StripSearch

My Dearest Oscar,

First of all, do not apologize for rambling or disseminating, as you are discussing a topic that is of great personal interest to me. Are slave girls born, or made?

I think we agree that most women who end up in a collar are destined for it, and have a “compulsion” to be enslaved. Why else, in a country of so much opportunity, would they fall into debt?

My father did not believe in debt, and as he paid for my education at both Harvard and Stanford I’m proud to say that debt simply isn’t a part of my financial history. Do thrift and frugality have no place in our society, and should creditors bear the brunt, over-and-over, when a girl hungry for the collar, repeatedly slides into bankruptcy. Such outrages do not occur in my court.

Of course, I’ve been informed by other that this opinion is self-serving, as it releases me from any moral obligation when I sentence a young woman to slavery. True enough, but I do pity them, for their natures if not their enslavement, which is the just punishment for their (or their family’s) misbehavior.

Of course, from time-to-time there are persons who challenge my “cream-rises-to-the-top” theory. A few months ago, I had a young woman of quality in my court who, like me, had gone to Harvard, and knew all the right people. Her father had been deeply involved in an accounting fraud, and the heartless creditors had hounded her family into bankruptcy, to the point where they were actually attempting to enslave her.

Needless to say, such attempts proved futile in my court. Like me, she was on the “Hottest Power Players in Denver” list, and I wasn’t about to disgrace myself by allowing one of my fellow power players to be collared. Crossing these sorts of lines brings the entire power structure into question, and people start to wonder if there is really that much difference between well educated, decent free women and the juicy wet gash they sell out of horse bars like the infamous Big D in Dallas.

After inviting the unfortunate woman into my chamber for a bit of lunch, I was able to work out a deal where she kept her father’s mansion and a few million dollars to get things restarted. However, your letter makes me wonder if Judge Younger might have handled her case differently. Thank goodness she found herself standing in front of a member of her social set, a female judge that understood the importance of breeding.

Which brings us back to the story of Doctor Lacy. I am going to suppose that, given that she went to the bother of going to medical school, that she might be a bit of a climber, rather than our sort of people, if you catch my drift? You can put a white coat and a stethoscope on a pig slut, and they are still a pig slut. The only part of your story that I find unbelievable is that she was able to pass herself off as a free woman, and a professional at that, for so long.

Again, I feel sorry for her, not because she was enslaved, but because she is (I hope) back in the brothel, feet in the air, earning coin for her owners. After experiencing what she had, and having her inner Pleasure Slut released, would any other life truly satisfy her?

It is question I’ve been constantly brooding over as of late. As I mentioned, I’m vacationing in the Mediterranean, on my father’s large, private estate. In order to work on my overall tan, I’m outside and naked most of the day. It’s not a problem, as we have a private beach, and it’s entirely private.

There’s no one to gawk at me, except the various servants who tend the gardens and grounds and such, who don’t really count. I have noticed that when I sunbathe by the pool, the swarthy, dirty carpenters who are rebuilding the east wing always go up on the roof for a lunch break. It’s an odd place to have lunch, under the blazing sun, but they don’t seem to mind the heat, and sit there peering down on me until I go inside. They actually have taken to passing around binoculars! When I challenged the foreman as to what they were looking at, he insisted they were bird watching.

I know they are talking about me, and I find myself dying to know what they are saying. I know it’s a bit naughty of me, but they are so deliciously dirty, that the thought of them looking at me, is wonderfully fun, like playing in the mud. I’m at a safe distance, so I know they must be viewing me as an untouchable work of art, like a statue of Venus in the museum. Even if you know you are not good enough to possess something, you may still admire its beauty.

As my father isn’t here, I actually replaced the butler and housekeeper with two naked male slaves, fresh to the collar, that I bought on the island market shortly after my arrival. The larger one, who I have named “Stud” is a muscular fisherman who was enslaved for 2 years after getting into a barfight. The smaller one, whom I have named “Noodle”, because of his small penis, is a studious college boy enslaved for 6 months after drugs were found in his politically connected roommate’s desk. (Guess who took the fall? Noodle, of course!)

