The Slave Contract Ch. 01

My name is Diane.

Seven years ago, I was a slave in a European nation where slavery is legal. Naked, sexually appealing slaves can be seen on the streets of this nation, and the erotic sights of attractive men and women being forced to exhibit their naked bodies for the prurient enjoyment of strangers brings in millions of dollars in tourism revenue every month.

I authored a book about my experiences as a naked sex slave, and it sold remarkably well. It was so successful, I was able to move to a better part of town, buy a house and hire a personal trainer.

I enjoyed the success. And then, I wrote a second book. This one was a book of erotic lesbian fiction. It didn't do as well as my first.

And then the sales of my third book were even less spectacular.

There was a downward spiral. My first book was by far the most popular, and from that point on, the popularity and sales of my books steadily diminished.

Fans told me that my later books were "lacking in intensity", and some of my fans suggested that I get back to my roots.

Of course, getting back to my roots would mean going back to Sessia and becoming a slave again. And that would be crazy, right?

Right?

I had mentioned the idea in joking when talking to Jenn over at Wayward House Publishing. They had published seven of my books so far, and Jenn was my main contact person at the publishing house.

"It's not such a crazy idea," Jenn told me. "If you were to become a slave again, we could capitalize on all the free publicity. Buzz about an author always means increased book sales, and if you were seen on social media as a naked slave in Europe again, that would mean a lot of buzz."

"It would mean a lot of pain, Jenn," I responded. "It would mean welts."

"So?" Jenn retorted. "You've done it before. Welts heal, right?"

* * *

Jenn talked to her superiors at Wayward House, and they agreed with her. My book sales kept declining, and the consensus was that they were going to keep declining unless I did something dramatic to shake things up.

And then, the Department of Tourism in Sessia announced that they were planning a massive new project they were calling the Slave Olympics. It was a series of athletic events, and all the competing athletes were going to be sex slaves.

* * *

"This is perfect," Jenn exclaimed. "There's going to be a huge amount of publicity generated about every slave competing in every single one of those events. If you compete, the amount of buzz around you would be huge!"

I pushed back against the idea. I had done my time as a naked slave, and now I was a respected, accomplished woman. I had dignity, self-respect and a home in a nice neighborhood. Women like me didn't submit for a naked spanking on a public street or get whipped in a Punishment Park. They wore custom tailored suits and went to book signings.

* * *

I didn't want to become a slave again. The reasons behind that should be fairly obvious. Slaves are abused, objectified, sexually assaulted and subjected to painful punishments on a regular basis. I didn't bother to point this out to Jenn as I assumed she already knew. I mean...how could she not know?

When Jenn failed to convince me, they broke out the big guns. Maggie Bishop, the head of marketing at Wayward House, called me. She insisted that I had to go back to Sessia and reconnect with the slave scene there or else my career as a lesbian femdom author was over.

I moaned and groaned and tried to dig my feet in, but Maggie was very insistent, and she had a way of persuading people to do things they didn't want to do.

She claimed that if I didn't do it, they would send somebody else to Sessia to compete in the slave games and write a book about it.

That was a thinly veiled threat. My book sales were already lagging. If a competing author went to Sessia, signed a slave contract and then came back home to write a book about her experiences as a naked slave, she was going to get all the free publicity and my literary efforts were going to be eclipsed by hers.

But if I agreed to sign a slave contract and participate in the Slave Olympics, the publishing house promised me a huge advance.

I didn't have a lot of time to decide. Events were already being set into motion with the Slave Olympics in Sessia and athletes/slaves who wanted to enter needed to make a commitment soon. The offer of a huge advance would be withdrawn, and the publishing house would find somebody else to send to Sessia if I didn't take them up on their offer within a matter of days.

Then Carolyn got involved.

Carolyn was friends with Maggie, and I think she also worked at the publishing house in some capacity or other. I'm not sure of her exact title, but if I was going to be a slave somebody would have to be listed on the paperwork as my owner. Maggie felt that Carolyn would be an ideal slave owner.

So, Carolyn showed up at my front door.

