The Rivalry Pt. 02

Janey's parents must have read her the riot act, because she began her sophomore year in a flurry of good intentions, determined to attend and take copious notes at every class while studying assiduously and completing assignments well ahead of schedule. That determination lasted for about three weeks out of fifteen in the fall semester, after which she was repeatedly tempted to neglect academic studies for her real preference, which was young man studies. On half a dozen occasions during that second year, a bad grade would remotivate her; at that point, she would abruptly push away her current suitors and rededicate herself to study, up until the next time some hot guy asked her out for a date. Somehow, she scraped an overall "B" at the end of the third semester, but even I could tell that her grasp of the subjects was spotty and slipping.

Paradoxically, her intermittent academic habits actually worked to my advantage. (Remember that, based on my pony camp training, I had become addicted to cock and no longer resented being a "second choice" to free women like my owner.) Several times that second year, I got her cast-off men, who couldn't help noticing the buxom blonde slut who waited upon the object of their affection. Only the most valuable players got access to the genuine student pony girls. By contrast, coaches could and did give out "JV ass passes" to football players or other athletes who performed well; a well-timed block or fortunate interception was rewarded with the free use of a pony girl slave for an hour. Moreover, the slave kennels where I spent much of my time listed my JV status, including an alluring photo of me tacked up and bit-gagged, on the web-site of available slaves to be rented by the hour. By October of that academic year, my one night a week at the kennel's brothel was in such demand that people had to reserve me up to three weeks ahead of time. (I know, it sounds odd to brag about being in demand as a slave whore, but it still was surprising and somewhat flattering.)

Not only did I get (most of) the dick I had learned to crave, but I developed a number of acquaintances among the male student population. Some of the guys who rented me at the kennel brothel did so because they were so tongue-tied with free women that they had no chance of even getting a date, let alone a romantic partner. Imagine the picture: a fully clothed but awkward guy, aged 18 to 22, having a prolonged talk with a naked, collared young woman--most of them were such gentlemen that they insisted I cover myself with the sheet on the unused bed in the room, which not only protected my long-lost modesty but also kept me warm in the otherwise chilly, airconditioned room. I began to feel like some kind of courtesan or relationship counselor, talking gently and patiently with them while drawing out their interests--and no, I don't mean what kind of sex they wanted. More than one of them came back later to say that they had finally overcome their anxieties and made friends with female students.

Whenever he could get on my calendar, the guy who had rescued me from Janey's planned nerd gangbang, Jimmy Orbey, also rented an hour. (At first, he came only intermittently, explaining that he had to earn enough money at his student job. The second year, Jimmy visited every time I was "on offer.") He always insisted that I cover up, and for several months wouldn't do more than kiss my cheek before departing. Finally, as I said before, I insisted that his hard-earned money should get some recompense besides conversation; In fact, I convinced him of the truth that my slave training had made me perpetually horny and addicted to dick, so we needed to help each other out. (I eventually adopted the same policy with my other heretofore platonic visitors, most of whom were visibly suffering from a case of permanent erection.) Not only was Jimmy well endowed, but the more time I spent with him, the more I found him handsome as well as smart and considerate. I began to develop a real crush on him, and dreamed of locating him again when my collar came off.

*****

Half way through her fourth semester (spring term of sophomore year), my owner, tormenter, and former rival in high school panicked. On the relatively rare occasions when I was available to serve her and not my many "Johns," I saw her waste a lot of study time frantically trying to find an easy way to beat her exams. Then I noticed her writing information in extremely tiny letters and diagrams, covering pieces of paper that (red flag!) were cut to fit inside her stylish shoes. (In retrospect her idea was so obvious and amateurish that it almost seemed like she WANTED to be caught.) When Janey noticed my staring at her, she began to gag, blindfold, and hogtie me inside the small slave cage she kept in her dorm room. When spring finals came along, this treatment meant I suffered cramps, hunger, and thirst for hours while she was absent taking tests. The third time this happened, she returned early, crying violently and shaking so hard she could barely undo my bonds. Having been her slave and the object of her scorn for the past three years, I at first felt little sympathy for her, but my natural compassion for anyone in trouble caused me to hug her, rubbing her back and trying to find out what the problem was.

