(These events occur 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. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory in any sexual relations.)

(Spoiler Alert—if you have read the previous episodes of this tale, you know that the protagonist, unlike some of my other characters, is NOT submissive and loathes every aspect of her servitude. Yes, she will regain her freedom, but beyond that, may not emerge unscathed.)

Hi, It's Cindy Jackson again. To summarize my long tale of woe: For eight years after high school, I worked as a slave handler in a slave market, only to fall into debt bondage myself thanks to my scumbag ex-boyfriend. Three women saved me from an even worse fate by persuading me to self-indenture for five to seven years, long enough to work off my debt (including their investment in "training" me) rather than slavery lasting at least twice as long. Lily Russell and Beth Sullivan (Russell & Sullivan, Inc., Slave Merchants), owned me according to the National Slave Registry, where I was slut 776-38-0002, working on my fifth year of civil indenture. But Russell & Sullivan was just a front organization—both of them worked for the XYZ Bank and for its President and CEO, Pamela Williams. Ms. Williams had originally owned both of THEM as pleasure slaves, having them do what I and four other girls did now—provide sexual services to government officials, large investors, and other people whose cooperation the bank valued.

How did it work? Capitalism at its finest! Once I self-indentured, I was just property without rights, and the contract on my body could be bought and sold as a commodity, making me work up to seven years for whatever amount the current owner had paid. Russell and Sullivan bought me at auction, borrowing the money from the bank and using me as collateral. The auction money (minus the fee paid to the slave market) then reimbursed the bank for its loss on my mortgage. In turn, I was rented back to the bank for two purposes: to provide naked IT services in the main office for about 25 hours a week and to let various VIPs use my body the rest of the time. Then, Russell and Sullivan billed the bank for my sexual services by the piece (of ass) at set rates, thinly disguised as "customer relations" or "employee morale support." My fellow pleasure sluts did the same thing in various regional offices of the bank, and we all came together occasionally to entertain major bigwigs like the bank's board of directors. Because slave sex was not considered prostitution (a slave had no rights, including the right to refuse sex), Russell and Sullivan were legal pimps who also—as a favor to Ms. Williams—sometimes "put out" themselves at the big parties. Sleazy? Yes. Bizarre? Yup. But legal? Absolutely—just ask the half dozen judges and district attorneys who had used all three of my openings in return for expediting the bank's foreclosure on other poor debtors.

By this time, I was 32 years old with shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, and B-cups, weighing 135 pounds with almost no fat (you try frequent exercise, both horizontal and vertical, over a 5-year period while living mostly on vegetable mash and revolting cum shots.) At that age, like most women, my body was ripe to reproduce, and I sometimes had fun while servicing all these dicks (of both genders—women were among the most arrogant and sadistic). Which doesn't mean that I LIKED what I did. I recognized that it was better than some of the alternative fates for slaves, but I had come to regard all forms of sex as exploitation, in which even men whom I had thought were friends did everything they could to screw me, figuratively as well as literally. All Men Are Bastards—and so are many women.

My personal pussy promissory note had begun around $150,000, including my mortgage, the fees paid to the slave market (which together made up my auction price), and the cost of training me as a pleasure slut at the Pearson Pussy Ranch. After almost five years, that debt (including interest) was down to about $45,000, due in large part to the largesse of one rich member of the XYZ Bank Board of Directors, Donald Trevelyan. As described in Part 5 of this saga, Master Donald took great pleasure not only in plundering my body but in placing that body in various ignominious and helpless positions, including dressed as a cat (complete with a butt-plug tail and fake legs that limited me to walking on knees and elbows) and as a pony girl who underwent two weeks of whipping and racing with a curb bit in my mouth and a shock-plug up my wazoo. Master Donald was not in love with me by any means, just liked how I looked (and felt) in his bonds, so he treated me better than the other bastards. After the most recent board meeting (some two weeks before the events discussed below), Donald had taken me on a leash to his hotel room, tied my wrists to the top of the bed as I lay face up, and then tied my ankles to the same two bed posts, leaving me doubled-over with both pussy and anus available for his viewing and screwing pleasure. Much as I disliked the indignity of the whole situation, I came several times—the man had a rather large cock, and unlike many of my temporary masters he took the trouble to fondle me while he fucked me, ensuring I got some pleasure out of the encounter.