I keep Noodle and Stud naked, and they fetch and carry for me and give me foot massages and oil my back when I don’t keep them locked in their kennels. Boys being boys, they sometimes get erections, particularly during my massages. When this happens, I order Noodles and Stud to 69 each other, on the floor, with me watching, laughing, and cheering them on. They aren’t homosexuals, and REALL, REALLY don’t want to do it, but when they resist I simply take them over my knee and paddle their tight little buns until they agree to perform with one another to amuse me.

Needless to say, they really try hard NOT to get erections, which always makes it that much more fun to tease them. The other day I showed them my block moves, and you should have seen them try to think of something else even as I ordered them to keep their eyes fixed on me. It was SO funny. I warned them that if got hard I was going to make them each take the other’s cherry. You should have seen the look on their faces! Noodle could barely walk by the time Stud had his way with him.

I’m thinking I might brand them. It’s against the rules, since they are temporary slaves, but the fine isn’t really a problem, and I love the thought of my family logo on their tight round bottoms. What do you think I should do?

Speaking of block moves, I have kept up with my slave yoga while on vacation. I signed up for a class at a local club frequented by rich trophy wives and the daughters of the well to do. I didn’t quite fit in, which confused me at first, as a number of them were American, British, and French. I knew that they were all a bit jealous of how well I did my block moves, but it wasn’t until I overheard them discovering my “American slave genes” that I realized they thought the source of my expertise was my “blackness.”

My trainer, Apollo, is devilishly handsome, with long, curly golden hair. He is an actual slave trainer, and is quite strict, although since we are all free women, he only cracks the whip in the air. He seemed quite annoyed with me, and viewed me with open contempt, for reasons that I could not fathom, as my performance was much better than the other girls, IMHO.

At first, I thought it was racism, but when I confronted him about it, Apollo told me that I “disgusted” him, as I was “wasting your natural, God given beauty and talents.”

I was both flattered and insulted, but let another week go by, pondering what he meant. The next week, I pressed for an explanation.

“You are too beautiful and too skilled to play at being a rich girl pretending to be a slave girl. It is like watching a swan pretending to be a duck pretending to be a swan. It is painful to watch, and disruptive to my class, and insulting to everyone present. You need to be in a different class.”

Confused, I asked him what section I belonged in.

“I teach a class for actual slave girls, at the same time, but on Tuesday, Thursdays, and Saturdays instead of Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays. We go through much of the same material, although at a much more advance level, in the way you might study mythology in both 5th grade and college but in a way appropriate for your abilities.”

“So I’m college level?” I said, pleased at the handsome slave trainer’s compliment.

“Perhaps. I’ll know for sure when you’re in the class, and I get to see more of you.”

The possibilities of the phrase “seeing more of me” gave me a little quiver. “I’ll be wearing my leotard during class, of course?” I said hopefully.

“No, you will be slave naked,” he said, as if the suggestion of my wearing clothes was utterly ridiculous. “Do not worry. I’ll give you a real but unregistered slave collar to wear, so you’ll fit in with the other girls.”

“Having a slave collar to wear was hardly my point,” I said dryly. “Will the class be held in the private room, at least? I mean… for decency’s sake?”

Again, his voice dripped contempt for my stupidity. “Slave girls have no decency. It will be held in front of the bleachers at the edge of the soccer field. The bleachers give any male guests who wish to watch an excellent and uninhibited view of the girl’s moves.”

“You want me to strip naked and spread my legs and squat and jump around in front of a bunch of horny men who think I’m a slave girl?” I said, scarcely believing what he was suggestion.

“The question isn’t what I want. What do you want, my little brown slave girl?”

He took his face slap well. He actually laughed as I stormed away.

I showed up the next day, and sat in the bleachers. Master Apollo said nothing, but smiled when he saw me.

The men around me were an assortment of beef cakes who had just finished their workouts and wanted to amuse themselves before their shower, and horny fat guys who looked like they couldn’t do a pushup to save their lives. Why buy a gym club membership and not use it?

The answer presented itself to me as a dozen naked slave girls appeared and exquisitely executed the block routines that I and the other women in my class had merely been toying with. The girls moved with precision, snapping into their next position like marines twirling their rifles. I was amazed, and flattered that Master Apollo thought I was that good, or could be that good, with the right training.

