A School for Tourists - Ch. 02, Intake

[jessmartin]

A School for Tourists - Ch. 02, Intake
By LoyalHound

I’d appreciate feedback on this as I feel like I might have been better off skipping directly to when Kira is kenneled with her frenemy in chapter 3. Also, I am making progress on chapter 7 of The Cost of My Dreams.

This is a work of Erotic Fantasy. As such, it is not real and does not depict real events or any real person. All characters, businesses, institutions, places, publications, and events in this story are either fictional or are used fictitiously, as you might expect in a story where slavery is legally enforced throughout the modern United States. All characters are adults.

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The wrangler held my leash, and I heeled her down a hall to her cubicle in a shared work area. She shortened her grip on my leash and, leading me beside her chair, made me bend over the desk with my hands still zip-tied behind my back. She passed my leash thru what I believe is called a bolt snap near the front of her desk and then secured the end of the leash in a small cleat near her side of the desk, holding me bent over, bound, naked, devoxed, and helpless. She fondled my rear for a second before she continued.

"First thing, we need to get you a SIN and get you chipped. We'll get you tatted up after your photos, but you can't be a real slave without a SIN, and you want to be a real slave, don't you? Of course you do," she said, unlocking her computer and doing things I couldn't see. She printed something on a small label printer, then moved my hair out of the way and stuck the label on the back of my collar.

"Congratulations, " she said, "Zero Seven Oh Two, you now have a name. No, Kira isn't your name anymore, Seven Oh Two. Kira doesn't exist. Unless and until you are manumitted or your owner assigns you a slave name, you are Zero Seven Oh Two, from the last four digits of your Slave Identification Number. You must give that as your name when asked. Now let me see about getting a chip synchronized and burned with your SIN."

She retrieved a small item wrapped in sealed paper, the chip and its single-use applicator, single-use gloves, and some alcohol pads from a box on her desk, sat down next to me, put the sealed package into some sort of peripheral, typed some more, and said, "OK, your chip's ready for implant. Now, be a good girl and stay still for me." She stood up and put on gloves, cleaned the area on my back near a bit from the edge of the scapula of my left shoulder with alcohol, unwrapped the applicator, pinched the skin together behind my shoulder, and implanted the chip. She held pressure on the injection spot for a minute, covered it with a band-aid, then checked it with a chip reader. I heard another wrangler leading a slave to another cubicle.

"There you go, ready for the world, you are," my wrangler continued. "That chip meets the latest international standards. Whether you end up as a fucktoy in Florence, a suck slave in Saigon, or a bitch girl in Baltimore, your chip will tell everyone who you are. With your linked biometrics and modern facial recognition, there is nowhere in the world you can't be found and returned to your owner if you go missing, unless you end up in one of the places where the people who find you can just decide to just keep you for themselves. Finders keepers and all that."

Unless they decided to keep me for themselves. I shuddered. There are places in this world, some of them in countries where you think such a thing couldn't happen, where they'd keep me a slave whether I was a slave or not before entering the area. Just another careless tourist who found herself integrated into the local community in a culturally appropriate way. "Of course she's a slave," they'd say. "Why else would she have a slave identification number? Best thing for her, really."

The wrangler fondled my rear again for a few seconds, then released my leash from her desk, helped me up, and took hold of my leash, leading me to the next station.

The wrangler led me down the hall and used the shocker to unlock a barred door that opened into an anteroom where there were two sets of slave pads with slave rings with light chains attached to the floor next to the pad. Then she pushed me up against the wall by the door and kissed me, open-mouthed, while she caressed my thigh. I gasped as she moved her hand between my thighs, and I spread my legs reflexively. She was my mistress.

She stepped back and nodded to herself, leaving me breathless and frustrated. Then she ordered "Backhands." I turned my back to her, and she cut the zip ties holding my hands together.

She grabbed me and turned me to face forward and gestured for me to kneel on white slave pad number 3. I knelt with my knees spread, facing forward. She moved in front of me and ordered, "Pass me the chain." I lifted the end of the chain in both my hands, lifting the chain to her. She took the chain and, when I had returned my hands to my lap, secured the chain to my collar. She stroked my hair again, entered something into the shocker, then left, closing the barred door behind her.