She was impressively tall, about 6'3" or 6'4" in heels. She towered over me, making me feel small and vulnerable. She appeared to be in her mid to late thirties and well-groomed in a gray suit. She had intelligent, blue eyes and a self-confident demeanor.

"You and I are going to be working together," she proclaimed. She didn't leave any room for objection. She was emotionally invested in the Slave Olympics project and in order for the project to work, I needed to become a slave again.

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," I said flatly.

"You will," Carolyn countered. "It's a career move. Your career is currently stalled, and this is the only way to get things moving again. You'll come to that conclusion on your own eventually. I'm just here to speed up the process."

I rolled my eyes at her.

"And the publishing house will be paying you to be a dominant lesbian that leads me around on a leash? Doesn't it strike you as odd that a publishing house would pay somebody to do that?"

"Officially, I'll be your handler," she explained. "Publishing houses hire handlers all the time to oversee authors and make sure that books get written. And those handlers are given a great deal of latitude in choosing what sort of methods they'll employ to keep an author on track."

"So, for you this is just business?" I asked. "You don't get a thrill from spanking naked girl's bottoms?"

"Oh, make no mistake," she replied. "I love your buttocks. They're perfect. And I'm going to enjoy spanking them. But primarily, I have a responsibility to make sure you write another best seller."

It was just a matter of time before I caved. As a writer, my publishing house was an important part of my life, and it seemed as if everyone at the Wayward House Publishing wanted me to go back to Europe to become a naked sex slave.

* * *

Even if you included training, exhibitions, interviews, competitions and judging, the Slave Olympics only lasted six weeks. However, I was pressured into signing an eight-week slave contract. After the athletic competitions were over, they thought it would be ideal for me to be a slave for another two weeks while I began to author my book. They felt my words would have more emotional impact if I was filled with feelings of subjugation. helplessness, vulnerability and agonizing, feverish waves of desire.

They were probably right, but I still complained about having to be naked and objectified for an additional two weeks.

Since I was going to be competing in the Slave Olympics, I needed to choose an athletic event. There weren't many events to choose from and all of them were designed to make the slaves look like subjugated sex objects. Although some were worse than others.

"How about the fifty-meter race," I commented as I went through the list of events. "It's one of the few events where the slave gets to wear clothing."

"They get to wear running shoes," Carolyn replied. "That's all. They're naked from the ankles up."

"Still, that's something, right?"

"I think it would be fun if you competed in one of the pony-slave events. "You would look so cute with a bit gag in your mouth and a horsetail jutting out of your ass."

I was horrified at the idea. Pony-slaves had to wear blinders, a metal bit gag in their mouth that made them drool on themselves, an anal plug shoved up their rectum, and they got urged to run faster and faster by being struck with a buggy whip as they pulled a carriage or cart.

Eventually, I was signed up to compete in wrestling events. Carolyn liked the idea of me rolling around naked on a mat as I grappled with another naked slave girl who would rub her naked body against mine as she attempted to pin me down and make me helpless.

* * *

On May the 15th we arrived in Sessia.

My heart hammered in my chest as the reality of my situation hit me full force. I'd signed a slave contract and the moment the plane touched down on Sessian soil I would legally become Carolyn's property. It was too late to back out now. I was going to become a naked slave whether I wanted to be or not.

I carried our carryon luggage as we walked off the plane and made our way toward customs. Carolyn declared that I was her slave, and she handed my slave contract to a custom official. The customs official looked over my paperwork, checked my passport, and told us that a security officer would take Carolyn and me to a special room where they processed slaves arriving from foreign nations.

The security officer was taller than me and had a handgun, pepper spray and handcuffs on her utility belt. I immediately felt intimidated by her.

"Come with me, please," she said in a firm voice, and I was taken to an antiseptic room that looked like a cross between a police interrogation room and a medical examination room. Once we were all inside, I was told to strip naked.

"Remove all of your clothing," I was instructed. "Also remove all your jewelry. Surrender your phone and any other personal items you may be carrying. Slaves aren't permitted to own any sort of property."