As with our class, Master Apollo used the crack of the whip to command the girls to assume the next position. However, unlike our class, he also used the whip to flick the bottoms of girls who were, in his estimation, not giving it their all. In truth, I thought all of the girl’s performances were exquisite. I briefly wondered if he wasn’t doing it simply to amuse the spectators, who laughed and applauded whenever one of the girls HOWLED as the whip flicked her little round slave girl bottom. Really, the whip barely barely touched them, and just gave them these adorable little red stripes, like a mischievous child had dragged a magic marker along their naughty bottoms. I laughed too, because it was quite funny. However, even as I laughed, I also clenched my bottom cheeks together, for reasons I’m still at a loss to explain.

Was Master Apollo whipping them for the fun of it? Well, it was great sport, but I dismissed the thought, as I knew Master Apollo was far too professional to whip a girl who didn’t truly deserve it. As a free woman, watching the men drool as they stared at the little sluts pleasuring themselves to slave-gasms, with their legs spread and pussies arched in the air, a big part of me would have liked to see all of them whipped.

By the time it was all over, the girls were sweating like the slut pigs they were, and the scent of the heard caused me wrinkle my nose. The showers were against the wall by the pool, and so I joined the men and watched the naked, panting bitches scamper over to the showers for a quick scrub down.

“Get your filthy slave holes clean, you disgusting sows!” Master Apollo said. “Your masters want you fuckable, and they don’t want you stinking up the trunk of their fancy new cars.” It was a hot day, and the showers looked cool and relaxing. For a moment, I found myself wishing I could join them, but remembering the leering men, dismissed the thought.

As I continued to watch, and listen to the men openly appraise their naked bodies, I felt an odd pang of jealous resentment. Why were the slave girls showering, when I could not? Also, why were all the men looking at them, and none at me? I was quite attractive in my short yellow summer dress. As it was a hot day, I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I had certainly gotten plenty of appreciative looks before the Pleasure Sluts arrived. But all the men were staring at the disgusting, horny sows in the showers, watching them soap up and rinse off, watching them scrub out the stink between their legs, while ignoring me entirely.

Most of the girls had their master’s waiting for them, but the few that were left were crowded together into a kennel. You can imagine what the little sluts did when they were all pressed together. Disgusting. The men watched and whistled. Master Apollo was right to whip them! I wish I could skin all of their fat little backsides.

I was surprised when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and heard my name. “Katherine?” a familiar voice said.

It took me a moment to place the face of Brad Butler, and old friend of the family. Our families had actually vacationed together, and I’d had a bit of a crush on him when I was a little girl, as he had been older, and a handsome young college student.

I told Brad it was wonderful to see him, and we hugged. He explained that he wasn’t sure that it was me, as my skin had turned so dark.

“You look… African,” he explained.

“You look fat and old,” I snapped back. In truth, he wasn’t fat, but a bit gray, but that only made him look sexier. “I’m sorry…but I’m NOT African,” I explained.

Recovering, we chatted a bit about our families. He explained that he always came on Tuesdays, and rather pointedly asked me what I was doing, watching the slave girl’s shower.

Desperately searching for an explanation, I stammered that I’d had something in my shoe, so sat on the bench, and then the slave girls came out, and I didn’t want to leave as I felt that might seem impolite. I had followed them to the showers because I was looking for the restroom, because the sun was in my eyes at the bleachers, but I really had to go. Brad seemed a bit confused by my explanation, so I hastily bid him adieu.

I felt quite frustrated by the whole experience, so Bull and Noodle got quite the paddling when I got home. Men! Do you think I should geld them both, and pay whatever fine there is? I wasn’t angry at them, but I’m not African, and I really didn’t appreciate the way the men at the club kept their eyes glued to the Pleasure Sluts!

Speaking of race, I looked up your friend, and sent him a picture of myself, asking how I might modify the “slave girl” in the photo to make her look a bit “darker”. The image he sent back was quite shocking, and included and explanation of the procedure he would use to widen the nostrils and flatten the nose, the contacts he’d used to turn the girl’s eyes from blue to black, and the procedure to turn her straight hair into a kinky afro. In the photo, my hair was quite short (“short and nappy - better for field work”, he explained) and my ears seemed to stick out from my head. He also made my breasts much bigger, “for more milk.” 

