Memoirs of a Slave Girl
Part 9: A New Beginning
My life as a pain slut was hell. I can't count the number of times I tried to
kill myself, either by reopening wounds inflicted on me, intentionally
inflicting injuries or most often, simply trying to piss the customers off in
the hopes they'd beat me to death. Nothing worked, and I remained alive for
more and more cruel torture.
Finally, though, I wasn't even fit for that kind of abuse. It only took a few
weeks, thankfully. People stopped renting me, probably because I no longer
screamed or cried. I wasn't physically able to even do the simple chores I'd
first been assigned, so I was sold to a disposal facility At that point, I
didn't really care. I was ready for the suffering to end, and readily accepted
my predestined fate as either fertilizer or animal feed. This was how slaves
who were not longer fit for an productive use ended up. It was simply a fact of
life that I was ready to eagerly embrace.
My prayers weren't answered in the way I'd hoped, though. Rather than being
destroyed, I was taken away by a charitable group dedicated to the humane
treatment of slaves. Their philosophy was that slaves, unless they have a
chronic, terminal condition that caused them extreme pain, should be allowed to
live out their lives naturally and not be turned into fertilizer until they died
naturally. So, my ownership was again transferred, and I was off to begin
another new life.
The rehabilitation center I was sent to this time operated solely on donations,
so there wasn't a lot of money for "unnecessary" things. My treatment consisted
primarily of massive doses of antibiotics, healthy food, and rest. My wounds
were allowed to heal by themselves, the scars they left unimportant. Broken
bones that hadn't been set properly were not repaired by surgery, but illness
and infection were attacked vigorously. My teeth had mostly fallen out, so the
last few were pulled, and I was given a set of second-hand dentures to wear.
They neither fit well nor looked particularly good on me, but at least I could
chew my food somewhat.
Normally, the charity group would have kept me at the rehab center to assist in
nursing other slaves back to health, but unfortunately for me, they were at a
crossroads in their funding. Donations were down drastically, due to an
economic downturn and many of their major contributors being unable to assist as
they had in the past. So, several of us - those most likely to be long-term
burdens on the organization, like me - were sent to a discount broker. I was in
reasonably good health, but look exactly like what I was - and old, worn out
slave.
So there I was, on the morning of my 72nd birthday, naked and chained by the
ankle to the discount rack at the Slaver's Emporium, feeling completely
worthless. I'd been there for over a month already, and not even a single
inquiry about the sign hung around my neck, reading, "FOR SALE CHEAP - or will
take almost anything in trade." Not a single person took any interest in me, and
I knew that if something didn't happen soon, I'd end up as a bag of fertilizer.
While I was standing there feeling sorry for myself, I noticed a rather
well-dressed, distinguished gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair walk past. The
only reason I noticed him was because he looked so lonely, so sad. He must have
sensed me watching him, because he suddenly stopped and peered at me over his
glasses. I immediately lowered my gaze, hoping to avoid the punishment that
resulted from looking directly at a customer without being told to do so. My
peripheral vision caught him bending down to look at the fading ownership
tattoos on my thigh.
"May I please see her papers?" he asked the kiosk attendant, waiting patiently
wile the salesman riffled through the sheaf of documents. Finally located, my
Ownership Record was handed over. He quickly flipped to the back page, where my
earliest records would be.
"I thought so," he said excitedly. "How much do you want for her?"
The salesman, sensing the man's intense desire to own me, quoted a price four
times what I knew he expected. Without blinking, the stranger pulled out his
wallet and asked if cash was okay. Money exchanged hands, two signatures were
affixed to a new page on my title, and once again, I had a new Master.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" he asked.
"You are my Master," I responded automatically.
"No, I mean you don't remember me, do you? Look at my face, my mouth, into my
eyes. Think, think way back...I was just a child, a baby, when we met." I did
as commanded, and suddenly was dumbstruck.
"Little Master?" I exclaimed, hoping he wouldn't be angry with my use of that
old moniker. He used to beat me for accidently referring to him that way, but
this time he bellowed out a loud belly laugh.
"I haven't thought of that name in years! I used to get soooo angry when you
called me that, even when I was little!" He smiled, and I smiled back. I
suddenly felt better than I had in years.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, unsnapping my leash and placing it in his pocket.
"Could you get her a tunic, please?" he asked the attendant, not waiting for my
answer. A plain cotton pullover, probably made from the remnants of a rice
sack, was handed to me. It didn't fit well, but it did cover my body.
"Come on," my new, old Master commanded even before I had it completely pulled
on. "I'm in the mood for a nice big burger and fries. How about you?" He led
me into the mall's food court.