Another security guard showed up and both of them gave me cold, hard, expectant looks and waited impatiently for me to strip. Feeling more than a little nervous, I unbuckled my belt, removed it and set it down on the examination table.

Next, I removed my shoes. They were expensive, high heeled, designer shoes. I don't enjoy walking in high heels, however, I wanted to impress my captors before I became a slave by showing up wearing the most expensive, elegant attire I could feasibly lay my hands upon. Therefore, I came wobbling in wearing extremely expensive but impractical footwear.

My dress was custom tailored and showed off my curves to great advantage. My lingerie was also quite expensive and showed off my figure as well.

Everyone in the room gave me cold looks as I reached for the front of my dress and began to undo the buttons. They looked unimpressed with my custom-tailored pencil dress, ditto with my Victoria's Secret pushup bra and thong panties.

Stripping for such cold, uncaring government employees sent a chill up my spine. I had forgotten how dehumanizing it could be to be a slave. I had gotten into the habit of romanticizing the experience when I wrote about the whole slave/slave owner relationship in my books, but the truth was it was terrifying, degrading and objectifying. I felt an extreme and sudden surge of regret that I had agreed to go along with this.

By the time I was down to just my panties, I felt defeated and submissive to all of the clothed women watching me. I sighed in resignation as I hooked my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my delicate panties and pushed them all the way down. I felt a surge of shame as I bent down and picked my panties off the floor and placed them on the table with the rest of my clothes.

I felt a sense of panic and betrayal and then my next humiliation came as I was told to bend over and rest my weight on my elbows so one of the security guards could perform a body cavity search on me.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"It's standard operating procedure for processing new slaves," one of the guards explained as she applied pressure to the small of my back.

I spread my legs and bent over at the waist. Then the most imposing security guard snapped on a latex glove. My buttocks were grabbed and spread conspicuously far apart.

An OSI employee chose that exact moment to enter, just as my anus was being prepared to be probed. She claimed that she was there to deliver my government issued slave collar, but I think she wanted to see the look of humiliation on my face as I was anally probed.

Carolyn, the government employee and the other security guard all watched with intense interest as my buttocks were spread apart to expose my delicate, pink anus. I could feel their eyes burning holes into me as a large blob of cold, oily lubricant was worked into my tight hole and strong, insistent fingers were thrust inside of me. It took all my self-control to remain bent over and shamelessly exposed as that authoritarian woman thrust her fingers roughly inside of me and probed deep.

The fingers slipped out and I felt relieved. Some of the tension went out of me, but then the fingers unexpectedly speared my asshole a second time and impaled me hard and deep.

"Ohhhhhh!"

I gasped as she began to jam her fingers brutally in and out. I felt my legs getting rubbery as the fingers abused my delicate orifice and tears welled up in my eyes. I took long, deep breaths and tried not to look at the faces of the clothed women who watched me with cold eyes as my anus was impaled.

My legs felt weak as my ass was raped and I felt relieved when the fingers were withdrawn. Of course, my relief was short-lived. It took only a few seconds for the security guard to strip off her latex glove, snap on a new one and tell me that she had to check my vagina next.

I gasped when I felt two fingers slide deep into my vagina. The fingers probed and searched, mapping out every square inch of my interior. I felt that she spent entirely too much time probing my insides. A legitimate search of my vagina should have taken only a few seconds, but her fingers explored my moist interior until I was on the verge of a shuddering orgasm. When she finally withdrew her fingers from my sex, I was panting and feverish with sexual desire.

The slave collar was then buckled and locked around my neck. Carolyn was given the key and she dropped it in her purse. There was a stainless-steel tag on the collar that had my name engraved on it. Also, Carolyn's name was engraved on there as my legal owner. Information on how to contact Carolyn was imprinted too...presumably to make it easy to contact her if I escaped and the people who found me wanted to return me to my rightful owner.

I was naked and wearing a collar that identified me as Carolyn's property. She was fully dressed and held onto the key that locked the slave collar around my throat. I felt owned, exposed, vulnerable, helpless...and sexually aroused.