The most shocking feature was the girl’s large, plump lips, which seemed almost cartoonish. I wrote back and asked him if he could try again, as he had clearly “overdone it”, and that I had sent him a phot of “a woman of breeding”, he responded that he knew his business, and what sold on the marketplace.

“She’ll be a breeder all right, with those nice wide hips. They’ll mate her with a group of big black studs, one after the other, and get the best of both worlds, popping a little slave girl out of her belly every 9 months. Barefoot and pregnant, that’s how we keep wenches like this one.”

Needless to say, I was horrified at the misunderstanding, and our correspondence ended.

Pablo doesn’t say much about his ‘business” online, and his website is just a shell. Curious, I scoured the earth and found an old catalogue from Pablo’s for sale on e-bay. At first, I didn’t see blacks at all, until I found a section labeled “Plantation Monkeys”. Apparently, there are a number of islands in the Caribbean and off the coast of South America that have been setup as old-time slave plantation, where rich, white racists can relive the good old days. They seemed like odious places, where the blacks are treated quite badly, so I was shocked to discover a photo of you on Charleston Island, at a reception for the Governor. I know as your firm deals with slave traders; you are doubtlessly forced to socialize with all sorts. But I was shocked that you would go to such a terrible place.

I had thought that the “breeding” sessions your friend referred to were part of some old trashy novel, but discovered that they do in fact put bags over the slave’s heads and then have three or four black studs “seed” the girl, one after another, with the white folks watching and laughing. I couldn’t stop thinking about what that must be like, to lay in straw with a bag over your head, listening to well-dressed people laugh at you while some big black man impregnated you like you were a sow or a horse.

Have you really been to these places? What are they really like?

Truth be told, I used to dress up like Scarlett O’Hare when I was a little girl, and pretend that I lived on a plantation. I confess I am quite curious, and would like to see the place, if I didn’t morally disapprove of the very concept.

If the skin changer works the way you are suggesting, I’m thinking it’s really too much. Please tell Hanna that my thought was to go to Pablo’s as a state auditor, with credentials from the Texas Department of Agriculture that Judge Younger could help us secure. If I could see their accounting records, I could easily compare the sales prices we were given to the actual block price. A temporary slave id might be a good way of tracking and retrieving any girl that’s sold, as we could claim to be trying to rectify a flaw in title. I have a lot of cute little farm girls flowing through my court, so if Hanna tells me how I might arrange this, I can see what I can do.

Which brings us to the subject of whether slave girls are born, or made. As you can see from this letter, I am, in preparation of my daring undercover assignment, going naked most of the day, like a real slave girl. I am practicing my Slave Yoga, both at home and at the club, constantly.

Am I a slave girl? Certainly not! I am federal judge, about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, bringing criminals to justice. The publicity such a story could bring me could get me out of bankruptcy court, and onto an appellate court. Or perhaps, dare I say, even farther? I hope you don’t think I’m too ambitious, but the possibilities leave me breathless.

As for “Doctor” Lacey, while there is nothing wrong with a respected professional woman playing slave girl, it’s clear to me from your description that she was a slave girl from the start. Even if the injections work, why did she continue to exhibit slave heat after the injections stopped, in front of the lawyer who could save her?

To put it another way, can you imagine me kneeling in front of you, slave naked, rubbing myself and begging to give you a slave kiss, knowing that such behavior would earn me a lifetime of servitude. As exciting as such a fantasy might be for the both of us, can you imagine me actually humbling myself that way?

I think we agree that it was inherent to her character. Our minor disagreement is over whether she was ever REALLY a respected professional woman to begin with. At a distance, one might think a wolf or a coyote are a dog. But mistaking something for what it is not does not make it that thing. Mistaking “Doctor” Lacy for a free woman does not make her so, which is why women’s professional degrees are summarily removed when they are enslaved, to correct the error.

The fact that no gentleman attempted to save her is proof of Dr. Lacy’s inherent slave girl nature. If my friend Brad saw me “performing” in the class, with Master Apollo cracking my defenseless bottom with the whip, doubtlessly he would be alarmed, and stop the proceedings, and offer me his coat. Or would he even recognize me, in such reduced circumstances? A fascinating question, but impossible to know.