Walking up to one of the concessions, he placed his order.
"What would you like? " he asked me, his eyes gleaming as the cashier stood
there with a shocked look on her face. Ask a slave what she would like to
eat??? Slave gruel, of course! How absurd...this guy must not understand how
things are, or else he's mental case. I could see the wheels turning in the
cashier's mind. I mumbled something unintelligible.
"Okay, make that two of your supers, chili cheese fries, Coke and a milkshake
for the lady. Chocolate," he ordered. "You still like chocolate, don't you?"
Now the cashier KNEW he had a nut case on his hands...and I was beginning to
have my doubts as well. "The lady?" Since when did ANYONE refer to a slave
girl a "a lady?" Girl, maybe. Slut, bitch or cunt most certainly, but lady?
Unthinkable!. The shock only grew greater when Master led me to a table and
told me to sit in the chair. Master told me to eat my meal right there at the
table, instead of kneeling from the floor like I should have. That's when the
cashier called Security. I was savoring the first real, hot, fresh hamburger
I'd ever eaten, when two security cops arrived.
"Pardon us, sir," the larger of the two commented, "but you ARE aware that your
slave isn't supposed to be sitting at the table, don't you?"
"Actually, young man, my slave will sit wherever I wish her to sit I own this
mall, you moron, and will do as I see fit. Now, unless you want to find
yourself begging for scraps on the street, or maybe being on the auction block
yourselves, I suggest you both go stand at opposite ends of the food court and
prevent others from bothering my slave and I while we eat. Is that clear?" my
Master angrily spat.
"Uhh...yes...yes, sir," they both mumbled in apology before scampering off.
"Master, that was the first time I've ever seen a free male humiliated in front
of a slave," I giggled. I knew I was speaking without permission. I hoped he
wouldn't be angry, but I didn't think so.
"They're morons. My photo is on the wall of every office in this damnable
building, and I sign their paychecks each week, but those idiots don't bother to
pay attention. I really think I'm going to have to do something about that
moron of a manager who hired them. Maybe put him to work cleaning out urinals."
Master was angry, but I knew instinctively he wouldn't take it out on me. I had
to ask the question that was burning in my brain.
"You really own the whole mall, Master?" I inquired.
"I really own the whole mall, slave...and several others as well."
"Wow." It was all I could say.
"Wow," he agreed. "So, tell me about your life. What have you been doing since
we last saw each other?"
"Gee, sir...let's see...first, I got this great job as a slave girl..." We both
laughed. It was nice being around him again. It was nice just talking to
someone again. So I told him briefly about my life, providing more detail when
he seemed interested, glossing over the bad times. Then it was my turn to ask
questions.
"Your parents, Master, are they...?"
"Both gone. Several years now. A problem with the heater in their home - the
same one we lived in, you know. They never moved. Carbon monoxide, in their
sleep. At least they went peacefully, not like..." He suddenly became very
somber, like a black cloud appeared over his head.
"Master? Are you all right?" Then it hit me. I'd forgotten about the young
abolitionist he'd married. "Your wife?" I asked softly, taking his hand in mine
and caressing it.
"September 11th. She had a meeting at Cantor Fitzgerald. It had been
cancelled, but nobody told her."
I looked at him with blank look on my face.
"You don't know, do you? About September 11th. Nine eleven?"
"No, Master, I don't."
So we sat there for over an hour, while he explained it all in its gory detail.
I sat there, enraptured by the story, horrified and feeling very ill as he told
me about it all - the firefighters, the heroes who died in Pennsylvania, at the
Pentagon. How it had unified the country. About his personal loss.
"Oh, my God," I said. No wonder you looked so sad when I saw you walk by me.
I'm so sorry, sir," I said, taking his hand in mine. I was crying. The pain he
must have felt...I'd have gladly suffered anything to keep him from that. The
discomfort I'd been subjected to was insignificant by comparison.
"They said she saved a lot of people that morning." Tears were now streaming
uncontrollably down his cheeks. "She helped guide people to the stairs, kept
several from jumping out of the windows. They say she was still urging people
on when the building collapsed. People saw her on the eighth floor landing at
one point, but as best as anyone can tell, she was somewhere above 30 when she
died. They found her body in with a bunch of rubble from that floor. At least
20 people credit her for saving their lives."
"Master, your wife was a caring person, and she died helping others. I knew
what kind of person she was when I overheard you two talking about me." Then a
thought occurred to me. "Master, she was concerned about what would become of
me when I was sold, wasn't she?"
