Steve's a nice, sexy toy--a well-muscled, cute guy who has to obey orders--so I try to give him some rewards for helping me out. He's also well endowed, but after making him serve me, my sexuality has become so wrapped up with submitting to dominant men that I'd find it difficult to think of Steve as more than an occasional stress-relief fuck.
As I've told him several times, I'm shifting my research to focus on the psychological aspects of slavery. What I haven't told him is that, in addition to my fascination with the sexual psychology of the subservient sex object, I'm also investigating how other people perceive slaves and specifically whether someone can "hide in plain sight" as a slave, unrecognized even by friends and colleagues. This may take a little explaining, but I believe it will help you understand the bizarre thing I'm doing today.
The story really begins with the event that was both the nadir of my existence and the peak of my sexual excitement--the day I foolishly agreed to "masquerade" as a slave and ended up with a Big D brand on my bottom and Judge Rufus Parker's smelly dick discharging down my throat. I discovered--the HARD way--that the slave market processing system I had designed to control and motivate new slaves worked TOO well. Even though I knew what was happening, I myself was overcome with the desire to be a rutting slave skank, eagerly serving even obnoxious clods like Rufus. I blush to admit that I climaxed at the moment I was sold on the auction block. I'm sure Rufus could smell the arousal I felt at becoming the perfect little slave slut, after only a few hours in a collar. Even today, every time I shift my behind on a seat, such as now in my car, I felt the ridges of that brand on my skin, a brand that both horrified and thrilled me at the time. Hence my interest in the psychology of being a slave and especially the probability that any acquaintances would recognize me when I was slave naked.
I was NOT a slave, of course, I was a respected intellectual, a successful professional woman, and an award winning academic. My slavegasms were not actual slave heat, but simply a byproduct of my explorations of slave girl psychology. But would the appearance of me acting as if I were a Pleasure Slut alter the perceptions that others had of me to the point where I would be unrecognizable? That was the hypothesis I felt the urge to explore. If that meant stripping to the skin and showing the buyers my well-lubricated cunt, well, it was all for the advancement of academic and business knowledge, wasn't it?
What happened to me after that is a long story, involving various ignominious experiences such as being a slave whore in a brothel. OK, I have to admit that last part was kind of fun, and I used my observations (suitably altered for anonymity) as the basis for an article about maximizing profit per pussy in sex workers. Today, I was about to re-experience that sensation of being a piece of slave flesh for rent. This time, however, I could tell myself that my slutty behavior was in a good cause. But I told myself firmly that any enjoyment I felt -or seemed to feel -- was incidental. It was all an act, part of what I needed to do for science. Think of it as method acting--telling myself that I enjoyed being a slave was simply part of my disguise, to ensure I appeared hot for the collar when no self-respecting woman should enjoy this.
A few years ago, I contracted to provide business consulting services to a consortium of slave industry leaders over the next ten years. In the process, of course, my findings could often be re-packaged into academic publications to advance my career.
The slave owners provided an expense account, but several of them joked that they had already invested in me by giving me an extensive education in being a slave. Therefore, in order to make this a business deduction, they insisted that I acknowledge their "research support" as I would any other grant, mentioning it in the first footnote of each publication. I guess it looks good for the corporate image.
(I'm blushing now because that little acknowledgement got me into an interesting situation. Two months after the first article I published that included this acknowledgement, I got a call from Martin Bormann, an overweight bureaucrat in the Harvard grants office. Most people don't realize it, but all such grants are subject to a standard charge--often 30% of the face value--by the college in which you are employed. Colleges insist on this to recoup some of the expenses they incur by employing academics. So Martin wanted to know about this "grant" from the "National Human Resources Council." Trouble was, most of the grant was in the form of my value as a trained, hot-for-the-collar slave; each council member's share of my "training costs" was chicken feed to them but still a significant sum in total. I made an appointment with "Mr." Bormann for late on a Friday afternoon, going to his office to explain what the value of the grant was. He had a good laugh at my expense, naturally, and then demanded a demonstration of what I had learned from this "grant." So I got to play slave girl right there in his tiny, dirty, office in the basement of Sackler Hall. On his instructions, I stripped down and rotated very slowly so he could see every inch of my body. The proof of what I had told him was evident in the Big D cursive brand embossed [by slave bosses] for life into my rear end, but of course he wanted to run his hands over it and incidentally goose me. Having him fondle me brought back some of the thrill of being a Sandy Foot Girl. When I told him how much I was worth at auction, he was skeptical and demanded that I "prove" it. I have to admit I got a submissive thrill out of kneeling down slave naked in front of this obese guy, then performing a slow, sensuous blowjob. The whole time I gave him the adoring, thank-you-for-using-me stare that all slave girls learn to give to their masters.
When he unloaded down my throat, I licked my lips as sensuously as possible before gently restoring his dick inside his pants. I just waited for his response. He finally had to admit that he could understand the value of my "grant," but (to ensure the University got its fair share) insisted that I had to provide him with a similar service every time I published and cited the grant! In fact, the next time he called me I had to service both Martin AND the head of the grants office, which at least prevented me having to explain my grant to my dean. It was disgusting and humiliating to strip and blow these clowns, but still gave me some of the buzz of being a Sandy Foot Girl, so why not?
That second time I "demonstrated what I had learned about slavery," the two men kicked me out at the end of my performance, still collared, slave naked, and covered with jism on my face. I stumbled down the hallway, clutching the bag with my clothes, and went into the ladies' room to clean up and dress. I was greeted by two bitchy coeds who feigned outrage at the idea of a slave using a free woman's toilet. Cackling like hyenas they dragged me to the side of the building and ordered me to pee against a tree in the cement plaza. Talk about humiliation. Eventually, these two sluts released me, but warned me never to use a "free ladies" room again. I scrambled into my clothes and left, thankful that no one on the faculty had seen me.
It had been an interesting proof of my theory, as I knew several of the students who passed, if not by name, by sight. But none of them seemed to recognize me or take any special notice of me, other than the usual amusement of seeing a humiliated slave girl watering a tree.
*****
All that is by way of background. This day in March, Steve and I were headed towards a test market for one of my business recommendations--the idea that, even though the North officially disapproved of slavery, there was still a demand for slave services, discretely packaged, even in strait-laced venues such as Boston. Hence the idea for a floating brothel, a slave sex emporium that would operate off Cape Cod, outside the three-mile limit where the state had no jurisdiction to interfere and the Coast Guard would only be concerned with smuggling or safety violations. The first test of this plan was a modest one. The
Yo Ho Ho
was a relatively small vessel, no more than 200 feet long and outfitted with 35 guest cabins, various dining rooms and musical venues, and two role-playing dungeons for the kinkier patrons. There was also a crew that included the usual services and entertainers found on cruise ships plus 20 experienced slave wranglers and 40 sex slaves of various genders and sexual proclivities.
