Memoirs of a Slave Girl
Part 7: Frat Girl and an Extreme Makeover
(1972 - Age 51)
As you might imagine, after ten years of pumping out slave babies, I wasn't much
to look at. Even with the decent care I'd received, stretch marks covered my
belly and varicose veins were visible on my legs. My now-floppy tits sagged from
the nearly constant milking of the past several years. I was still able to
produce, but my Owners noticed that the weight and health of my most recent
litters was decreasing. I was deemed too much of a risk. A lot of money was
invested in each breeding, and they felt the potential for financial loss was
too great. It was time for me to be sold once again.
As the oldest among a chain of young teens and 20-somethings, I knew I probably
wouldn't be much sought after. I tried my best to look appealing, submissive
and absolutely obedient, but I knew going in that the chances were I'd soon be
performing my last service as either fertilizer or animal food. That, of
course, didn't happen.
I was bought by a group of college fraternity brothers for fifty dollars. I
really wasn't worth even that much. I doubt that I was really what a group of
young, virile men was looking for, but fifty bucks was probably all they could
afford. So, a new leash was snapped to my collar, and I was led off to begin
another phase in my life.
It was your typical frat house, a large, two story Victorian. There were nine
bedrooms, each shared by two of the fraternity brothers. They were fairly
identical, differing only in the location of the closets and the layout of the
furniture. The bedroom floors were covered in a thick, plush carpet. I would
soon learn to enjoy the luxury of being able to sleep on the floors of these
rooms.
I was going to describe the rest of the house in detail, but realize you
probably aren't all that interested. Suffice it to say that the residence,
built just before the Civil War, was a combination of modern and antique, and
maintained immaculately. I knew, because if as much as a speck of dust was
found, it was my ass that paid for it.
My room was up in the unfinished, uninsulated attic. A bare wood floor,
exposed rafters with a single 60 watt bulb hanging from a wire, and an old,
stained mattress on the floor. A bucket in case I needed it. The single window
was boarded over; leaving the vents under the eaves at each end of the house as
the only ventilation. The door locked from the outside, but not the inside. I
could be secured in my quarters, but as usual, had no assurance of privacy. The
attic was freezing cold in the winter and stifling hot in the summer.
Fortunately, I would actually spend very little time in it. Even as old as I
was, one or another of the boys bedded me almost every night.
My duties were about what you'd expect...I cooked, served meals, cleaned the
house, straightened their rooms, made their beds, washed their dirty laundry,
and, of course, provided for their sexual relief whenever they couldn't find
some young, nubile coed to take care of them. Dates didn't happen too often
with this group; they weren't exactly the well-built, athletic, popular types.
Today you'd call them geeks and nerds. Most of them were chemistry, biology,
math or computer science majors. I doubt any of them had ever visited a gym or
seriously participated in any form of sports in their lives.
Whenever I was in one of my Master's rooms or my attic hovel, I was required to
be naked. However, while performing my chores, serving meals or as a maid at
their infrequent social events, they did give me a uniform to wear. It
consisted of my collar, fishnet stockings, platform shoes with spiked heels, and
a pressed, starched waist apron that just covered my bare sex. I thought it
looked pretty silly; after all, I was probably old enough to be their
grandmother, but they apparently like fantasizing that I was some nubile young
thing. I doubt that was all that easy, considering my wrinkled, saggy boobs
were always uncovered. Even when cooking, they remained bare. I particularly
disliked cooking bacon, as I could never figure out how to fry it without being
burned with the grease.
The only time I was permitted to wear anything different was when they played
dress-up with me, or when I was sent to do the weekly grocery shopping. For my
trips outside in public, the collar was removed, and I was allowed to wear a
simple knee-length cotton floral print dress, sandals, a butt plug, and my
leather chastity belt. It didn't matter what time of the year it was, even when
the temperature was below freezing, with a foot of snow on the ground, I walked
the nine blocks in the same dress, wearing the same sandals. Even though I bore
no outward signs that I was a slave, it was undoubtedly quite obvious to
everyone. Who else would wear the same frayed dress and cheap sandals. day in
and day out, in good weather and bad? Only a slave.
As I said, I belonged to a group of geeks. That's both good and bad. Geeks
don't often have dates, except with other geeks or real porkers who can't do any
better. With my owners, it was more the former than the latter, so I did spend
a lot of my time on my knees and back. Each of them generally used me once a
day, usually before or just after school. I usually enjoyed that, even when I
wasn't able to cum. It wasn't that they'd forbidden me, but that some of them
were neither well-endowed nor particularly talented in the sexual arts. I was
pretty frustrated at times.