"Yes, she was," he replied. "It was she who insisted on the family we sold you
to. She knew they'd be kind, and that you'd serve them well. Was she right?"
This wasn't the time to tell him about the cruelty they inflicted on me, so I
just nodded my head. I had been trained to never lie to my Owners, but this was
not the time for truth.
"She really wasn't against slavery as much as she was for humane treatment of
slaves. She understood how important slavery is to our economy and our way of
life. You know, she was the author of the Humane Treatment of Slaves Act. She
did a lot of hard work to get it passed."
"I don't understand, Master. Humane treatment?"
"She spent six terms in the House of Representatives...you don't know that what
that means either, do you?"
"No, Master, I'm sorry, I don't." So he gave me an abridged, sixth grade civics
class over the next fifteen minutes.
"She introduced a bill that was passed into law. It gives slaves the same
protection as pets, and even authorizes the Humane Society to have
jurisdictional oversight. Slaves can't be subjected to severe cruelty, like
prolonged malnutrition. If they're injured, they have to be treated by a
medical practitioner. They can't be branded anymore, and any alterations, like
tattooing and body modifications, have to be done under sedation. Slaves have
the right to at least two nutritious meals a day, unless they're being punished,
and even then their food can't be withheld for more than three consecutive days.
They have to be exercised, and have the right to be outside, exercising in the
fresh air for at least one hour each day You mean you didn't know about this?
Nobody told you?"
"No, Master. Remember where I was at the time...it's not like I exactly had an
opportunity to stay abreast of the news, you know?"
He laughed again, causing me to smile.
"That's something we're going to have to change. I'm going to set you up with
internet access - unrestricted - so you can learn about what's been going on in
the world." He chuckled at the expression on my face. "You have no idea in
Hell as to what I'm talking about, do you? Don't worry about it. I'll explain
it all to you."
"Say, you know what," he suddenly asked with a start, leaning over to wipe a
dribble of hamburger juice from my mouth, "I never did know your real name."
"Thirty-one," I told him. Thirty-one is the last two digits of my registration
number. That was my birth name, how Father named all his slaves.
"Not much of a name," he shrugged, "but I suppose if it's all you've got..."
"Do you remember what you named me when you were thirteen, sir?" I interrupted,
a gleam in my eye.
"Of course," he laughed. "I called you 'Juicy' because you were always so wet.
Wherever you sat, you left a wet trail. We used to call them pussy tracks, or
snail slime."
"I still do, Master," I replied coyly. "Leave a slime trail, I mean. Right now,
as a matter of fact. I'm going to need to clean this seat before I leave."
"Never mind that. The mall has plenty of janitorial staff. Maybe I'll just
have one of those idiot guards lick the seat off when you're finished. Which
one, you think...fatso or blondie?"
"Master! You are so bad," I grinned.
"Okay, back to names. I think we're both a little too old for ‘Juicy,' don't
you?"
"Eva," I interrupted. "I've always liked the sound of the name Eva," I said,
looking deeply into my Master's eyes. Once again, they began to fill with
tears.
"Eva was my mother's name," he said softly.
"I know, Sir, but she was the first free woman to treat me as though I were
something other than...well, other than a thing. Yes, she beat me badly, almost
killed me that time, but that was the alcohol. She really was a caring,
thoughtful Mistress, once she stopped drinking. I know she was sorry for what
she did, and she eventually became the closest thing to a friend I ever had.
Your mother was a good woman, and I can think of no greater way for me to honor
her than to ask you if I may please be given her name."
"Well, then, Eva...I think it's time for us to go home, don't you?" He assisted
me to my feet, not bothering to use the leash. Before departing the mall,
though, he took me into a clothing store and asked me what I would like to have.
I'd never before been given an option as to my attire, and told him quietly that
I didn't deserve any of these nice things. He bought me complete outfit to wear
home...a nice dress, even a bra and panties - the first I'd ever owned., then
led me out to the parking lot, to his car. He let me sit in the front seat
beside him, showed me how to adjust the climate control and radio station. Even
though it was a warm day, I turned the heater on high and let the hot air blow
over me. I hadn't been warm in a long time, and it felt so good. I could tell
Master was uncomfortable, so I turned it off. It wasn't a very long drive,
anyway.