She finally sobbed that she had been caught cheating in a final exam for economics, and was expelled from the test site and told to wait for a decision about her case. "I don't know what's going to happen to me, Leslie." (Her degree of distress was evident from the fact that she called me by my actual name for the first time in two years.) "So, I'm going to put you in the slave kennels where you may get pimped out but at least you'll be fed and cared for." Now I began to worry about what would happen to ME; would I be condemned to stay in the kennels and/or JV pony girl stables until someone remembered that the disgraced student had owned a slave?

That evening it was my turn (again) to be a slave prostitute in the brothel run by the kennel. I tried my best to be a happy, docile slut for half a dozen guys (mostly one at a time, thank heavens). My regulars were happy to see me, talk with me, and play with my body, but I was distracted worrying about both Janey's future and mine. Fortunately for me, Jimmy had reserved me for 10:00 p.m. When I told him what I thought had happened at Janey's final exam, he looked very grave, sucking in his breath at the prospect of her being caught cheating.

"She will almost certainly have to appear before an honor court to investigation the allegation," he said. "At the very least, she'll flunk that course, but it may get much worse."

I asked what he meant. "It's because of the academic honor code," he replied, which meant nothing to me.

"Well, the good news is that if she is found guilty of violating that code, she may get a chance to retry college two years from now."

"That doesn't sound so bad," I replied, a questioning tone in my voice.

"Yeah, but it's what happens between now and then that will be the real kick in the teeth, especially for an entitled witch [I grinned at his choice of words] like her."

Jimmy explained that the reintroduction of slavery had radically changed academic honesty provisions in many colleges, especially in the south, where Texas and other states regarded cheating as a theft of services. In this university, all faculty, academic staff, and students had to sign an acknowledgement of the honor code, which acknowledgement includes giving conditional power of attorney to the university provost. In the event the university honor committee determined that an individual student, faculty or staff member had violated provisions of the honor code, that individual had agreed IN ADVANCE, as a condition of being on campus, that violation of the honor code meant that she/he might be indentured (enslaved) for any time period up to 24 months, depending on the determination of the committee. During that term of indenture, the individual would become the property of the university to be assigned, used, or sold (with a non-export restriction) as the administration sees fit. The university was obligated only to protect the violating individual's health and prevent export or resale abroad. (I had already learned, painfully, how little the university cared about a slave's health!) At the end of that indenture, the freed offender could petition to have his/her records sealed and be permitted to return to the course of study previously undertaken, but having to retake all courses.

"I can't get my head around what you just said," I finally mumbled. "Do you mean that Mistress Janey--my owner--will become a slave if she's found guilty of cheating?"

"You got it," he nodded.

"Oh, well--her Daddy is a rich professional slave merchant; I'm sure he'll buy her and keep her at home until the two years are up."

He shook his head. "Nope--even slave merchants have professional requirements. If anyone in her family ended up owning her, her Daddy would lose his license and get fined."

"So, what happens to me?" I worried.

"Obviously, a slave can't own another slave, so she's no longer your owner. Because the university will also try to collect the scholarship money she wasted this semester, I assume you'll become property of the university and be sold at auction." He tried to give me a reassuring hug. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you," he said. But now I was REALLY worried--no matter how badly Janey had treated me, I knew that whoever purchased me might do much worse.

*****

That conversation occurred on a Thursday night, during what became my final stint in the university kennel's brothel. Janey must have been convicted by the honor court on the following day, because the next afternoon the kennel wranglers zip-tied my wrists behind my back and gagged me, then frog-marched me to the loading dock. They had come to like me, but all they would say was that I was now the property of the university and would be sold at auction. Before I knew it, I was again kneeling in a poodle cage with ankles and wrists zip-tied to the back of that cage, to be loaded onto a SlaveEx shipping truck. While waiting uncomfortably for that shipment, I became aware of a commotion--another woman who looked like Janey but was slave naked, gagged, zip-tied, and blindfolded, struggled hard but ended up bound in another dog cage next to mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that she was in tears, but neither of us could talk or do anything except wait for the free people to dispose of us.

