Trying on a Collar Pt. 01

(This is a fantasy set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations. In the real world, however, slavery and sexual assault are NEVER acceptable under any circumstances.)

Being raised in upstate New York, I had very little experience with slavery until I went to college. High School Social Studies included a brief discussion of the 34th Amendment to the Constitution and the legal consequences of that amendment. In the North and West of the United States, however, slavery was rare in comparison to the South. I don't know whether this was due to differences in culture or climate—all I can tell you is the result. Once in a while, you heard about a celebrity who owned one or more "extraordinary talent" slaves, former citizens who were valued for their abilities (cosmetologist, business consultant, accountant, and so on) rather than their bodies. "Talents" were usually clothed, so fan magazines didn't have to worry about showing any nudity. I think Hollywood publicists avoided any public depiction of slavery so that Northern fans wouldn't complain about shocking their children.

Some Northern states had enacted their own slave codes, and in rare cases enslavement might be added to a long criminal sentence as a sort of frosting on the cake. With the abolition of capital punishment, the most serious crimes were now punishable by prolonged incarceration and enslavement, but such people were usually kept in maximum confinement, invisible to the public but reportedly exploited by other, free prisoners. One time on a family trip through Indiana, I saw a chain gang of enslaved criminals picking up trash along the Interstate, but that was it.

Unlike the race-based hereditary slavery before the Civil War, this new version wasn't even much of a political issue—most people believed that those who had lost their rights deserved their fate because they had committed serious crimes or voluntarily pledged themselves for debt. With modern techniques of chipping and tracking the human body, it was almost impossible for a slave to escape anyway, although a few liberal places such as San Francisco declared themselves sanctuary cities. Few people ever had to pledge their freedom as collateral for loans in the north. The well-endowed private colleges, and especially the women's colleges like the one I attended, simply asked all applicants NOT to pledge themselves for college loans—instead, the schools themselves provided scholarships and low-interest loans, which was the only way I could afford to attend.

Given my current pre-occupation with the topic, I now find it odd that I barely thought about slavery while I was growing up. I was too focused on just surviving socially, trying to have any kind of friendships without thinking about extreme relationships like slavery. My name's Shirley Thompson, by the way—and let's skip the dumb jokes about the name "Shirley" because I've heard them all.

Anyway, the high school version of Shirley was a mess—"birth control" glasses, too much weight, acne, stringy hair, the whole gamut of teen self-image problems, combined with a love of reading that made me bust every grading curve in school. What do you expect when your parents are both teachers themselves? I was so unpopular I couldn't have even been queen of the chess club. My senior year, however, I finally got serious about diet and exercise, and my astigmatism miraculously abated so that I could wear much thinner, more stylish glasses. I couldn't drive without them, but could manage to find the bathroom anyway. Having lost fat and tightened my abs, for the first time people could see my rather prominent (C-cup on a 5 foot six inch body) breasts. But I finished high school as a virgin with virtually no social experience.

By the time I arrived at my new school (I'm not going to name it because I don't want to embarrass my profs—let's just say a woman's college outside Boston that produced two secretaries of state) as an 18-year-old freshman, I thought that my appearance was at least presentable, although psychologically I still lacked self-confidence and assertiveness. My new roommate made up for any such deficiencies.

Pam Foster was everything I'm not—blond haired, blue eyed, beautiful face, perfect clothes and makeup on a svelte 5 foot 10 inch body, and enough personality to make three of me. Whereas I was the mousy brunette, 5 foot 6 (on a good day) who tried to disappear into the woodwork, she was the star of every group and the center of every event. Pam was instantly best friends with almost everyone she encountered but didn't hesitate to tell the few exceptions to that rule, the arrogant or nasty ones, to get the F___ out of her way. (At times like that, her Texas twang emerged strongly, but the rest of the time she had a much more cultured, Midwest/accent-less diction.)