Master took me to his house, though "house" didn't adequately describe it. More
like a mansion. No, an estate, with acres and acres of manicured lawn, two
swimming pools, a hot tub, sauna, televisions, books...all of which I had
complete, unrestricted access to. I had no specific responsibilities; there
were slaves as well as paid servants to take care of his needs, and mine as
well. I had my first real massage, and it was wonderful. Hot meals, bubble
baths, and clothes for the first time in my life. Real clothes - not just
garter belts and spiked heel shoes, but dresses and jeans, panties, bras and
cotton socks. Nightclothes meant for comfort, not just designed to appeal to
someone's eye. And I could wear whatever I wanted. It was all so strange to
me, and the most difficult adjustment I'd made in my life. Never before had I
been permitted to wear what I wished. Food, whatever I desired (which was
usually something chocolate!), whenever I wanted it. It was so intensely
overwhelming. I still don't understand how free women can handle it. It must
be so hard to make all these decisions...I know I had problems, and often went
to Master for advice. It was never much help, though. He always told me to do
whatever I wanted.
Computers. This internet thing...how wonderfully strange. So much information
available. News, history...I love reading history. The ability to interact
with complete strangers, in a way that I'd never been able to do before.
Support groups for everything imaginable. I even became sort of a moderator on
a slave chat...girls and men who were interested in the life of a slave, a few
slaves, too. Some of it was sexual, of course, but most was not. The vast
majority of the non-slaves who visited the site were truly interested in the
psychological makeup of slaves, and I tried very hard to explain my own
feelings, desires and needs. Master read the transcripts...after all, I was
still a slave, and had no expectation of privacy...and said he was very proud of
me. That's when he got the idea of having me write this memoir, to help people
understand what being a slave is all about.
I know that a lot of people, a lot of girls in particular, think of giving
themselves to someone that way, and a lot of men believe they'd like to possess
their very own, absolutely obedient fuck toy, but I feel it is my job to explain
that slavery isn't about sex. Sure, that's part of it, but what it's really
about is total obedience and service to others, about helping, about taking the
pressure and pain away from those in need. I have online slave friends who do
this on a daily basis, who work in jobs that you wouldn't think a slave would be
suited for. Emergency Room nurses, firefighters and paramedics. Yes, they all
are often required to be aggressive and demanding in order to do their jobs, but
that's simply the best way to serve others. Off the job, they are just as
obedient and submissive to their Owners as any well-trained slave could be. I
think, in my own way, I served as well.
A few months after I began my new life, Master said he had a surprise for me.;
we were going on a trip. He took me back to Kansas, to the very spot where I
was born. The farm was gone, but a state-of-the-art slave training facility
stood in its place. He took me around back, where the barn used to be, and
showed me something. My parents were buried, side by side. James Howard
Williamson. My father's name...I never knew it. Elizabeth Ann Williamson.
Again, a name I'd never heard. My mother had been buried as a free woman, not
merely disposed of as a slave would be.
It turned out that Father and Mother were instrumental in starting the movement
that ultimately changed the way slaves were treated. Father saw how so many
trainers were taking intelligent girls and turning them into mindless automatons
with no will and no reason to obey except fear. Father wasn't like that...he
used the fear of punishment, but also reward, to encourage acceptable behavior
in his slaves. He was no psychologist, but he understood the slave mind,
probably thanks to Mother. She was his slave, but she was also his companion
for over fifty years.
The biography on the wall in the lobby explained that she was his confidant, his
partner and advisor. I knew in my heart that this was true. Father and Master's
wife were actually quite good friends, I discovered, and the three of them
(Mother included) collaborated on developing the laws that changed the lives of
so many slaves for the better.
The entire institution was dedicated to the memory of my parents, and was even
named after them: The James and Betty Ann Williamson Center for Slave
Education. Everything a slave needed to learn, from initial submission to
reintegration into freedom - yes, that was one of the provisions of the Humane
Treatment of Slave Acts - slaves could now be freed - could be provided here.
It was then that Master asked me the question that I'd never in my life expected
to hear, and was totally unprepared for.
"Eva, would you like to be free?"
I dropped to my knees, whether from the sudden light-headedness or something
else, I don't know. I looked up at my Master, tears in my eyes. I'd always
known he cared about me, but until then, I didn't truly realize how much. He
wanted to do what was best for me, what I desired, but I think we both knew that
freedom wasn't possible.
"Master," I said, "If it would please you, Master's slave begs to remain your
property. But may it remain here? As its Master's slave, but in the service of
those here who might need it, and to honor the memory of its parents?" I spoke
in the most submissive manner I knew, placing my head on his highly-polished
shoes while I awaited his response. It took him a few seconds to answer.
