "protocol", and "blind".

The pressure in my bladder was driving me crazy! Like a naughty puppy I banged my face against the bars, then tried desperately to reach the lock with my snout. I imagined the men watching me through the camera overhead laughing at the silly little bitch in the cage.

I looked up at the camera and wondered who was watching. Was anyone there?

When at last the inevitable happened and the first few drops leaked out I rationalized that I was just relieving a bit of the pressure "off the top". But soon the tiny trickle turned into a long, endless stream, and I flushed with humiliation as I piddled on the plastic cage floor. It made a sound like a rain hitting a roof. I looked up at the camera smiling down on me; I hoped it didn't have sound.

I was relieved when someone finally entered the fenced in area, a fat man in a cargo handler's uniform. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, but said nothing, ignoring my soft whimpering. After verifying my paperwork against his clipboard he walked around behind my cage. I couldn't see him, but I gasped as I felt him separate my butt cheeks then roughly stuff something deeply into my bottom hole.

He laughed as I banged my head against the ceiling of my cage from the shock of the unexpected assault. I screamed into my gag as I suddenly felt an incredible burning sensation in my rectum.

"This suppository is going to relax you. You have a long flight. It's burns like a bitch, but don't even think of shitting it out because I'll just stuff in another and put in a butt plug so you behave."

I immediately felt dizzy, and despite the burning in my ass collapsed into a deep slumber, with my pink dog tag laying flat on one side of my face and the other side of my face resting in my own pee.