Several other women were waiting to be processed, but, obviously, devoxed as we were, we couldn't talk. We knelt quietly, knees spread, hands palms up on our thighs, until we were processed. When my turn came, it was one of the photographer's assistants, not the photographer himself, who dealt with me. Because I was going to get a full set of auction photos after I got back from the Frostburg Slave Academy, they were mainly doing the legally required photos of my enslavement.

The assistant unlocked the chain from my collar and led me to the Three-Dimensional Multi-Level Whole Body Scan (TDMLWBS) chamber. He pointed inside and said, "Put your feet on the yellow foot marks in the chamber, cross your wrists above your head as though they were bound there, and hold position."

I entered and looked around as I took my position. There were restraints available to bind my hands and feet in place if I resisted, but I would doubtless get a whipping if I did and be scanned anyway. They would restrain me in place, whip me for disobeying, and scan me anyway. As for keeping still, once a subject was restrained, the photographer's assistant would probably either just keep scanning until he got a good scan or maybe use immobilizing shocks. The machine buzzed for a few seconds, and the assistant gestured me out and took me to a large mat where he grabbed a camera.

He gestured me to the center of the mat and ordered, "Backhands." I spun away and crossed my hands behind me. "Fours," he ordered, and I dropped to my hands and feet, knees spread wide, and then dropped to my knees and elbows. He took photos from several angles. "Down," he called, and I knelt with my knees spread, head bowed, and hands palm up on my thighs. Again, he took photos from several angles. "Present," he said, and I stood quickly and assumed the position, feet shoulder-width apart, hands laced behind my neck, and head held high. Again, he took photos from multiple angles, then put down the camera and held my left breast in his left hand. He wrote the last four digits of my SIN on my left breast in removable ink and led me back to the slave mats, where he secured me on a green mat and said, "We'll do a more complete set when you come back from Frostburg, Zero Seven Oh Two, but now you're in the system. All we need is to get you tatted up, and you'll be ready for the block if your owner changes her mind."

After a bit, a young male wrangler led me from the photographer's area to the tattoo chairs. There was a vacancy, so the tattoo artist for that chair (a slightly built, thirty-something-year-old woman with black hair and visible tattoos on her arms) and the wrangler had me sit in the chair with my legs spread while they scanned my collar and SIN chip, confirmed my biometrics, and started strapping me in place. First, a belt at my waist, then a belt above my breasts but below my armpits. They were securing my limbs in place when a senior wrangler entered, looked around, and walked up to the chair I was being secured in.

The tattoo artist and the younger wrangler were startled and left off what they were doing, and the senior wrangler stroked my (as yet, unsecured) head, rubbed his thumb on my lip, and ordered "open".

I opened my mouth, and he inserted his thumb. Without thinking about it, I started sucking his thumb, running my tongue around it. While I continued, the senior wrangler, a fiftyish man in good physical shape, caressed my left breast lightly, observing my reaction.

"Stop," he ordered, withdrawing his thumb from my mouth and gesturing the tattoo artist and the younger wrangler to finish securing my limbs. "This one's a natural," the older wrangler told the young wrangler. "Penny flagged her and she was right. She'll grade Prime, and we'll supplement her training and see if we can't convince her owner to go thru with the sale. Once Frostburg's done with her, she'll go for 200,000 easy."

Two hundred thousand dollars for me? I was shocked. Yet, if he was right about my being a natural slave, I might not survive three years with my mind intact if Aunt Amy let my sale go thru. I could spend the rest of my life as a helpless fucktoy. No amount of money could be worth that.

After the tattoo artist and the younger wrangler finished securing my limbs, they showed me a rubber mouthpiece, which they secured in place, holding my jaws wide open, before immobilizing my head and clipping my upper and lower lips in place so they could be tattooed on the inside of the lip, visible only inside my mouth.

The senior wrangler had left at some point, so the tattoo artist brought up my profile on a screen next to my head and started on the inside of my upper lip, and damn did it hurt. It burned. I moaned.