When the security guards allowed me to stand up my hands reflexively went to cover my breasts and my pubic lips. It was a protective gesture that almost any woman would do automatically if she were naked and surrounded by fully clothed strangers.

"Diane!" Carolyn admonished me. "What do you think you're doing? You've been a sex slave before. Do you really expect me to believe they allowed you to use your hands to cover up your naked body the last time you were a slave?"

"I haven't been a slave in years," I explained. "I'm having trouble adjusting. You can't expect me to readjust to my old way of life within a matter of moments, okay?"

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. A wicked smile slowly spread across Carolyn's face, and she replied, "I think I can help speed up the process."

* * *

Less than an hour later, we were at the Punishment Park in Oceangate. I tried to talk Carolyn out of taking me there. Just the thought of being taken to a Punishment Park fills slaves with apprehension and anxiety. I argued that Carolyn shouldn't take me there unless I'd done something to deserve it.

"Oh, but you do deserve it," Carolyn countered. "You used your hands to cover up that beautiful body of yours. The whole reason that you're naked is so free men and women can enjoy your boobs and your other naughty bits. You can't be covering them up."

Once inside the park, I was greeted by the sight of other naked slaves. They all had perfect bodies with slender waists, admirable muscle tone and high, firm buttocks. I had forgotten how bewitching it could be to be surrounded by so much nudity and for a few seconds I couldn't move as I just took it all in and stared.

"Hey! Stop ogling the other slaves!"

Carolyn smacked my bottom hard and informed me that I'd earned myself even more punishments for my undisciplined gaze.

"Carolyn, that hurts!" I complained as I rubbed my sore bottom.

"It's supposed to hurt," she snapped at me. "And you need to start addressing me as Mistress."

Carolyn purchased a riding crop at the gift shop. The Punishment Parks didn't have gift shops the last time I visited Sessia, but apparently someone realized they could make a profit by selling leather straps, whips, handcuffs and other BDSM accessories at the place in Sessia where free men and women would be most motivated to use them.

"Now, get on your knees, slave girl," Carolyn ordered, brandishing her crop, implying strongly that my naked body was being threatened.

Park employees, slave owners and tourists watched me intently as I gingerly went down on one knee, and then both knees. I looked up at Carolyn, resentful of the authority she had over me and then she said, "Get your legs apart. Now, put your hands behind your head."

I felt it was cruel for Carolyn to force me to expose my naked body like this in a public place with dozens of people watching. I was kneeling with my legs spread far apart, my public lips utterly exposed, my hands behind the back of my neck, my fingers intertwined, my elbows pulled back, and my breasts thrust forward.

"Now, you're starting to get it," Carolyn said encouragingly as she rubbed the soft, leather loop of the riding crop up and down across one of my naked breasts. "You'll be in the proper slave-girl mindset in no time."

With my breasts thrust out, Carolyn brushed the tip of the crop across my exposed nipple, causing it to stiffen and become instantly erect. I felt a wave of fear wash over me, yet almost simultaneously a wave of desire washed over me as well.

Once upon a time I had a girlfriend named Gretchen. She and I used to play BDSM sex games with Gretchen always taking the dominant role. We broke up years ago, and I hadn't done anything with bondage and discipline since then.

I had forgotten the emotional potency that came with those sorts of games. As Carolyn stroked my vulnerable breasts with her riding crop, I felt a delicious cocktail of fear and desire spread heat across my body. My loins became feverish, my heart pounded in my chest and my nipples became so hard that they ached.

As my fear and desire grew, I panted. And then Carolyn smacked one of my vulnerable breasts with the tip of her riding crop.

"Aaahh!"

"Oh, it hurts!" I complained.

The agonizing sting soon faded to a painful throbbing, and Carolyn held the crop as if she intended to strike me again. I gritted my teeth and resisted the instinctual urge to use my hands to protect my poor, innocent breasts.

"It's supposed to hurt," Carolyn insisted. "Now, arch your back and thrust your tits out more."

My self-preservation instinct was screaming at me to protect myself from the crop, but I ignored my instincts and instead, I pulled my elbows back, arched my spine and presented my breasts, making them an even easier target for Carolyn's crop.