Trying on a Collar Pt. 04

"You don't know when to shut up, do you?" Jessie growled at him. "Angela, you want to take a turn at his other end?" That finally silenced him, and he was hustled out of the room, hands cuffed behind him.

Jessie offered me a cloth to wipe myself off, and handed bottles of water to both Cho and me. He and the other handlers departed without a word, and the overhead light went out.

*****

It seemed as if I had barely fallen asleep when I realized that Jessie was shaking me awake. What a nice way to awaken, I thought, smiling at him at him and about to say something.

"Shush." He whispered. "It's 4:30 in the morning, and about time for Cinderella to leave the ball—although I seem to remember balling her!" As he leaned over me, his body was between me and my "cage mate," Cho, so she couldn't see him quickly remove the pleasure slave collar and restore what I assumed was my grading collar. Then he stood me up, cuffed my hands, and walked me out, securing the cage door behind me.

Both the air and the concrete floor felt cold to my naked body as he guided me quickly to another cage, marked G4, where three of the cots were occupied.

"Here you go, safe and sound," he murmured, pausing to fondle my boobs. "You'll stay here until your grading, after which Pam will take you home. We both need some sleep, so ask her to bring you to my apartment about 4:00 tomorrow afternoon—I took the night off."

He started to apologize for the way he had used me earlier, but I assured him that it was one of the best experiences of my life. He slipped me into the cage, released my wrists, secured the gate, and walked quickly away.

I huddled under the blanket, trying to get warm again, but couldn't sleep, my mind filled with the thrills I had experienced over the past 13 hours or so. A loud buzzer sounded and the lights came on, indicating morning. Much as I wanted to stay covered up, I carefully folded my new blanket and knelt on the floor, waiting for a handler to come for us. I noticed that, like me, the other occupants of G4 were wearing purple-trimmed collars; two of them looked to be very young to me, although they must have been 18 to be there.

After being double-teamed as a real slave, the rest of my time at the Longhorn was almost an anti-climax. Toilet, kibble and water for breakfast, and then preparation for exhibition. A handler put the four of us on a practice platform and drilled us again on slave yoga and slave mantras. This experience was not only humiliating in itself but also a memory of my lewd display for a group of wranglers the previous afternoon. The slave yoga achieved its purpose, arousing all four temporary slaves before being graded, to help us get the best possible scores.

Pam had paid extra to ensure that I got a brief once-over to make me presentable, including a female handler brushing my locks briskly until they curled and shone to best advantage. Then came the dreaded devox spray. You would think that, being naked, collared, bound, and thoroughly controlled, losing your voice wouldn't make much difference, but it did. Not only did it reduce me the last step down to being a dumb animal, but it also caused an unreasoning terror, as if being able to protest would have availed me were someone to put me on the slave block.

Instead, I underwent the lesser but still alarming trauma of being exhibited for evaluation. It was very similar to what Pam had described as her own experience almost two years earlier. At the Longhorn, exhibition was done in an inverted "Y"—each slave had her hands Velcro-ed together and attached above her head to a pole behind her, with ankles spread about 30 inches apart and again secured by Velcro. Of course, raising my hands and arms like that thrust my breasts forward. In this position, anyone could touch any part of my body, although my anus was only barely accessible—I was grateful for small mercies. For an hour, the four of us young women, along with another six people who were presumably actual slaves, hung there while anyone over the age of 18 was free to examine us.

As I had anticipated, the first group of viewers were all very young—probably high school seniors who had recently turned age 18 and still got a cheap thrill out of seeing and fondling naked women. One of my former cage-mates, whose name was apparently Linda, was mortified when three young guys crowded around her. I got the impression that she was the queen of their high school class, who would never give them the time of day—and now they were getting to 2nd and 3rd base with her as she hung there voiceless and defenseless. Since I was as helpless as she, I should have sympathized with her, but the despised high school nerd who still ruled my brain and crushed my self-esteem made me side mentally with the guys. They used every demeaning term they could think of as they fondled and teased her, promising to let everyone know how slutty she looked. What was it Mistress Jo had said last night about the new slavery being a great equalizer? Finally, much to Linda's relief, a slave handler told these guys to move on. They paused briefly to explore my body as well.