After dinner and my chores, I'd be told to clean up and report to one room or
another for the rest of the night. Sometimes I'd get sleep, others I wouldn't.
Usually, though, I would be able to get a few hours. Most often curled up on
the floor with cum leaking out of my holes, but sometimes nuzzled up to one of
my Masters or huddled down under the covers, my mouth gently sucking his dick
all night long.
The best thing about geeks is that they are the people with brains, who end up
creating new ideas and inventions, and who invariably end up with money. A
whole lot of money. As this fraternity, which catered to the techno-science
types, had been around for over a hundred years, there were a lot of very
wealthy alumni, and they tended to pump some of that money back into their old
fraternity. Hence, when some of them showed up for the spring Homecoming, they
were surprised to find that their younger brothers were being forced to make do
with an old hag as their frat cunt. After I was well and thoroughly used by
everyone who wanted me, the more affluent of the graduates huddled together to
discuss, what I later found out, was my future. Thought was given to just
replacing me with another slave, but my Masters were adamant. I had served them
well and faithfully, and even at my old age, they said they thoroughly enjoyed
using me sexually. The alumni agreed on this point, that I was quite a pleasure
to fuck. So, after a short discussion, they announced that certain temporary
changes would occur within the fraternity...and with me.
I was going to finish out the school term as frat slut, and then would be gone
for the summer and fall term, possibly longer. When I returned, the frat
brothers were assured, I'd be prettier, tighter, smarter and an overall more
visually appealing slave, with all of my natural submissiveness and docility
still intact. Since the graduates couldn't see leaving the fraternity without
the services of a frat slut, they were going to provide temporary replacements.
Each Friday afternoon, the graduates would send in a different slave who would
stay for ten days. This way, there would always be one slave girl available
during the week and two on weekends during my absence.
I finished out the semester, and at the end of the term, the fraternity held a
huge party to celebrate the coming summer break. It was a traditional reunion
time for the graduates, so they all showed up as well, each with one or two
slave girls in tow. Because of the number of cute young sexpots available, I
wasn't used for anything but serving drinks and fetching napkins. I was
disappointed, but watching all those young girls get their asses fucked off by
my Owners sure got my motor running. Someone surely saw how wet I was becoming,
because I was allowed to spread myself out on the back porch and pleasure myself
with a huge vibrator, much to the amusement of the frat brothers and slave
girls who were watching. Little did I know when I screamed to announce my
orgasm that it would be the last time I would cum for nearly a year.
The next day, I was packaged for transport, as cargo on a Fed Ex flight. I was
granted the opportunity to use the toilet, then was given an enema in order to
clean me out for the trip. A shower followed, and then I was bound, gagged and
diapered, and placed in a padded shipping crate for the trip. The way Fed Ex
routes their shipments, it wouldn't be anything near a direct flight. First
we'd go to a local hub, then to a national hub, to another local hub nearer to
my destination, then onto a truck for final delivery. The method for
transporting slaves hadn't changed much over the years, even to the same sort of
penis gag water supply that I'd used on my train trip to college so long ago. .
My destination, as it turned out, was a small, privately owned island off the
South American coast. The owner of the island was a research physician who had
established an experimental facility where slave girls - willing and unwilling -
underwent a variety of highly unorthodox, often dangerous, physical and
psychological treatments. Some free persons had these surgeries, too, but only
after they'd been proven safe by being performed on slaves. The doctor was a
fraternity brother, though he'd never been to any of the reunions which I
served.
I stayed in the medical treatment section of The Center, as it was called, for
almost six months. During that time, my treatment varied, sometimes daily, from
that of a pampered patient to something lower than dog shit. I later understood
that the pampering was necessary for my recovery from the numerous surgeries;
the the harsh treatment afterwards was to ensure I remembered that I was
nothing but a slave.
Some of the surgeries performed on other patients were pretty hideous. I
remember one girl, she seemed compliant, but I could tell she wasn't totally
willing. Her body had been modified so as to look more like a caricature than a
woman...she was about 5'10" tall, but I doubt she weighed more than 90 pounds.
That wouldn't have been so bad, but her tits....God, they were huge, like
oversized basketballs hanging on this thin body. You could see her ribs
clearly, and she reminded of pictures of Nazi concentration camp victims. Her
feet had been modified somehow, or maybe it was her legs...she couldn't move her
knees to within a foot of each other, and she had to walk on her tiptoes
constantly. Completely bald, I was told that every hair follicle on her body had
been destroyed. It was also whispered that she'd not been allowed a single
orgasm since she'd been here, nearly a year, yet she was raped several times a
day. Her Owner was a woman who visited her a couple of times, and seemed
exceptionally cruel. I gave thanks that I wasn't owned by Her!