The tattoo artist stopped and stroked my face. "Hush," she said, "I’ll do this as quickly as possible, but it's going to hurt. It's supposed to hurt. That’s why you’re restrained so tightly.”

She stopped stroking my face and started tattooing again, speaking to me as she worked.

"Now, on the inside of your upper lip, we start with the issuing authority, 'US24' for the United States FIPS 24, which is the state of Maryland." She worked slowly, and the burning, scraping sensation continued. "Next, a hyphen and the three-digit year."

She continued to work and then switched to the inside of my lower lip. "Next comes the two check digits. OK, we're just left with sequential ID for the year. Internationally, it can be variable length, but Maryland always makes it six digits with leading zeros as needed, and they've never even really used more than five of them. Even California doesn't go longer than six digits. Now Wyoming uses five, and I don't know if they've ever needed more than four."

She stopped and stroked my head for a moment and said, "I'm nearly done, Zero Seven Oh Two. You've been a good girl so far, so hold still a while longer. You've got no idea; sometimes they struggle the whole session like they have some sort of choice in the matter. No, your choice ended when you were checked in for processing. They cry and moan and make such a big deal out of it. What did they expect? There, you're done, let me show you in the mirror before I unclip your lips. See, nice and clear. You're officially block ready."

I studied the inside of my lips in the mirror. The two letters and thirteen numbers were bold and clear. I was well marked, but the marks were hidden, invisible except to my dentist and people looking for them, and who has occasion to look at the inside of your lips? No one would ever have to know I had sat in a chair and had a slave identification number tattooed on the inside of my lips, but somehow, everyone would anyway. Including the hyphen, it was sixteen characters that I would bear to my death. Sixteen characters that would go on loan applications, medical records, bank accounts, and every significant government license or ID. I was 0702 for now, but I was potentially 0702 every day for the rest of my life, just one bad decision away from life in the collar.

The tattoo artist unclipped my lips, undid my restraints, and the young wrangler helped me out of the chair and leashed me, leading me to the next station, wash and enema, where a bunch of college students had great fun making sure I was squeaky clean, inside and out, thought the 0702 on my left breast survived the scrubbing. I wondered if they were ever allowed to simply have a slave on the spot. Probably not, they were minimum wage workers with a job to do and a supervisor to please, but I was a slave for the next three weeks, so it certainly wasn't against any law. Indeed, if I resisted in any way, it was I who would be punished.

When I got to the vet, I was left on a slave mat in a patient room and told not to move. A nurse came in with a vial of green liquid.

She looked me up and down and said, "We need your voice back for the vet, so drink this now, but slowly, so we get the best effect. If you gulp it down and I have to give you another dose, I'll have you whipped first and then restrained while we slowly pour it down your throat."

She gave me the vial and I sipped the foul green stuff slowly, and finished it in a minute or so. Then I tried to speak. "Thank you, mistress," I managed to croak out.

She nodded and said, "Slaves speak when spoken to. I'm not here to answer your questions. Don't bother the staff. The vet will answer a few questions for you, but don't overdo it." She then took my vitals, verified that my birth control implant was up-to-date, drew some blood samples, and left me there with orders not to move.

The vet came in and did his exam, then asked, "Have you ever been dosed with horny juice before?"

"No, Master, where would this girl get horny juice? Horny juice is for slaves, and this girl was free until this morning."

"Well, you're going to get real intimate with it right now. Stand and hold still now; you're getting two shots."

I did as directed and asked, "May a girl ask why two shots, Master?"

He started wiping an area on my left shoulder with alcohol, then took a syringe out of its wrapper, drew a dose of something from one vial, and said, "Well, the first dose is part of the normal prep for the Frostburg Slave Academy's ultimate training course." He injected it and finished. "Just a dose of type 2 horny juice, that's the daily dose horny juice, sufficient to help you overcome any inhibitions and make you an eager student of the slave arts when they start your training and improve your training experience."

He placed the syringe into a medical waste container, then got a fresh one out of its wrapper and drew a dose from a different vial. "This, " he said, injecting it, "was requested by the Master Wrangler in charge of your case. You're a slave in our care, and he's decided you'd benefit from supplemental training. This is type 3, hourly dosed horny juice, in a dose sufficient to make any inhibitions of yours irrelevant. If he's right about you, you'll be the slave you were always meant to be for the next few hours, starting in a half hour or so."