"Of course, my love," he answered, his eyes welling with tears. Nobody had ever
called me "my love" before. He gently lifted me to my feet and embraced me with
fondness, both of us crying openly now. It was the first time I could truly say
I loved my Master, but it is something I remind myself of every day. It is a
mantra I repeat several times each morning when I arise, and before I go to
sleep at night: "I love my Master. Oh, God, how I love my Master." Until that
moment, I never really understood the concept of "love." It is so much more
than devotion, or duty, or obedience, as I was taught from such a young age. I
still don't have the words to describe it, but I hope you understand.
So, now I reside in my own private, climate controlled room, with a real bed of
my own, a television, a computer, a telephone, and a view of the open fields
outside. I can listen to music, read books, draw, or do whatever else I want.
I even dabbled in painting, but never could get the hang of it. Most of my work
would remind you of a two year old's "art" hanging on grandma's refrigerator.
If I don't feel like leaving my room, a phone call gets my meals delivered, or
anything else. If I want wine, it's delivered, no hesitation and no questions
asked. It's nice being treated like this, but sometimes I still wish I could
serve Master like I did so many years ago. I still do, once in a while, but he
never takes me like his slave, for his own pleasure anymore. It's still nice,
and the concept of "making love" to the one I so dearly care for is much, much
more emotional for me than simply being used as an object for his sexual relief.
Not that I wouldn't mind a hot and heavy romp once in a while, mind you, but the
body just isn't up to it anymore. Besides, I've discovered the memories get
stronger and more vivid with time. At least the nice ones do.
I feel more needed, that I'm providing a greater service, than I ever have in my
life. I'm a good listener, and that's often what people...slaves and everyone
else...need most. I've read a lot of books in the past two years, history and
psychology, mostly, and I've found that many of the emotional and mental issues
that are written about, I've experienced. The history books helped me
understand some of the things I was on the periphery of...the little snippets of
conversations I overheard, the times people were seemingly under a lot of
stress. The psychology texts are rather difficult to comprehend, but I've come
to understand that even if I'd been born free, I'd have longed to be a slave
anyway. My greatest desire, my innermost need, has always been to serve others,
and I will continue to do so until my death.
I'm always available for anyone who needs me, whether to answer a question or
just talk about anything at all. Trainers and the Owners who have sent their
property here for training regularly consult with me, and the girls -
particularly those new to slavery - often inundate me with questions, concerns,
and their fears. So many of these young girls enter slavery completely naive,
even those who do so voluntarily, and have so many insecurities and emotional
issues. It's important for their well-being that they have someone they can
talk to, a friend. They know that I never talk to staff about anything they
tell me, unless I believe they are in danger of harming themselves. All slaves
go through rough times, and for the young ones - the teens and twenty-somethings
in particular - the roughest seems to be when they realize that they can no
longer expect those things they took for granted - the right to wear clothes, to
say ‘no,' to be free from hunger and discomfort, to do whatever they want.
When the reality hits that they are nothing but property, to be used and
disposed of as their Owners deem fit, that's when they need me.
Thankfully, there is now a process for evaluating prospective slave girls, so
the mentally deficient or emotionally damaged seldom end up as voluntary
submissions. I believe it's better this way, because the best slaves are
emotionally strong. We have to be, to survive with our sanity intact. To do
otherwise would be a disservice to those who own us. The involuntaries are a
different story, but I don't usually spend much time with them, anyway. They're
not usually suitable for training, anyway, so spend their time in labor
facilities where they tend fields, build roads, and the like. Those we do get
are given to the victims of their crimes, and are often treated very harshly.
Sometimes, though, I find one who is one of those "diamonds in the rough," who
is truly suited for slavery. Sometimes, after talking to them and gaining their
trust, I even discover they committed their crimes intentionally in order to
become the slave of the person to whom they were given. These girls I try to
provide particular guidance to, but with the majority of the involuntaries, my
attitude is, "You're a slave now. Deal with it."
Master comes back to visit me every few months. He's a pretty imaginative
lover, and I'm pleased to report that he still seems to enjoy the services I can
provide in that area. We don't spend much time being intimate in that way,
though. We often just walk and talk. I showed him where the field was that I
plowed, the creek where I used to bathe, the room where I was first raped. I
took him to the kennel, which is now a museum exhibit. Nobody lives there now;
the "slaves" inside are just plastic mannequins. I still go inside and change
the straw when it needs it though. It feels good, but I can get melancholy
when I think about those days. Sometimes I just sit outside and stare at
nothing, but whenever anyone needs an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on, I'm
there for them. That's the most important thing for me right now, to be useful
to others, to help others, to serve. I truly believe that today I am providing
a greater service, being of more value to more people, than at any time in my
life.
I am 73 years old, and my life...my reason for being...has been fulfilled.
Thank you for listening to my story.