Next came what you might describe as "well-wishers," including the owners, temporary or permanent, of those on display. Unable to speak, I was overjoyed to see my BFF Pam, who held my claim ticket as a temporary "owner." She encouraged me, saying that my experience was almost over. She also took the opportunity to fondle my clit and nipples, thereby ensuring that I appeared "slave hot" when the real slave merchants came to grade me in a few moments.

By accident or not, I was on display next to Jimmy, who looked much subdued after his stressful night. Not surprisingly, his ex-wife, who was selling him as a slave, appeared. She was not wearing her wedding rings but (I was glad to see) did not try to humiliate him further. I was distracted by others toying with me, but I think I heard her express regret when she heard how harshly he had been treated. Finally, she kissed his cheek and departed without a backward glance.

Watching Linda and Jimmy helped distract me from my own ordeal, as dozens of complete strangers fondled, felt up, and finger-fucked my body (the 4Fs). I managed to keep calm and smile, but was very relieved when an older group—clearly the slave merchants—hove into view. They looked at the real slaves such as Jimmy to decide whether they were worth bidding for, and examined the young women like me because the Longhorn paid each of them a nominal fee for their grading. Most of the merchants were male and middle-aged or even older, but their scrutiny was much easier to tolerate than that of previous groups. They said very little, and only touched a few slaves to check things such as teeth and arousal levels. For once, I was glad to be in my sub-space with damp labia, as that contributed to my grading value.

After an hour that seemed to last for 200 minutes, the last visitors departed, the slave handlers released us from the racks and then marched us back to various cages. There they sprayed us with the antidote to devox, and gave each of us a water bottle to nurse our throats back to life. After an interminable 45 or 50 minutes of waiting, an unknown wrangler walked me out, still slave naked, collared, and cuffed, to the entrance area where I had arrived the previous afternoon. Only now the entrance was crowded with hundreds of people, the majority of them clothed. Because I was still part of the temporary inventory, the wrangler had nothing to say to me, although he took the time to play with my butt and boobs as we walked. Instead, he presented Pam with my slave-grading paperwork. Somehow, I had averaged out as "Choice." OK, purists might sneer because Choice is four steps below the ideal of Prime Plus, but as the former pimply-faced fat girl in high school I felt as if I'd received the Nobel Prize for sex appeal!

The wrangler finally removed the Longhorn's purple-bordered shock collar, and Pam substituted the pet collar and leash she had used the previous day. Maintaining the tradition of slave-grading humiliation, she led me slowly across a now-crowded parking lot as dozens of people stared at my exposed body. When we reached her car, however, she didn't continue the tease. Instead, she let me instantly don pants and a T-shirt, after which she removed the collar and drove us to her home. No matter how relieved I felt, the submissive slut inside of me couldn't help wishing that I could relive or continue the slave grading experience.

*****

Pam was considerate, leaving me in peace as we drove to her house and I took a shower, ate real food, and collapsed for a nap that was interrupted by rather powerful dreams of slavery. Later that afternoon, as she kindly drove me over to my boyfriend's apartment, she finally asked me to dish about my experience.

I grinned. "I hate to say it, girl, but sometimes you have the BEST evil ideas. I think that was the most thrilling night of my life."

She pumped me for the details, so I told her most of what happened to me, including slave yoga drills for an audience of wranglers, getting thoroughly "slut washed" by horny teenagers, and my two rounds of blow-job and doggy sex with her brother. I naturally left out some of the gory details there, thinking that it would be weird to talk about her sibling's sexual performance (even though, in my very limited experience, he was fantastic). I ended the story by regretting, rather wistfully, that slave-grading was a once in a lifetime experience—I had and have no desire to be a real slave, but that was a great example of fantasy come to life. Maybe someone could make it a theme park experience?

Pam giggled at that idea, but stated the obvious truth that real slavery was too horrible to contemplate. Then she remarked vaguely that there was another new option that we could discuss later. Just then she pulled up at Jessie's place, saying that he and I probably needed some time alone to discuss what happened. "I'm going to the mall for a while—give me a call when it's safe to come over, or if you need a ride back to our house."