The old wrangler had thought I was a natural slave. He intended to free that slave from the restraints I held her in. I would be forced to live my slave fantasies out in public, for all to see. Especially for Aunt Amy to see, since he wanted her to sell me.

He left, and eventually a wrangler showed up to take me to my next station. He opened his utility pouch and passed me wrist and ankle bands.

"Put them on," he said. "They should be snug but not tight." He ended up helping me with my ankle bands. He also added a slave belt that buckled behind my back. Then he led me out of the vet's room and to a main hallway, featuring a set of pillars with hardware for securing slaves. He led me to one, secured my wrists together, then attached them to a suspension cable descending from the ceiling. He clipped my legs into a short spreader bar and clipped it to the pillar, and then used a winch handle to take all of the slack out of me. I stood, bound to a pillar, naked, unable to move much. He caressed my breasts, then left without a word. Then, after a time, the horny juice started to kick in.

I'm not sure how long I stood against the slave pole, hands secured above my head, ankles secured in a spreader bar secured to the pole, distracted by increasingly insistent erotic thoughts. Occasionally, I'd struggle in my bonds, desperate for relief. Notwithstanding the staff and slaves moving by the pole, I'd have taken matters into my own hands if I could have.

After a time, the older female wrangler who checked me showed up, carrying a green collar and accompanied by a thirtyish slave girl. The wrangler scanned my collar with the shocker. Then she gestured to me, and the thirtyish slave girl grabbed my hair and started to kiss me. She started to caress my breasts with her other hand, then moved it down to my rear, and I moaned between kisses and tried to thrust against her.

"Enough," said the wrangler, and the slave pulled away. I moaned in frustration and struggled in my bonds.

"Hush," the wrangler commanded. "Control yourself, slave. You are here to serve us. We do not serve you."

My mind was mush, inflamed with desire, but I forced myself to stand still and stop moaning.

The wrangler released my ankle bands from the spreader bar and put some slack in the suspension cable. "Turn and face the slave pole," she ordered. When I had done so, desperately trying to resist rubbing up against the pole, she had the slave accompanying her lift my hair out of the way and used the shocker to unlock my white collar, which she removed.

The wrangler replaced it with the green collar she had been carrying. When it clicked shut, it fit as snuggly as the white collar it replaced, the electrodes firm against my neck. She did something with the shocker, and the collar buzzed and vibrated, briefly. She released the suspension cable and unclipped my hands from it.

"Backhands," she ordered. I was already facing away from her, so I crossed my hands behind my back, and she moved my wrists, one at a time, to my sides and clipped my wrist bands to the slave belt I wore.

"Leash," she ordered, and I spun to face her and lifted my chin as he attached a leash to my collar.

Then she said, "Your intake processing is now complete. You are now a slave being held for transport. Your only purpose is to please us, and such free persons as we may allow access to you. In the meantime, I have a little treat for you."

The other slave heeled me as the wrangler led me to a holding cell containing several male slaves wearing crotch covers, boots, and yellow collars.

"We've got trained pleasure sluts being processed thru that any wrangler can have on the breeding bench," she said, "but these guys have been a long time without. Normally, we don't let them near the female slaves, but they are just about perfect for helping the horny juice burn away your last thoughts of dignity or modesty."

She pulled a tube of lubricant out of her utility pouch and passed it to one of the male slaves and told him, "You'll have a couple of hours; use her thoroughly. "

She unclipped my leash, opened the cell door, and thrust me, wrists still restrained, inside. Their touch, I knew, would be like fire, and I wanted them. I wanted their kisses and caresses. I wanted them to have me thoroughly and completely. I was no longer, potentially, a free woman being readied for grading but a slave, a real slave, eager for use. The cell door clanged shut. My inner slave had slipped my control. My slave fantasies were now real. And it would all be caught on the security cameras, which, for this cell, I had no doubt were the high-resolution model. Sure as hell, they were going to show this to Aunt Amy, and I didn't care. This was going to be quite the experience.