Other slaves underwent different surgeries. One, whose well-hung Master had a
penchant for ass-fucking, had her sphincter muscles immobilized and her anal
passage widened to accommodate him. She had to constantly wear a butt plug to
prevent leakage, as she no longer had any control over her bowels. Another had
huge rings, the size of antique door knockers, implanted deep in her breasts. I
saw her hung by them, her feet pulled off the ground as she screamed in agony.
The rings never gave, though. I saw a male slave whose penis was increased to
eighteen inches long with four inch diameter. I doubted if any woman would get
pleasure being fucked by him, though I later found out that he was going to be
used to punish disobedient slave girls who didn't perform adequately during
rape. These were the more dramatic modifications that I saw during my stay.
More common, though, were breast, labia and facial modifications,
sterilizations, and the occasional castration.
My modifications weren't nearly as drastic as most, though they did cause
dramatic changes. I was sterilized, but the most significant change was
probably just my overall appearance. With a few nips and tucks, the wrinkles
were gone and my skin was as taut as when I was 16. Botox. Collagen injections
in my lips...yes, both sets...caused them to swell up and give me a much more
appealing look. My clitoral hood was removed...it was still intact, even after
all the years of abuse, the result being that even the sensation caused by the
simple act of walking would stimulate me. Chemical baths softened my skin,
making it more pliable, and another chemical gave me a permanent, all-over tan.
My breasts were enlarged somewhat, from a flabby, saggy 36C to a solid and firm
42D, but not by means of traditional implants. Instead, the doctor extracted
fat cells from my thighs, and allowing them to reproduce in the lab, injected
them directly into my breasts. Further injections of hormones ensured I'd grow
a nice, large, firm set of knockers like so many Masters enjoy. Lastly, many of
the marks and holes that had been put in my body were eliminated. With the
exceptions of the steel grommets, my labia were returned to their pre-pierced
state, and my vaginal and anal openings were surgically tightened. All of this
took nearly a half year to accomplish, and then I was sent to another part of
the island for "retraining."
The training wasn't all that bad, except I soon found out what poor physical
condition I was in. We spent upwards of six hours each day doing some sort of
physical exercise, whether it was running on the beach, calisthenics, or working
out in the gym. Sex was also part of the training regimen, though I learned
there wasn't much they taught that I wasn't already familiar with. Most of what
I didn't know pertained to the why, not the how. Personally, I never felt it
was all that necessary for a slave girl to know why her Master enjoyed
something; just knowing he did, and acting on that knowledge, was enough.
I also discovered how stupid I was, at least as far as my literacy skills. I
was pretty bright for a slave girl, but until a few years ago, it had never been
deemed important to have a slave girl who could read, write or do mathematical
calculations. Slave girls were simply there to cook, clean, and provide for
their Master's sexual needs. A knowledge of current events wasn't exactly
considered a critical skill. Things, however, have changed over the years.
Today, slave girls are being used in a variety of areas. In the household, they
do the shopping, take care of the finances, and create gourmet meals from
recipes they download from the internet. Of course, the internet didn't really
exist yet, except as an ARPA project, but even in the 1970's, we were expected
to read recipes and instructions. In business today, they serve as secretaries,
laborers, janitors and maids, all of which require some degree of literacy to be
successfully performed. Sometimes they actually manage and supervise mail rooms
and such, but that was well into the future.
I was put into an education program lasting another six months. Combined with
the physical training, my days were often 18 and 20 hours long, with little time
for rest and no relaxation. Our time was filled with note-taking, reading,
writing, test taking and exercise. The topics ran the gamut from literacy and
basic math to hygiene and nutrition. There were nearly daily exams, and
anything less than a near-perfect score resulted in punishment. Those with
perfect marks were permitted to masturbate to orgasm. Those with poor scores
were punished. I was never perfect, but usually avoided the punishment. No
matter what, though, we were all constantly exhausted. At the end of the day,
we would all silently eat our meal and collapse on our mattresses, the only
sounds in our dorm those of snoring or moans as sore muscles tightened up during
the night.
I was actually at the Clinic for a little over 13 months before I was deemed fit
to return to the Fraternity. By then, I could read a newspaper, balance a
checkbook, and cook a gourmet meal from a recipe. My skin was tight and
wrinkle-free. I could cross my ankles behind my neck again, something I'd not
been able to do since my teens. I had shiny new rings in my nipples, my holes
were tight, and I'd even learned to take that abnormally modified slave boy all
the way down my throat without gagging. Well, not much gagging, anyway.
I was 52 years old, looked 30, and was in the best condition of my life for
whatever tasks my Masters might give me.