I'll skip most of the next few minutes, spent necking and cuddling with my favorite guy. He apologized both for putting me at risk and for having to treat Jimmy so harshly—most slaves were smart enough not to get violent, but he owed it to the other slaves as well as to the customers to break Jimmy quickly so he wasn't a threat. I assured him that it was not a problem—besides, now I knew about the reality of his job, which up until then had seemed like being a Dom in a specialized bondage club.

Eventually I remembered to ask about the pictures he had taken of me. I blushed all over again watching the video of my slave yoga on the platform at the Longhorn, complete with lewd mantra phrases. It got us so worked up that I ended naked on my knees, giving him a blowjob followed by his now-rampant cock stretching every inch of me, right there on the couch. UUMMM. After we cleaned up and got dressed again, I reluctantly agreed that he could keep the full-frontal photo of me in the "Present" position, provided that he kept it under a separate password. The things women have to tolerate from their guys . . .

Then I remembered that we had discussed trading Pam a look at my video in return for permission to see her own National Registry photos—and that reminded me that Pam was over at the mall waiting for a call.

I'll spare you the detailed negotiations when I asked her to come back to his apartment. Cutting to the chase, she VERY reluctantly agreed to authorize Jessie to call up her photos for a brief look. We had to work out how he (who was the one with access to the registry) would do this so that HE didn't see them, by filling in all but the last digit of her slave number and then stepping into the other room while I typed in that number. Despite her embarrassment, my BFF looked like the greatest sex object of all time—and I noticed that the file recorded her grading as Prime Minus, something she had never told me! I found her so attractive (no, get your mind out of the gutter) that I was only surprised she wasn't graded even higher.

Once we closed the file so that Jessie could return, the three of us watched my video—which I pray never makes it onto YouTube. You would think that by now I would be beyond reacting to that film clip, but I have to admit that it got all three of us going in different ways. I was acutely aware of my own arousal, and noticed that Jessie's jeans were getting tight again. Pam, of course, praised my performance as yet another proof that her terminally-shy roommate should be proud of her body.

*****

We had a pizza together and hung out, with Jessie and I being very tactile with each other until Pam finally said that it was time for her to leave, and she'd come pick me up Tuesday morning, when Jessie needed to nap before going back to work. We spent a fun night together, at least until I crashed while Jessie, who was used to reverse shift sleeping, was wide awake. Early the next morning I awoke to find him staring at me. Morning sex!

True to her word, Pam showed up at the early (for her) time of 8:30 a.m. to drive me back to her house while Jessie slept. For the moment my body was satiated, but my mind kept returning to our discussions of slave grading, slave yoga, and what a horny little slut I was. That reminded me of Pam's odd remark about a "new option."

"Ummm, Pam?"

"What's on your mind, girlfriend—as if I didn't know!"

"Am I that obvious?" I replied, pretending to pout.

"Well, Duuuh!" came the reply. "Let me save you some embarrassment—tell me if this sounds right to you, OK?" I nodded agreement. "You really like Jessie—I told you he was perfect for you, right? But your horny little mind keeps thinking about pretending to be a slave. You're too smart to ever want to BE a slave, or even to indenture yourself, because you have college to finish and a life to live—not to mention that you would die if your parents found out what happened this week. As I said, though, you REALLY enjoyed wearing a collar, and not just because you had great sex with my brother. How am I doing so far?"

Me: "I'm embarrassed to admit it, but you're batting a thousand. Go on."

Pam: "All right, here goes. You remember that book that Professor Hollister recommended— Psychological Impact of Slavery by Walker and Sheldon?" I nodded. "I am NOT suggesting that you engage in this, so don't jump down my throat, but do you recall the chapter on Free In Name Only or FINO?"

Me: "I found it fascinating. There are apparently some free people, mostly women, who decide to act the part of slaves full time but without actually giving up their freedom. Sometimes these folks are very submissive, and sometimes they just obey their unofficial owner in return for having someone take care of them. It's sort of like common-law slavery, only it can turn out to be prostituting yourself for room and board!"