Having been in my exact position (naked, collared, on my knees or bent over, and with a mouthful/twatful/buttfull of someone's genitalia), Lily and Beth were well aware of my internal discontent. After I returned from the pony girl episode, I was particularly upset, so my two official owners decided to summon a consultant who also understood what I was experiencing.

Told to go to the president's conference room at the bank, I at first did not recognize the incredibly-cute blonde in a pantsuit. As when meeting any new master or mistress, I immediately sank into the position of Expose: kneeling, thighs wide apart, fingers interlocked behind my head, staring ahead and down. I murmured "Mistress," but she wasn't having any of it—she jumped out of her chair and pulled me into her arms.

"Come on, Cindy—don't tell me you've forgotten your fellow-slut, Nikki?" She asked, playfully.

"Of course not, Mistress, but I'm still a slut and you're not." I replied, paraphrasing both Chevy Chase and Dan Aykroyd in the same breath.

She smiled sympathetically. "When we worked here together, I was almost finished with my indenture—I only had to serve six months to qualify as a slave psychiatrist. And that's why I'm back here—I just finished shrink school, and Lily told me you were having some difficulties."

I blushed—I thought I had done a better job of hiding my unhappiness. Now, I tried to deny it to her, making some comment about nobody wants to be a slave, but again Nikki wasn't having any of it. She asked me to sit in a chair to talk with her, but there was no way I could break the rules in the executive suite, so she ended up kneeling on the carpet beside me as we talked.

I'll spare you most of the conversation—five years of frustration and repressed anger poured out of me in the next hour. I don't know how well she did psychoanalyzing other kinds of slaves, but Nikki knew exactly what was bugging me. After all, she had the same kind of experiences as me, right down to being the resident slut-whore who got led around on a leash on her way to servicing officials and investors. Nor did she try to give me pat solutions to my problem—just let me babble on until I stopped, embarrassed, and said that I really needed to get back to work.

"Don't worry about that, Sweetie," she assured me. "Lily went to Ms. Williams to clear the afternoon for you."

Eventually, I told her that my biggest concern now was what to do when I finally regained my freedom. I could not imagine ever being a slave wrangler again, forcing human beings into servitude. Ms. Williams had hinted that she might give me a job at the bank, but I didn't want that either. For the first time, I said it out loud—I was afraid that any post-slavery bank job would carry the implied responsibility of joining Lily and Beth to service bigwigs—and I never wanted to have sex like that again. I wasn't judging them, just couldn't stand the idea of sucking even one more dick once I got rid of this collar.

We continued talking for another twenty minutes, when, in an off-handed way, Nikki asked me, "How are you with numbers, by the way? Did you ever try accounting?"

My long-past academic experience was one of the few sources of pride I still harbored beneath my slave exterior. I told her that I had gotten A's in the two introductory accounting classes that were offered at my community college. When I asked her why she wanted to know, she turned the topic aside deftly.

A week later, however, the head of IT was very abrupt with me one afternoon, whereas before he had treated me with more respect than a naked slave usually receives (of course, ANY respect would meet that description!)

"Have I done something wrong, Master?" I asked, kneeling down and feeling worried.

"No, no, Cindy—it's not your fault. It's just that H.R. told me you were being reassigned to Accounting, and I'll miss having you around to handle the trouble calls. They're supposed to send me a new slave next week, but who knows whether she knows anything about our business—you've been a godsend for the past several years."

Sure enough, the following Monday Lily walked me through H.R. and then introduced me to the head of Accounting, who put me to work checking credit scores and answering phone calls from people who had fallen behind in their payments to the bank. Lily even cleared me to wear work-appropriate skirts, pants, and turtleneck sweaters (to conceal my collar), because occasionally I had to meet the debtors when they came to see my boss. At first, I worried that I was becoming part of the faceless machine that had enslaved so many people like me. I quickly realized, however, that the assistant vice president for debt solutions really tried to get people to repay their loans, even if it meant rescheduling them to lower payments. When I finally asked him about this, he replied that he thought it was better to get the bank's money back than to go through the legal hassles of repossessing cars, houses, and sometimes people, none of which would ensure repayment of the loans and interest. I'm not sure whether he realized that those "legal hassles" included slaves providing oral sex to government officials, but I liked his attitude!