If you saw me squatting and rolling and preening on the block, you would stop the auction, not smile and join the bidders!

I actually got a stamp in the form of Pablo’s logo, and placed it on the inside of my bottom cheek. It did not look like a brand, as it did not have a raised ridge or scar. Nor did it feel like a brand, or “change” me, or “reveal” me, as your letter suggested. Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing to see here, I’m afraid.

But much to see, still. In response to your rather rude insinuation that my status as one of the “hottest power players” might have been purchased, I submit the “photographic evidence” you asked for. I feel comfortable sending you these photos, as I know you judge female beauty for a living, although as a free woman I am in entirely different class than a slave girl, whatever the idiots in the bleachers may think.

As for Judge Younger, I’d very much like to see him in court, as it would be my pleasure to teach him the basics of the law. He is a disgrace to the legal profession, and although he might be a useful idiot to us now, when this is over, I’d very much like to get him into MY court, so I could put the gelding sheers to good use, and “retire” him from his favorite pastime whether he liked it or not.

I am sorry for the length of this letter. Your amusing comments do inspire me so!

Thank you once again for your help. It’s a pleasure to have you working for me.

Katherine

PS: I was actually “stamped” when these photos were taken, but alas, no whip marks, ha-ha. I ask you, does that look like a slave girl’s bottom?

And the plot thickens! Love it!

Dear Joe:
You are clearly developing a more sophisticated approach to your usual secretly-submissive-woman-who-deliberately-puts-herself-into-slavery. When this story began, I assumed that eventually Katherine would decide to go "under cover without covers" to investigate what she regarded as mismanagement/undervaluation of criminal slaves--and I for one am still hoping for such an outcome. This episode, however, shows that like your previous protagonists she is secretly hot for the collar, but she is also so arrogant, so convinced that she is superior to normal people who fall into debt and wish to be enslaved--I may have missed it, but isn't she imagining herself being the one exposed and spanked? Can't help hoping that her own slaves get to use and spank HER.
Anyway, well done. This is one "born to the collar" for whom I will feel no remorse if/when you give her what she both wants and deserves! Please ensure she doesn't get too high a rating or sale price, as that would only further inflate her ego.
Carl

This is a wonderful continuation. it is so wonderful. As a professional woman I see myself in her. Keep up your fabulous work.

Belinda

Katherine,


It's a wonderful thing that your father was able to spare you from such problems as student debt. In all my years of practice, unmanagable educational loans are one of the most common causes of enslavement for young intelligent women. I find it quite amusing that academics, who as you know are the most outspoken critics of the system of modern slavery, would become the source of so much of it. With their bloated administrations, tenured positions, and ivy-covered temples to navel-gazing, the cost of attending even a subpar school has risen significantly. Every year, tens of thousands of students walk out after four years of school holding a vellum diploma and six figures of debt. And for a large percentage of them, they walk right into eight or more years of slavery when the promised high paying jobs do not materialize.

On a whim, I attended a lecture just last year from a militant progressive professor who raged about the inequalities of the patriarchal system. She was an attactive black woman in her mid-30s, slim and toned but full of rage. She spat out invectives for nearly an hour, screeching that the people who worked in the slave law courts were hopelessly corrupt vampires feeding upon the youth and vitality of "wymyn" everywhere (for the life of me I am not sure how, but I could actually hear the difference in how she pronounced that). The auditorium was filled with her colleagues, overweight lesbians with multicolored hair and ugly piercings. Every one of them nodded and shouted their agreement. I received not a small number of hateful stares by the people near me. Eventually the speaker noticed my presence in the audience and called me out specifically. Perhaps it was my moderate chuckling that attracted her attention, or perhaps she recognized me from one of my television commercials. Either way, she asked some ridicilous question of "what do I have to say for myself", or other such nonsense.