Pam nodded. "And therein lies the problem. Or at least one of the problems. Once in a while a FINO ends up in court with her—and it is mostly her—quote owner unquote. Texas courts have had a number of problems with this. First, does the FINO retain the right to say 'no'—is it like a safeword for BDSM? If she DOES have the right to say no, is she a prostitute, because she's freely having sex in return for something of value, like room and board? If she DOESN'T have the right to say no, is she indentured or enslaved already?"

She continued. "And then there's the whole problem of the 'Beetlejuice Rule.' I KNOW I warned you about that before you came down here."

Me: "Yeah. Sort of like that old movie where you say 'Beetlejuice' three times or the Islamic rule of a husband saying 'I divorce you' three times. If a citizen can PROVE that another citizen has repeatedly identified herself as a slave or asked to be enslaved, that proof is sufficient for a court to declare the first citizen to be the owner of the second. Things like the slave mantras I said at the Longhorn don't count, because I had accepted slave discipline for the duration of the grading, but it is just never a good idea to say stuff like that, no matter how horny you feel at the moment."

Pam responded as if I were a star student who had just recited the perfect answer: "Good, don't forget that! That's another issue for FINOs, who sometimes get carried away with their role-playing and enslave themselves without thinking about it. Anyway, that kind of common-law FINO is going to continue no matter what the government says—you can't stop it, any more than you can stop people having sex. However, the Texas legislature recently tried to straighten it out with a law that establishes strict guidelines for a new form of personal services contract that the newspapers are calling 'Texas FINO.' And that's the one you might want to consider."

Me: "This whole system is so unreal to me that I have no basis on which to consider anything. What's so great about Texas FINO?"

"Well, first of all, it ISN'T slavery or indenture. As I said, it's a personal services contract that can be for any time duration, from one day to five years. Once that duration is over, there's no official record of your service. Second, even that time period is subject to pauses, time-outs, vacations, whatever you want to call it. Hypothetically speaking, for example, your contract might specify that you had free time to attend classes and study, plus ten days at the end of each semester to visit your family. That way, the deal is a lot less intense and more flexible. Third, however, is that during the rest of the contract, other than the pauses, you are a free person but obligated to ACT as if you were a slave—which should make your horny mind happy, right? Fourth, because you are required to act as a slave, then the law says you have a diminished capacity of free will during that time period—you can't say no if your employer wants sex, but neither can you be tricked into enslaving yourself. The 'Beetlejuice' rule doesn't apply for the duration of the contract or for 72 hours before or after. Finally, to ensure that the person is not coerced, he or she has to consult before, during, and after the contract with a licensed slave psychiatrist."

I looked hard at her face, which was focused on the road. "You're making this up! Sounds like a submissive's wet dream—a nice, safe experience of slavery. Now there's an oxymoron!"

She grinned, again. "Yeah, and my best friend is just the person to live such a dream—if she wants it."

Sigh. "Pam . . . that sounds marvelous, but you know I have to earn money for school, right? I can never thank you enough for paying the fees on my slave grading, but what you're talking about sounds prohibitively expensive, and I don't have the time."

Pam replied, in an obviously-fake casual tone. "Oh, didn't I tell you? Your employer not only covers the fees for Texas FINO but also pays you a salary based on your hours and services rendered."

I laughed, almost bitterly. "Yeah. Right. Unless I hired myself out to a slave brothel, who would pay for my services?"

Pam: "My mom."

"Your mom! Oh, that makes it ever worse—and you've already talked about this with her, haven't you? She must think I'm the worst whore in the world, offering to rent myself out as a slave slut."

Pam replied, "Not at all—she's very impressed with you, and thinks this is a great way to give you what she calls a "scholarship" for college."

"So, you, Jessie, and your mom have all talked about me doing this? Who else knows?"

Pam: "Just Doctor Nikki."

"And who, pray tell, is Doctor Nikki when he or she is at home?"

Pam snickered: "Horniness must be clouding your brain—you're usually better at following me. Doctor Nikki—Nicola Sheldon, the co-author of Psychological Impact of Slavery? Remember I said that the first step IF you want to do this is to consult with a slave psychiatrist. I took the liberty of making an appointment for you to see Nikki tomorrow—don't worry, I'll pay for it."