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[Jim927]

This was a great chapter. Thanks so much for deciding to add to the story. Hopefully you will have the time and inclination to continue adding to it. There are so many possibilities.. I can’t wait for the next chapter to be posted.
Jim.

[imreadonly2]

As you were looking for feedback, let me begin by saying I liked the fact that it was in Maryland, and you named towns in Maryland and added some geography and sense of place to the story. For me, when the writer works daily realities into the fantasy it all becomes more real.

I also liked the Aunt's attitude, and the professionalism of the staff. While this is the most important date in HER life, for them it is just another day at the office.

I would think if you were a natural slave, a 2 week immersive experience would be difficult to emerge from. I've woken from vivid dreams wondering if some of the things in the dream were real. I can't imaging having to assume an entirely new persona for 2 weeks, and I can see why the Aunt says she might need recovery time.

I think adding in the boyfriend might be an interesting twist. Either seeing him as a slave, or as someone witnessing her slavery, it could really define their relationship from that point on.

In the comments in part one, I enjoyed the legal case where the power failure led to enslavement when the computers were rebooted and the girls were sold. An "act of God" enslavement is an interesting concept, although you could argue that the auction house has to exercise the upmost care in handling their free person inventory.

Great story, and I very much enjoyed it, and will look forward to part 3! Joe Doe

[LoyalHound]

Thanks so much for deciding to add to the story.

Thankyou for taking the time to respond. Continuing the story was less a decision than a compulsion. Once I had the first scene, everything followed from that.

[imreadonly2]

Thankyou for your kind encouragement. I was worried that the whole second chapter wasn't doing enough to advance the story.

I think adding in the boyfriend might be an interesting twist. Either seeing him as a slave, or as someone witnessing her slavery, it could really define their relationship from that point on.

That's something that didn't occur to me, but if her aunt is going to show up at Frostburg (and she is), her boyfriend could too. Maybe he could have her and another ponygirl hitched to a gig and drive them around a little. Or maybe Aunt Amy could pay for him to have some training with her in solidarity.

In the comments in part one, I enjoyed the legal case where the power failure led to enslavement when the computers were rebooted and the girls were sold. An "act of God" enslavement is an interesting concept, although you could argue that the auction house has to exercise the upmost care in handling their free person inventory.

My problem with the idea is that it's sort of like a luxury car dealing losing track of inventory. Of course, in this case it's like they've gained a bunch of inventory that they need to get rid of quickly, so maybe no one asks too many questions. They're listed as slaves; the staff hears "it's all a mistake" way too often; to the block they go.

[LoyalHound]

Addendum to previous quote response:

I would think if you were a natural slave, a 2 week immersive experience would be difficult to emerge from. I've woken from vivid dreams wondering if some of the things in the dream were real. I can't imaging having to assume an entirely new persona for 2 weeks, and I can see why the Aunt says she might need recovery time.

I've had dreams like that too, and it's generally not a fun experience for me. As to recovery time, it's a point you made rather vividly in "Any Chance Auction". The whole point of slave training, even at a school for tourists, is to change not just the behavior of the slave, but their whole view of the world and themselves, which is a point you made explicitly in "My Wife's Hospitality". To the extent that it is effective, you're not going to just shrug it off.

(Edited to change from "the behavior of the slave" to "not just he behavior of the slave, but their whole view of the world and themselves, which is a point you made explicitly in "My Wife's Hospitality".)

[imreadonly2]

My problem with the idea is that it's sort of like a luxury car dealing losing track of inventory. Of course, in this case it's like they've gained a bunch of inventory that they need to get rid of quickly, so maybe no one asks too many questions. They're listed as slaves; the staff hears "it's all a mistake" way too often; to the block they go.

Perhaps there is an INVENT table where all inventory is stored, and an offsetting table INVENT_UNOWNED to denote slave girls who are not actually owned by the facility. If during the reboot the latter table is corrupted, or an older version of the software that causes the join to fail is reloaded during the automatic recovery, then the visitors are incorrectly reclassified as owned inventory. Stranger things have happened, and IT staff desperate to get operations restored are not always able to double check mistakes.