I still had to strip down and put out whenever Beth or Lily needed me to "service" officials and clients. Moreover, I was still subject to being the reward for an Employee of the Month, which at least earned a hefty contribution to the liberate-Cindy-from-bondage fund. [It was really embarrassing when Hank, one of my co-workers in Accounting, won, but it turns out that he had a crush on me, and treated me to a real girlfriend weekend.] Still, I was finally using my brain and wearing real clothes, and my new boss never once asked me to crawl under his desk and relieve his stress with my mouth.

I'll come back to the debt counselling business, but for now, let me tell you about the unlikely final months of my bondage. These events involved three other actors who have appeared in previous installments of my story:

-Judge Roy Bean V had gone beyond even the cynical "standards" I have described above for exploiting Texas women, both slave and free. He was finally caught in a sting operation, ravaging a female detective who pretended to cooperate with his lewd demands so as to avoid being enslaved for minor offenses. The judge, in turn, was himself enslaved for various felonies, including abuse of office, illegal enslavement, and rape (because that woman was free—slaves didn't count in Texas law). Russell and Sullivan, both of whom had personally suffered "under" this judge, bought him at auction and rented him out to women who wanted to exact retribution—usually involving stap-ons and shock batons—while they kept his famous dick locked up except for periodic medical and hygienic servicing.

-Asshole Mason the Moron, as I'll always think of him, was the boyfriend who had persuaded me to put down only my name (and ass) on the mortgage for the house in which we both lived. Then he stiffed me and married some rich bitch who, being smarter than me, insisted on a pre-nup and soon dumped him. Truth being stranger than fiction, Mason ended up as a pony boy yoked beside me when I went for training—the only difference was that he belonged to the ranch, and had a large brand on his ass to prove it, not to mention that he was pegged regularly by the third person in this rogue's gallery.

-That would be Mistress Angela (pronounced with a hard "g" in the German manner), the voluptuous Nordic bitch-goddess who ran the Pony Mädchen Ranch, where Mason and I had suffered together. I have nothing against different sexual preferences between CONSENTING adults. However, Angela was a full-blown bull-dike sadist who wasn't happy unless she was whipping slaves while simultaneously extorting sexual services from them. She had made my life hell for nine days while training me to serve Donald Trevelyan, not to mention servicing her pussy while she whipped me. Fortunately for me, Master Donald figured her out when he arrived to test out his pony girl. Not only did he rescue me from her clutches, but he put out the word to his rich friends, including those on the board of another bank which held the mortgage on the ranch. Donald must have had incredible pull, because the state Agriculture Department did something that almost never happens—it assembled a criminal case of livestock abuse against her, reportedly including charges that she had gelded two pony boys. (By law, involuntary sexual modification was only permitted when the victim was sentenced to life enslavement for aggravated violent felonies.) The animal abuse indictment was unsealed just as her bank foreclosed on the ranch and therefore on her body. She accepted civil enslavement for ten years to avoid the criminal case, but Trevelyan bought her through an intermediary, and had her butt branded with the same PM logo she had inflicted on others! Just like the ex-judge and my ex-boyfriend, the ex-pony torturer was now a collared slut herself. This came too late to save me, but at least she couldn't hurt anyone else.

Lily and Beth had told me pieces of this story, because they knew I had suffered, but one day Elena (my replacement slut in IT) and I were summoned to one of Ms. Williams' periodic conferences with Lily and Beth. In deference to the status of my owners, I hastily pulled off the turtleneck I was wearing, exposing my collar and boobs, and then knelt next to Elena in the boss's office. I was also surprised to see Clarice, my beautiful Black counterpart from the Fort Worth division of the bank, and wondered why she was there. I soon found out.