Given the chance to speak my mind, it was then that I pointed out the professor receives a quarter-million dollar a year salary from the university. For this she teaches two classes, a freshmen-level course with over two hundred students, and an upper-level course with approximately thirty students. Reading through some online course reviews, it appears that her freshman level class is taught primarily by graduate students, and in fact last semester she only appeared at five of her own lectures. Also, each of her freshmen was required to purchase over seven hundred dollars of books, written by her and her colleagues. Seven hundred dollars for a freshman seminar! Her upper-level class was even worse, with each student required to pay over $3500 for a two week camping session entitled "Wymym's Retreat: Harnessing Your Yonic Power". Every year, over a hundred young women graduate from her university with degrees in Critical Ethnic Gender Studies, for which they incurred an average of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of debt. Searching through as many employment websites as I could find, I was unable to locate a single job opening with that degree as a requirement. I then cross-referenced a list of graduates from her department with available slave court records, and found over a 55% match. Also keep in mind that not all states have publicly accessible databases, so this number could be higher.

Laughing, I pointed out that in the last eight years since she began teaching at the university, her department was likely responsible for more enslaved women than many of the medium-sized slave law firms in Texas!

Needless to say, she and the other rainbow-hairs nearly turned purple with rage at my statements, and several of them made as to throw their Doc Martens at me. So chuckling again, I rose from my seat and made my way out the back of the lecture hall.



I hope you enjoy your Mediterranean vacation. It sounds as though you've got two natural slave boys to entertain yourself with. You can tell they are natural slaves by how readily they adapt to homosexuality. That's because a slave doesn't have a traditional sexual orientation as you or I think of it. Their orientation is simply *slave*.

A free, straight man would never permit himself to be used in such a manner. Now my friend, I am sure that your block moves are good and well practiced, at least for a free woman. But if a normal man knew that watching you and getting an erection carried the consequence of being anally penetrated, by another man no less, then he would simply control his arousal. Your block moves simply cannot be *that* good.

Even if you were impossibly seductive, a real straight man would take precautions against it. You mention that you regularly punish your slaves when they get erections while massaging you. These two slaves know what to expect from you. If they were truly heterosexual, they would simply masturbate repeatedly while you were not around. Eventually they would be as limp as overcooked pasta. Were I in such a situation, I can't think of anything that would keep me from relieving myself as soon as your back was turned. No, it appears you've got two natural slaves on your hands.

As far as having them gelded, I must admit, I am not familiar with regulations in the Mediterranean area. I would suggest you contact a local attorney before making any permanent alterations to them. Penalties for something like that may be more severe than you suspect.



Regarding your block moves, your trainer Apollo is teasing you. It's a well known practice with slave trainers who teach classes for rich women on the side. Why, it's practically the plot to the movie Dirty Dancing. The handsome man tells the rich girl that she has real talent, and for a lot of extra money (or a lot of sex), his private lessons can make her as good as the professionals. As I said, I'm sure your slave yoga is not bad, especially compared to your wealthy friends, but he is feeding your ego by pretending that you could hold up to a real class with real slaves. I doubt you could last even a single session.

Of course, sometimes free women do enroll in an actual class with real slaves. Much of the time they simply quit halfway through. Those who don't typically have a trainer who takes it easy on them. He may whip the real slave girls, but he doesn't whip his wealthy customer. Or if he does, it is done very lightly. He works her out at a slower pace, even if she doesn't realize it. It's done at an intense level for a rich girl pretend class, but still falls short of a true slave level. And then you have to take into account that a free woman can quit at any time. Even the very rare woman who makes it through one class knows that she never has to go back. She returns to her hotel room, luxuriates in a nice hot bath, and has a lengthy massage. If she is adventurous, several days later after she has recovered she might try another. But this is all still just feeding the fantasy that they are good enough to compete with the professionals.

A child in karate class may be able to jump and kick and break a board, but that doesn't mean he can take on a professional prize fighter. Likewise I am sure your slave yoga and block moves are good for your white wine spritzer crowd, but you should set aside the idea of competing against slaves. Apollo will simply take your money and then take it easy on you. Any people watching will laugh to themselves at the gullible free woman clumsily stumbling through a slave routine. I've seen it a hundred times.

I understand why you feel so fascinated by the idea. You are extremely competitive. Your whole life, you have succeeded at everything you tried. An elite college, law school, an early appointment to the federal bench, all very impressive. And it must sting to think a lowly slave is capable of out-performing you on something so simple as aerobics and stretching. I am sure it looks simple. How can a group of women who failed spectacularly at even maintaining their own freedom manage to beat you at so easy an exercise? I suggest putting it out of your mind and just go back to enjoying your vacation. You wouldn't worry because someone else is a better linebacker than you are. You wouldn't put on football pads and try to make a tackle. Don't worry about this. Even if you tried to compete against them, it wouldn't be for real. The class would be a fake.