We finally arrived at our destination which, unsurprisingly, was the shipping department of the Longhorn Slave Market. After some unidentified wranglers scanned our shipments into the market's data base, we were cut loose from the zip ties and ordered to knee-walk forward, out of the cages and onto the hard concrete floor, until we reached a painted yellow line, and then don't move again. I involuntarily looked to my right, confirming my suspicion that my erstwhile owner was now my fellow naked slave--but that movement earned me a blazing shock that (I realized) must have come from a wrangler's cattle prod (or I guess that should be "slave prod"?)

"What part of the words 'don't move' didn't you understand, bimbo? I know your IQ must be smaller than your bust size, but try not to be so clueless," said a male voice in an unpleasant but not particularly angry tone of voice. I immediately struggled back up onto my knees (not easy to do with your hands restrained behind you) and stared straight ahead of me. He must have been satisfied, because a moment later I felt him replacing my simple leather collar with a heavier one that included two prongs digging into my neck--a clear indication that the next BZZZT! I received might come at any moment from that new shock collar.

In rapid succession, he installed leather cuffs on my forearms, cut loose the zip-tie that had bound my wrists, and ungagged me. When I caught sight of my jailor, he didn't look much older nor taller than I, but after two years in a collar I would never have challenged him even if I were not naked and bound on my knees, looking up at a guy wearing jeans, combat boots, and an equipment belt studded with an electric prod, cuffs, and other instruments of subjugation. The nametag on his chest read "Ken." He wordlessly clipped a leash to my new collar, then rather patiently led me (crawling on my knees) over to a podium where he ordered me to kneel again while he clipped the leash handle to the podium. Next, he scanned the slave ID number (SIN) on my lower lip and evidently looked me up in some data base. Then he snickered and walked over to the next podium, where out of the corner of my eye I could see two familiar figures--the plus-sized, statuesque wrangler Willow, who had in-processed me two years ago, and a kneeling, naked, despondent figure that was all that remained of Janey.

"Can I see the record of this girl?" he asked. After a moment's silence, he chuckled. "I was right. The Nnn Ess Rrr [National Slave Registry] says that, up until today, the Prime-rated blonde over there [he waived in my direction] was the slave of this one, only now they're both property of the University, up for sale. Talk about coincidences."

"Oh, I remember her," said the contralto voice I vaguely recalled as belonging to Willow. "If you look in her records, you should find that we processed and auctioned that blonde about two or three years ago. And now they're back here as a miss-matched set!" She giggled, but I could see Janey was sobbing silently. "Don't worry, sweetie," said Mistress Willow to her. "I'm sure you're in shock right now, but you'll get through it; a pretty thing like you should have no trouble finding a kind buyer."

"That's what I'm afraid of, becoming a sex toy," burst out of Janey's mouth, but then she realized that she had spoken without permission, and began babbling apologies.

"I'm afraid that comes with the territory," Willow replied in what she intended to be a compassionate tone. "You're a slave for the next two years, and as a pretty female the only question is whether you service a few or many free people." I could see by Janey's face that the full horror had set in. I couldn't help wondering what she thought slavery had meant for me, whom she had lent and pimped out, often on a whim or with intent to humiliate, to dozens of guys and a few girls. I guess Janey had no empathy, whereas I was beginning to think I had too much.

After that brief conversation, the two wranglers took us in different directions, and I didn't see her again for several hours. Because we clearly knew each other, Master Ken pointed out the obvious difference--I had already been processed as a slave, and my two-year-old "pink" photos were still considered current, so beyond a brief medical check I was almost ready to auction. By contrast, my ex-owner had to go through all the irritating and debasing steps I had experienced on the day my Dad lost his court case. (One night in her freshman year, a giggling-drunk Janey had bragged about how her father, as a senior slave merchant, had arranged a special walk-through to get her evaluated during a slow time at the slave market. Apparently, she got to keep her clothes on while her SIN was tattooed on her inside lip; she was only naked and collared for less than an hour, while they took a single full-frontal photograph of her nude body for the record and three other slave merchants examined her to award the grade of Choice Plus.) I guess I'm a soft touch, because NOW I felt sorry for her being forced to bend over and expose her entire body for a full set of slave photographs--although they were nominally intended for identification, in fact such photos were part of the process of psychologically subordinating new slaves.