The subject was a final project to make money from the ex-judge, who by now was approaching age 60 (although I discovered that with the right makeup he still looked much younger and more energetic, as we'll see.) After five years, the market of women who wanted to exact retribution on the male chauvinist douchebag was drying up, so lately he'd been rented out to suck cock in a glory hole. Beth, who had personally suffered much from this clown, came up with a new idea.

"All jokes aside, guys," she began, "I'm sure that Cindy and Ms. Williams both know that I was a total nerd before the boss took me in. One of my few friends from high school—OK, another nerd—Ginny Harlow—made it through a good private college and then somehow got work in Hollywood writing screenplays. Mostly Hallmark Channel stuff, but sometimes she got to be assistant writer for real movies. About six months ago, Ginny came home to visit and we re-connected. I had one too many drinks one night with her, and finally admitted that I'd been indentured. When I told her that Judge Bean had used me repeatedly, and that Lily and I actually OWNED his sorry ass, Ginny got really excited—she'd been playing around with writing a screenplay based on his crimes, and here was one of her friends who was an eyewitness."

"Anyway, I gave her background information such as how the judge acted, what he said to me, even what his favorite sex acts were. Gawd." Beth paused, red-faced, and then continued her story. "Using that and some other research, Ginny generated a screenplay based VERY loosely on real events. I mean, the former judge has a REALLY big cock, but by now he's kind of long in the tooth, so Ginny's screenplay includes a much younger, more muscular guy as the judge's fictional admin assistant and pimp. In reality, the judge's real admin assistant was a little old lady who blew the whistle on him after she retired, but sometimes the truth is boring, right?"

I'll spare you the long conversation. The bottom line was that Ginny and Beth between them had convinced Ms. Williams to be the shadow backer of their operation. Equally important, they had pitched the idea to Bob McAdoo to direct it. If you've been living under a rock for the past decade, let me explain that McAdoo had an odd reputation. He'd won several awards at the Sundance Film Festival and directed a few films for the big studios, but he didn't like to follow the conventional, PG-only rules for main line films. He was intrigued with the idea of making a "Mock-umentary" about the judge that would both be a depiction of judicial abuse AND a form of gritty, reality drama with all the sex out in the open. It might not sell in mainline cinemas, but the pay-per-view and download market was incredibly large while the director could still insist it was art rather than porno. So, Mr. McAdoo had agreed in principle to direct the film for a minimum fee up front plus a large percentage of the gross.

As Beth outlined the plan, I quietly panicked—it was bad enough to be a slave whore in private, but now my owners apparently intended to have me fucked and capture all of it ON FILM??? Worse still, she mentioned using my ex-boyfriend, Mason the Moron, to play the judge's assistant. The idea of ever having sex again with that bastard made me nauseous, yet as a slave I couldn't say no. Lily saw my growing panic, and broke in:

"Don't worry, Cindy—we want you in the film, but NOT as a victim for the douchebag judge OR your ex-boyfriend. Same for Clarice."

"Whew!" I sighed in relief. "But, I don't understand, Mistresses—of course, if you want me to be in the film, I'm in the film, but if I'm not getting screwed, what will I be doing?"

Beth, the only one who had really known me when I was free, grinned a mile wide. "We want YOU and Clarice to do the screwing, Girlfriend—to peg the judge and your ex-boyfriend!"

"WTF?—I mean, What, Mistress?" I sputtered; Clarice was similarly shocked and elated.

Lily took over. "To make this movie both accurate and commercially viable, we have to show Mason and the judge ravaging women at the beginning. I'm sorry, Elena, but that means Mason will get to screw you. We'll keep him under tight control, with a shock baton just outside camera range in case he goes too far, OK? As for the judge, we intend to re-create both the douchebag AND his imaginary assistant being caught spit-roasting the female detective who went undercover to expose them—only in this case, the part of the detective will be played by Angela, the woman who tormented both Mason and Cindy at that pony ranch." (ALL RIGHT! I almost shouted, before Lily continued.) "Then, for the rest of the movie, Cindy, Clarice and maybe Elena will be equipped with strap-ons and shock batons to re-enact the victims extracting "atonement" from the convicted criminals."

Pub: 29 Dec 2020 09:38 UTC
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