Because you are not a slave. As long as Apollo sees you as... well, as *you*, he'll take your money and give you the theme park version.



The fact that your friend, Mr Butler, was able to recognize you even after your lengthy tan confirms my suspicions. You say he had not seen you for years, yet he knew who you were instantly. While you might darken up quite a bit, visually speaking, you are clearly still you. I think if we were to enter Pablo's, even with your "African" appearance, we would be discovered immediately.

I understand your reluctance at interacting with a slave alteration service. Some of the changes they can perform will make a woman completely unrecognizable. It frightens many women to see a picture of themselves modified to such a great degree. This is why it is generally used on slaves, and not on free women. Many people have their self-image directly tied to their own appearance, and the thought of the way they look being changed so radically can bother them.

One former client of mine was an attractive white woman in her 40s. She had left a country club social after several drinks too many, and ended up rear-ending the chief of police's car. We did what we could for her, but in the end she had to serve a 6 month temporary enslavement. We managed to arrange her sale to Roger Anderson, a well connected member of the same country club. He was quite handsome and our client was pleased by the thought of being his sexual companion for a time. I suppose she imagined it as some sort of extended vacation where she could indulge in some kinky fantasies. Well as it happened, Roger had a bit of an Asian maid fetish. He took her to the slave alteration service and picked her up ten days later.

The change was startling. In addition to changing the woman's skin color, hair color, and hair texture, they actually managed to add epicanthic folds to her eyes. She even looked younger, in her mid-20s at the latest. Not only that, but when she spoke she had a stereotypical Asian accent. "Me love you long time," and other such sayings. I am not sure how they managed that. From what I understand, part of it was done with drugs, and part of it occurred from her mind accepting the changes that she saw in the mirror.

Even once her enslavement period was over, I could still detect some of those speech patterns, and she seemed to retain that compulsion to clean. I don't think her buyer had the process fully reversed. Many of the changes will wear off after a time, but some need an "antidote" treatment. I suppose she could have gone back herself to have the process fully undone, but perhaps she liked her new, more youthful appearance. I don't know, as she quit the country club some time later. I'll have to speak with Roger at our next tee-time and see if he knows what happened to Anne.



But regardless, I'm sure you wouldn't want the experience of seeing yourself as a tall African woman. Enormous breasts and broad, wide breeding hips, with a completely unrecognizable face? Seeing that appearance staring back at you in the mirror would be quite a shock. It would almost be like anything you did while in that skin wouldn't really be you. It would be somebody else doing it. The pig slut, not the young blonde federal judge. The disassociation would have to be dizzying. To look in the mirror and not see the educated woman with power and control, only to see a filthy pig slut destined for shackles on a plantation. If you couldn't even recognize yourself, how could anyone else recognize you? I can understand why you wish to avoid this. The loss of sense of self could create some confusing feelings.



You asked about those island plantations. Yes, I've been to them. We have all kinds of clients, and part of our duties involve inspecting them to ensure they're properly insured and that guest accomodations follow all appropriate regulations. It's all quite boring really.

It's true that they use women for breeders. How exactly depends on the plantation. Often they have a group of male slaves lined up and ready to go. It isn't particularly important for them to know which slave impregnated her, only that she becomes pregnant (of course in US law, slavery is not hereditary, but that's not the case everywhere). For the sake of efficiency, female slaves are generally restrained. I've been to a plantation where the women were locked into pillories, bent at the waist with their feet spread apart, their wrists and neck held in between two large wooden planks. There must have been at least 20 male slaves lined up behind each one, large and hard and ready to empty their balls.

Oh, you should see how those women squirm! Can you imagine it? A row of slave girls, bare ass naked, locked into bondage, using old wooden stocks that must have endured for centuries.
Each slave just another piece of pussy in an ancient tradition, a woman with her name forgotten and never to be remembered. Each one, her thighs slick with her own juices, so desperate to get that line of cocks inside of her that she'll start involuntarily bucking and humping at the air. How horny it must make them to know that they'll have dick after dick shoved into their wet little snatches, and there's nothing at all they can do about it. Sometimes it goes on until late in the night, with so many men that by the time the last one finishes, the first one is ready to go again.

You mentioned the workmen gawking at you as you sunbathed and worked on your yoga? My dear, there are hundreds of people who gather round to watch the breeding sessions. Wealthy investors, men and women from town, even lowly fishermen stinking of the day's catch, all surround the slave women and watch them as they're bred like sows. By the way, they only keep the bag over the heads until the breeding starts. Keeps them calmer that way. But once it begins, they remove it so the slaves can see the huge crowd staring at them from only a few feet away.

It's a sight all right. And it's as close to a guaranteed 100% knock-up rate as you can get.



Thinking of going to Pablo's as a state auditor, eh? Well that's certainly an idea. However I'm not sure that you've got the necessary knowledge to pull that off, Judge. No offense intended of course. State auditors here are awfully busy, and travel all over Texas. They see more slave pussy in a week than most people do in a lifetime. Even with the number of bankruptcy enslavements you've handled in your courtroom, I doubt it can match what a Texas auditor would see. Additionally, they're familiar with the day to day activities of these auction houses.

An auditor, of course, would have the full run of the place. Every location in an auction house can be reviewed and observed by an actual licensed state auditor. However there are quite a few tricks that these places use to get auditors to look the other way, or miss key pieces of information. Keep in mind that the slave industry is one of livestock, not a manufacturing plant. There is little in the way of heavy equipment. If the auction house isn't actually processing someone at the moment of inspection, there isn't much to see. There are several large pens with slaves milling about, there's an auction block with bleachers set up, and some livestock chutes. Then perhaps an inspection area, a few offices, and often one or two old computers. If you were to arrive on a random day and just observe, I doubt there would be much to see. Just a lot of slave stock standing or sitting around, waiting. To really see how an auction house functions, you would need to observe the process from start to finish.

Truthfully, we'll likely need someone to go undercover in the role of a slave. I'll speak to Hannah about it. She's smart, and always willing to go the extra mile to find a solution. And she knows all the ins and outs of the slave industry, having been raised here in Texas. Of course, by broaching the subject with her, you know I'll have to bring her into our little circle of trust. That means revealing your identity and the purpose of your mission. Up til now she's been under the impression that her work was for a business owner checking up on wasteful employees. But she's part of the firm, and knows how to keep a secret.



As far as Judge Younger, I think he'd love to see you. In fact I know he would, as he constantly asks me about you. I've shown him some of your pictures, with your face blurred out of course. You should have heard the things he said! "Choice grade slave pussy, maybe even choice-plus!" Knowing the man, I can tell you that is high praise coming from him.

I might be able to get him to draw up some papers, but I'll need to word things carefully when I speak to him. The man has already prepared enslavement papers for a "Jane Doe" and is ready to file them. Of course that doesn't do him any good without knowing who you are.

I doubt you'll have much luck getting him in your courtroom however. The man is older than dirt, and I don't think he's left the State of Texas since he tried to shoot Santa Anna.

Until next time Kathy,

-Oscar


P.S. It really is too bad about Doctor Cartwright. It seems that your prediction proved correct. You can't just take a year off from your medical practice and not pay your bills without creditors coming after you. She's been remanded into custody pending an enslavement hearing over unpaid debts.

We'll see what happens to her next week, but I visited her today. They keep 'em naked, shackled, and collared, six women to a cell. She kept talking about how she wanted to be free, and how she could get the money together to pay her debts, but the whole place smelled like wet pussy. She had obviously been servicing the other women, and the whole time I was there she had her fingers in her snatch. She claimed they'd given her another injection of the "slave cocktail", but such wanton need is all the evidence the judge will require.

If you like, I'll keep track of which brothel she is sold to. You might even get to try out her horny little tongue!

P.P.S. Thank you for the wonderful pictures. You truly have an amazing bottom. Though my associate Hannah rightfully pointed out that a stamp is not a brand. I must agree. Once again we're talking about merely imitating being a slave, which is a far cry from the real thing.

Oh my how exciting to wake up to this current installment this morning. Your writing and skill are exquisite. I so love this new story.

Yours Truly,

Belinda

Johnny: loved your story input hope you continue writing. Thank you.