And as you pointed out, nobody cares what a naked slave girl on the auction block has to say about anything.

[Mr. Smith]

I went back and read chapter one again and I'm glad you didn't skip ahead. The little details in this story, especially the time taken to describe the tattooing process is what makes these stories so much fun. The sucking on the thumb scene was wonderful! It reinforced her hidden submissive sexuality.

Weaving in the boyfriend was interesting. I'm curious about his slave grading experience since I believe it predated Kira's delivery to the slave market. I agree with Joe's comment about weaving in actual places on the map for added realism. I found myself looking up the locations on Google Maps although I don't believe you've told us where Frostburg Academy is located. My apologies if I missed it. I think you have an opportunity to weave in characters that know her from high school that visit or work at Frostburg. I could imagine the lecherous chemistry or PE teacher that was always undressing her with his eyes in class working summers at Frostburg as an additional trainer during their summer surge of recent high school graduates preparing for their slave grading for college in the fall. Anything that can add to her embarrassment that also further stokes her slave heat. The teacher who graded my math tests is now critiquing her technique orally servicing a silicone training penis or a real one for quality control.

Regarding the development of slave mind by students attending any of the Frostburg training courses I would think that they would build in safeguards to prevent their students from developing this disorder. A school for tourists that want to experience slavery, get prepared for a slave grading or to improve their technique in the sexual arts would not stay in business long if a significant percentage developed slave mind. Elite consort academies like Broadstone utilize slave psychiatrists and on-site clinicians to detect the early symptoms of slave mind for treatment. No slave girl graduates as a consort if they develop slave mind. Broadstone doesn't use Horny Juice for this reason. Ananke specializes in continuation training in the sexual arts for high end slaves, FINO slave wives, and training young women for their slave grading are all designed to avoid slave mind. That being said, none of these schools is perfect and some women are naturally inclined to develop slave mind when collared even if precautions are taken. I would need to go back to read The Cost of My Dreams but I believe the goal was to train the astronauts without them developing slave mind. I and other authors have described training facilities whose curriculum is designed to develop slave mind using a combination of training techniques and Horny Juice. I like the idea of "tourists" getting a taste for Horny Juice and your description of how it feels.

Take the following with a grain of salt. The slave grade is a combination of the slave girl's physical form, block routine and sexual arousal (slave heat). I think you missed an opportunity to work in a climax during each automated training session as part of the slave heat conditioning process. In this chapter, Kira started sucking on the older wrangler's thumb and then he fondled her breast. What effect on her arousal did this have? Did he roll her nipple between his thumb and fingers sending delicious tingles to her throbbing pussy? Was she wet or getting wet demonstrating her arousal? Could he see or smell her arousal? The wrangler could have fingered her vagina testing her slave heat. Throughout the story you imply the arousal without clearly stating it. Just my two cents worth. As you can see, I cannot get that thumb sucking scene out of my head.

Great job!

[Belinda]

Beautiful second part. Afraid she is destined for the same fate as Epsilon.

[LoyalHound]

Beautiful second part. Afraid she is destined for the same fate as Epsilon.

Thank you, Belinda. I'm glad you liked it.

WRT Kira, she's not going to end up with slave mind or go slave stupid. I'm not sure how I would write that from a first person perspective. Beyond that, I can't say yet.

[LoyalHound]

I went back and read chapter one again and I'm glad you didn't skip ahead. The little details in this story, especially the time taken to describe the tattooing process is what makes these stories so much fun. The sucking on the thumb scene was wonderful! It reinforced her hidden submissive sexuality.

Thankyou very much. My thoughts, when I was getting ready to post this, were that it was just wasn't doing enough to advance the story, but I did overlook the fun that's in the details. Glad you like the thumb sucking scene.