The next time I saw Janey was when we were both part of a crowd of slaves being walked through block positions, otherwise known as "Slave Yoga." The same cute but very short female wrangler was drilling a dozen slaves, including the two of us, and although that woman smiled and encouraged us, she was insistent on perfection in the positions. As a cheerleader over the age of 18, Janey had practiced these positions as a form of erotic calisthenics, but this time she was "slave nekkid" and forced to repeat all the obscene begging for masters to penetrate her. I was relieved to see, out of the corner of my eye, that she seemed to be getting into it, smiling and even giving the wranglers flirtatious looks.

Now that we were all as aroused as we were likely to get, our wranglers hurried us into line for auction. I was near the head of the line, so I didn't have time to worry. Before I knew it, I was once again sold, this time for $45,000 (Granted I was a Prime Minus, I had only five years left on my indenture.) Once again, I had no idea who my new owner was, but I was left to worry in a wire cage for what seemed like hours before I heard footsteps approaching, at which point I knelt in slave spread to await my fate.

To my astonishment, Master Ken admitted Jimmy Orbey into my cage. Although he had seen me nude on many occasions, I still blushed at the thought of my spread-open pose, showing him everything my mom had taught me to conceal. Even more surprising, he was leading Janey, her hands cuffed behind her and her face blushing a deep scarlet, on a leash!

"Sorry I took so long, Sweetheart," said Jimmy in an apologetic tone while looking at me. "I had to wait until I could buy Janey, and then pay for both of you." WTF?

(Janey Bowers' perspective)

The journey from the honor board, where my cheating earned me both a whopping fine and two years of enslavement, to my current humiliation was quick and surprisingly painless. The first time a slave wrangler goosed my rear end and squeezed my left breast he shocked me into silence. I absolutely hated being naked in front of those hunky guys--I had always promised or (usually) withheld my body to get young men to cater to me, and now, I realized with a shock, they could just TAKE me any time they wanted. That was the ultimate sense of powerlessness, and yet in a weird way it was titillating (and by that I mean my tits suddenly stood out!) I really disliked being so uncomfortable while bound inside a dog cage, but the rest of it was like an R-rated dream, right through my auction ($23,000 for my two years of service) with juice running down my inner thighs.

The wet dream ended abruptly when that damn nerd Jimmy walked into my cage and told me that HE was my new owner. Where did a college sophomore get that kind of money? Hell, I hated having geeks like him even LOOK at me in school, and now he owned me? My face must have betrayed my disgust at this news, but he seemed amused at my reaction.

"Don't worry, girl--now that you're a slave, you'll find that the body you've been using to tease guys is only good for one thing--If you behave yourself, it'll earn you eight inches of prick inside you."

I involuntarily reacted as I would have when I was still free, "Euuuww!" But he just chuckled, hooked a damn dog leash onto my collar, and walked out of the cage I had been in. I had no choice but to follow.

And then he repeated the scene in another cage where that bitch--MY slave!--Leslie was kneeling with her hands behind her neck, proudly showing off her oversized slave tits. When he announced that he had bought both of us, she smiled eagerly as if she LIKED that idea, although her face looked as doubtful as mine.

"But where did you get enough money to buy even one of us?" She asked, as he motioned for her to stand up in front of him.

"Don't worry, last summer while you were training as a pony I was beta-testing my new AI algorithm--I just sold it to Yangtze on-line sales. Two days from now, I have to fly out to Redmond for a few weeks helping integrate my work into theirs, but when I come back we'll work on manumitting you, Leslie. Until then, I'm sorry but the easiest thing is to turn you over to the JV Pony Girl people for the summer."