Please don't misunderstand me—Pam's not vain or even obnoxious except when she intends to be, and the target of her ire usually deserves it. She's actually very kind and (to me at least) generous. Once she realized that I was a poor, scholarship kid, she never flaunted her family's money in any way, although at least three times during freshman year she paid for an outfit that I longed to own but couldn't afford. That was just part of the service she offered, helping me develop a style to show off my new body while pushing me to socialize.

No, Pam wasn't the mean, judgmental girl lording it over us peasants—but she was manipulative in an older sister, I-know-what's-best-for-you kind of way. She quickly realized that I was an introvert who avoided the spotlight, and tried to draw me out of my shell. Initially, all we had in common was our room and our brains (she had to be "wicked schmart" to get into this place; I still didn't believe I'd made it), although she took charge of my life as well as her own. We studied hard most of the time, but at least one night a week she dragged me off to some mixer or other social event. There are more than 60 colleges in the Boston area, so there was always something going on, and she soon knew all the organizers. She attracted an amazing number of men and boys (a distinction she privately insisted upon) and, while being kind to all of them, managed to funnel some of her cast-off males my way. With her full connivance, I lost my virginity to one of the nicer "boys" at Halloween; I was still too tongue-tied to deal with a really masculine guy.

*****

Time to get back to the subject—slavery. One night in November, Pam got really hammered drinking in a way I'd never seen her before. Fortunately, our escorts were gentlemen who helped me get her back on campus. I made sure she drank a lot of water, after which I placed a waste basket next to her bed and went to sleep myself. By the sounds of it, my roommate not only used the waste basket but "worshipped the porcelain goddess" several times in the night. Thank heavens she cleaned up after herself and opened a few windows—November air in Massachusetts is cold, but at least it dissipated the smell.

When she finally resumed consciousness, I pushed yogurt and more water on her until she could function. She brushed her teeth, gargled, and then looked at me, seriously, to thank me for taking care of her the previous night. I tried gently to remonstrate with her about getting so drunk.

"Don't worry," she replied, "I don't intend to do that ever again. Back home in Houston, a woman who gets that drunk is likely to wake up as part of the permanent inventory."

I looked blank. She almost snapped, as if her meaning were obvious, "you know, the permanent inventory at a slave market."

"Oh." I started, then thought for a minute. "Is there a temporary inventory?"

"Of course, silly." Pam replied, as if it was obvious. "Permanent inventory are the slaves and indentured servants on sale, temporary inventory are people getting graded, like you were."

"Me? I've never been graded—never even seen a slave market. They're just not common around here, and anyway I'm too timid." I tried not to sound judgemental.

"I forgot," she admitted. "So, you've never been graded? That means you don't have an ID number?" I was shocked when she turned her lower lip inside out to show me a 9-digit number tattooed there, but then she flipped her lip back up and continued, "And I'll bet you've never practiced slave positions, right?"

I was trying not to offend my new best friend, so I pretended that I knew what she meant. "You mean, like slave yoga? I've never done that—do you know how?"

"Sure!" she replied in her normal, peppy tone but then held her head from the sudden pain. "Uhh, maybe we'd better not try that today, we both have papers due for English tomorrow. Back home, once we all turned 18, the other cheerleaders and I did slave yoga several days each week. Tell you what, how 'bout I show you next Saturday after breakfast?"

*****

On the appointed day, inside our room, she insisted that I wear the briefest sports bra and boy shorts I owned.

"By rights, you should practice naked—that's the only way to understand what this is about. But I know how shy you are about that tight body of yours, so for now we'll just practice covered up."

Pam began by showing me the different positions, then had me do them along with her, and finally stood back and ordered me about in a commanding tone of voice. Most of the positions were relatively simple to assume, but she insisted that I respond instantly to each command and perform every pose perfectly. I had thought I was in good shape, but the constant movement in response to commands soon had me panting slightly. Among the positions she directed were:

"Present!" Standing facing her, I interlocked my hands behind my neck, which naturally made my boobs look bigger as they thrust out. My legs were slightly more than shoulder-width apart.

"While you're there, twerk your hips three times." I was rather proud of my newly-defined abs, so I did this but felt silly, like a little girl pretending to be sexy.

"Prone!" She snapped. "Nose on the carpet, hands by your sides if they're not bound behind you, legs about 18 inches apart so that everything is visible." Then she threw in a curveball: "Reach back with both hands and spread your cheeks." Even though I was wearing shorts, this position was intensely demeaning—I could imagine being naked and having anyone see my sphincter. As it was, pulling my shorts that tight brought a wetness into contact with my skin. Before I could figure out why I was damp down there, Pam shifted to another position.

"Display!" I scrambled to my feet, turned to face away from her, spread my legs to shoulder width, and bent my head down between my legs. "Come on, slut, you can bend over farther than that," she said, lightly smacking my left cheek. I tried again, bending even farther forward so that my butt was again the highest part of my body.

"Slave Fours!" was the next move—I leaned forward onto all fours, face down, knees, hands, and feet on the floor, then dropped from hands to elbows so that my head and shoulders were lower than my behind. What was it with these people and looking at women's butts? At least mine was covered, I thought, unlike a real slave's.

"Flip over!" meant just what it sounded like. I had to lunge upward, pushing hard on my right elbow, leg, and foot so that my body pivoted over, then catching myself so that both hands and both feet were on the floor beneath me, back arched, thighs wide apart, in a sort of spider pose. I couldn't help but imagine what this would look like if I were nude—instead of my C-cup breasts being restrained by the sports bra, they would bobble back and forth while my entire groin would be exposed. I suddenly felt even more damp down there.

"Collar!" I moved back to my knees, facing away from her, one hand on hip and the other holding my hair away from my neck to permit installation of a collar or leash.

"Of course," explained my roommate, "If you were doing these poses on a slave block, you'd be expected to beg to be purchased or fucked, and you would have to reach down to your crotch with one hand to rub yourself. Care to try that?" She grinned but didn't insist when she saw how embarrassed I was.

On we went for another 20 minutes. Towards the end, she joined back in doing the exercises with me. By the time we were done, we were both rather sweaty and (I have to admit) aroused.

"I know nothing about all this," I finally panted, "but why do you talk like a drill sergeant when you give instructions? That's not like any yoga class I've ever seen."

"OK—remember the origin of these moves is not just exercise but arousal. The idea is for a slave to act and talk in a way that arouses both her and the audience of potential buyers. That makes the slave more desirable, selling her for a higher price, while at the same time it drills instant obedience into the girl. I can't really do it justice, though—somewhere in a big city like Boston there must be a real slave yoga class with a male instructor. Let me look for one and we'll both go try it."

"But wearing clothes, right?" I couldn't keep the alarm out of my voice.

"Well, to begin with anyway." She smirked at me.

*****

Later that day, we took a break from studying.

"I can tell you're curious about slavery. I've been debating whether I should show you a video I have to help you understand things better," Pam remarked abruptly. "I don't want to scare you, because most slave interactions are conducted very calmly and without violence—another advantage of slave yoga is to encourage obedience without force. But, this video is real, and I think it will help you grasp the society from which I come."

"The woman I'm about to show you is treated rather harshly but believe me she deserves everything that happens to her. Let me give you the back story: There were two sisters, Carmen and Miranda Castillo. Carmen was another cheerleader in my high school class—a real sweetheart who never did anyone wrong. Smart as a whip, too. Miranda, however, was three years older and the poster child for nasty. She put everyone down, and she was really jealous of Carmen, who was much smarter and more popular."

"So, this last September," Pam continued, "Miranda decided to get rid of her sister. She volunteered to take Carmen to her new college on the other side of the city for freshman year, and for some reason she got their dad to give her a power of attorney to help register Carmen. Carmen didn't suspect anything but thought that her sister was finally going to be closer to her after years of fighting."

"Miranda drove her sister to the college, helped her get registered, and set up everything in her dorm room. Then, she announced that they needed to go out to lunch together before parting. While they were at lunch, however, Miranda slipped her own sister a roofie—rohypnol or something. While Carmen was out of it, conscious but clueless, Miranda drove to the biggest slave market in our city—the Longhorn—stripped her, cuffed her hands behind her back, and sprayed devox down her throat so the girl couldn't talk. Then she led her own sister by a leash into the slave market and, using the power of attorney from their Dad, turned her over for sale the next morning. After which Miranda went home and pretended nothing had happened, figuring it would be days before anyone realized that her precious younger sister was missing."

"It might have worked, except that my older brother Jessie was working the night shift at the Long Horn. You need to meet Jessie—he's a great guy, even if he is my brother. Anyway, Jessie recognized Carmen and smelled a rat. By this time it's about 10 o'clock that night and the roofie was wearing off. So Jessie gave my naked, bound friend Carmen the antidote for devox and asked her what happened. The girl was still kind of rambling and couldn't remember how or why she got there. The situation just didn't seem right. So, Jessie risked his job by calling up Mr. Castillo and asking him if he knew where Carmen was. Long story short, the dad came down with a set of clothes and enough proof that he was the father to get Carmen released into his custody, pending an investigation. But, nobody told Miranda what they had discovered."

"Sorry for the long explanation, but here's what happened the next morning. Jessie shot this video, which starts in the customer parking lot of the Long Horn."

Scene: A young, stylishly-dressed Hispanic woman drives a late model sedan into a huge parking lot. When she steps out, she's suddenly confronted by an older Hispanic man in a suit and a younger woman, both with fire in their eyes.

"Daddy! What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same, Miranda," he replies, visibly trying to control his temper. "Why was your sister—my daughter—naked and chained inside this place?"

Obviously trying to brazen it out, the older sister replies, "I was just playing a joke on her. I came down this morning to let her out and take her to school."

"That's odd," says the father. "This gentleman" (nodding towards the camera) "showed me an order you signed for her to be sold at auction this morning as a pleasure slave. He also showed me a photocopy of the power of attorney I gave you as authority for the sale."

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," Miranda persists, trying desperately to be convincing.

"Yeah, there certainly was a misunderstanding," her father replies. "Your mother and I have decided to correct that misunderstanding by ensuring that the correct daughter gets sold. Take care of this bitch," he says, waving to two burly guys wearing blue jeans and the Long Horn logo on their T-shirts.

Desperately, Miranda wheels and tries to run away, but is dropped by a shock from an electric baton. Before she can recover, the two handlers calmly pull off every stitch of her clothing, cuff her hands behind her back, and install a shock collar around her neck. (I'd read about this but never seen anything like it; it was like watching an R-Rated train wreck, and I couldn't look away.)

One of the handlers lectures Miranda, using a statement that is obviously memorized. It sounds almost like a policeman Mirandizing a suspect. "You are at The Longhorn Slave Market in Houston, Texas. You are here for processing and sale as a pleasure slave. I am required by law to tell you that the collar you have been fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this market without permission. Additionally, all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO electrical shock and whipping. You have just received a demonstration of the shock. Do you need another demonstration?"

The dishevelled, naked, and wild-eyed woman shakes her head vigorously, then remembers to respond "No, Master."

"Do you understand your situation?" "Yes, Master."

"Good. To avoid further pain, obey all orders." Attaching a leash to the collar, he tows her into the building, followed by the other handler. Looking somewhat reluctant but determined, Mr. Castillo and his other daughter follow suit, as does the camera.

New scene: The former Miranda is kneeling on a concrete floor, naked, thighs wide apart, with hands still bound behind her. Full frontal nudity, with her shoulders drooping in defeat. Her leash is tied to a podium, where a handler is looking up data for her case on an electronic pad.

"Your slave number is 745-66-9114. You may be referred to as 9114. Do you understand?"

She nods, mutely, but when the handler swings a strap across both her nipples, she squeaks, "Yes, Master."