Weaving in the boyfriend was interesting. I'm curious about his slave grading experience since I believe it predated Kira's delivery to the slave market. I agree with Joe's comment about weaving in actual places on the map for added realism. I found myself looking up the locations on Google Maps although I don't believe you've told us where Frostburg Academy is located. My apologies if I missed it. I think you have an opportunity to weave in characters that know her from high school that visit or work at Frostburg. I could imagine the lecherous chemistry or PE teacher that was always undressing her with his eyes in class working summers at Frostburg as an additional trainer during their summer surge of recent high school graduates preparing for their slave grading for college in the fall. Anything that can add to her embarrassment that also further stokes her slave heat. The teacher who graded my math tests is now critiquing her technique orally servicing a silicone training penis or a real one for quality control.

The boyfriend was graded before Kira got checked in. The idea of bringing in more of her acquaintances from school is a really good one, which I am going to try and work in. The school should welcome the chance to display her in front of people she knew when free. I haven't said exactly where the school is located in Frostburg.

Regarding the development of slave mind by students attending any of the Frostburg training courses I would think that they would build in safeguards to prevent their students from developing this disorder. A school for tourists that want to experience slavery, get prepared for a slave grading or to improve their technique in the sexual arts would not stay in business long if a significant percentage developed slave mind. Elite consort academies like Broadstone utilize slave psychiatrists and on-site clinicians to detect the early symptoms of slave mind for treatment.[...]

I think you're correct, and I should probably try to incorporate some safeguards, even in a three week course that is not harsh or overwhelming. This is supposed to be enjoyable for the tourists.

No slave girl graduates as a consort if they develop slave mind. Broadstone doesn't use Horny Juice for this reason. Ananke specializes in continuation training in the sexual arts for high end slaves, FINO slave wives, and training young women for their slave grading are all designed to avoid slave mind. That being said, none of these schools is perfect and some women are naturally inclined to develop slave mind when collared even if precautions are taken. I would need to go back to read The Cost of My Dreams but I believe the goal was to train the astronauts without them developing slave mind. I and other authors have described training facilities whose curriculum is designed to develop slave mind using a combination of training techniques and Horny Juice. I like the idea of "tourists" getting a taste for Horny Juice and your description of how it feels.

Take the following with a grain of salt. The slave grade is a combination of the slave girl's physical form, block routine and sexual arousal (slave heat). I think you missed an opportunity to work in a climax during each automated training session as part of the slave heat conditioning process. In this chapter, Kira started sucking on the older wrangler's thumb and then he fondled her breast. What effect on her arousal did this have? Did he roll her nipple between his thumb and fingers sending delicious tingles to her throbbing pussy? Was she wet or getting wet demonstrating her arousal? Could he see or smell her arousal? The wrangler could have fingered her vagina testing her slave heat. Throughout the story you imply the arousal without clearly stating it. Just my two cents worth. As you can see, I cannot get that thumb sucking scene out of my head.

Great job!

You're right, the thumb scene should have gone into much more detail and I missed the opportunity. He could have slowly built her heat before coming to the conclusion she was a natural and would grade prime. That would have made more sense. Thankyou so very much.

[Sissy]

An interesting point is that in the first part, the aunt says that Amy will be put in a chastity belt and a collar with a mark that it is not for use, and in the second part, she is actually sent around in circles.

[Liva]

I like the chapter also a lot. Currently it feels like a very character-driven story about how Kira changes through the 3 weeks of slave-training. And this chapter still feels like part of the introduction and does as such, what I suppose it to do: It raises the stakes, gives a deeper understanding about Kira and makes me thus care a lot about her.

Good Job, thanks.

[LoyalHound]

And this chapter still feels like part of the introduction and does as such, what I suppose it to do: It raises the stakes, gives a deeper understanding about Kira and makes me thus care a lot about her.

Good Job, thanks.

Thankyou. I cannot imagine a better complement.

[LoyalHound]

An interesting point is that in the first part, the aunt says that Amy will be put in a chastity belt and a collar with a mark that it is not for use, and in the second part, she is actually sent around in circles.

That would have been true for the one week basic course or the two week deluxe course, neither of which involves actual sex. As she finds out at the end of chapter one, Kira's been signed up for the three week ultimate course, which is a lot more like real, abet more gentle than normal, slave training. As Mr Smith has noted, Frostburg doesn't want to their students to develop slave mind or become real slaves, but Frostburg is selling a real slavery "experience.: