I was stuck in a dead-end job, no money, and not even a boyfriend.  For the second time in three months, I wasn’t able to pay rent when it was due.

“You’re in a rut,” my old school chum Julie Cummings said as we sat at the kitchen table.  It was a nice condo overlooking a country club golf course.  Three bedrooms, three baths, and conveniently located near the city.  More than I could afford.

“Have you considered a new exhibitionist adventure?” Sandra Moss asked, my other good friend.

“Not recently,” I replied, trying to eat the scrambled eggs that I wasn’t interested in.  I wasn’t really interested in anything.

My name is Cassie Evans and I was about to turn thirty.  A former cheerleader, former member of my university golf team, and a former model.  Former at a lot of things.  I was tallish at 5’9 and slim at 135 pounds with long graceful legs, an ample bustline, and high cheekbones with a pert nose.  My lush blonde hair was gradually growing darker.  Deep blue eyes always attracted attention.

“Why not?  You love that ENF shit,” Sandra said.

“After you guys locked me out of the car nude at the mall, I got cold feet,” I confessed.

“It was only for ten minutes,” Julie admonished.

“And those college guys got a big thrill out of taking those photos,” Sandra mentioned with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“Yeah, that part wasn’t so bad,” I admitted.

“Have you seen this?” Julie asked, showing me her phone.

“A sex convention?” I wondered.

“The biggest one ever held in Miami,” she explained.  “Toys, videos, sex clubs, porn stars, and now that the legislature has legalized slavery, there will be slaves.  Maybe an auction.”

“They finally did that?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sandra answered.  “That’s thirteen states who have approved slavery since the Constitutional Amendment passed.  And soon there will be more.  It’s becoming a big business.”

“Not a business Clawson and Jinks are exploiting,” I lamented.  “I think there will be more layoffs and I’m at the top of the list.”

“You won’t be able to pay rent again?” Sandra asked with scrunched eyebrows.  “You already owe us $3,500.”

“I’m sorry.  I don’t know what’s going to happen.  Maybe I should move out?” I offered.

“Let’s not be rash.  Something might turn up,” Julie said.  “In the meantime, we need to go to this convention.  It will give you a chance to show off.”

“Show off?” I said.

“You’ll go as our slave,” Julie said with a giggle.  “We’ll get you an outfit and everything.  All the guys will ogle your body.  The lesbians might want more.  It’s just what you need to shake off these cobwebs that are stifling you.”

“I don’t know.  Being a slave in front of all those people?” I demurred.

“Trust us,” Julie said, taking my hand.  “This will be fun.”

Even though I had graduated with a business degree, I had somehow gotten trapped at a struggling financial firm with no room for promotion.  The pay was lousy, the guys were creepy, the managers were handsy, and the women jealous.  I would have quit if I hadn’t needed the money so desperately.

The big show was at the convention center, filled with exhibits, booths, and vendors.  Giant monitor screens showed celebrities, sexy girls on catwalks, and popular porn stars.  We spent the morning wandering around the giant hall in our street clothes, drawing no more attention than three young attractive women usually get.  I was still debating the slave option.  Several booths were filled with bondage equipment.  Collars.  Handcuffs.  Ankle cuffs.  Branding irons?  Really weird stuff.

“Look at her eyes light up,” Sandra teased as I examined a pair of leather restraints.

“I bet you can hardly wait to put them on,” Julie remarked, poking me with her elbow.

“Just so you know, I’ve only been in bondage a few times, and not in public,” I replied.  “Wearing these would be too embarrassing.”

“Bondage?” the proprietor said, a balding middle-aged man with ruddy jowls.  “Are you lovelies going to the VIP party tonight?”

“No.  What’s that?” Julie asked, perking up with interest.

“Very high end.  Members of the community, some for the first time, will be bringing their new slaves,” he explained.  “Buying and selling is permitted.  I can get invitations for you.”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Julie amended.  “Passes for all three of us.  Me, Sandra, and our slave.”

“Your slave?” the ambitious hawker said, giving me the once over.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Julie suggested.

“Very pretty.  I’m transferring the invitations to your phone now,” he eagerly informed.

“Got it,” Julie said, getting a confirmation.  “Now sell us what we need.”

The new slavery laws were creating a lot of controversy.  Quite frankly, I didn’t understand most of the issues.  Criminals were fair game, of course, when sentenced to servitude by a court.  Particularly petty theft and drunk driving.  Credit card failures, welfare fraud, and chronic debt could also lead to periods of slavery.  Some individuals were said to have signed up voluntarily, fascinated by the lifestyle.  I doubted those fools knew what they were registering for.  Though most slaves became farm hands or factory workers, an elite category were sex slaves.  They brought the highest prices on the open market.

“If we want to take Cassie to the VIP party as our slave, we’ll need papers,” Sandra said as we stopped before a booth of legal consultants who were current with the new laws.  They offered updates, enrollment, and documentation.

“Papers?” I inquired.

“If challenged at the door, we need to prove you’re our slave,” Sandra clarified.

“But I’m not a slave,” I said.

“It’s just a formality, Cass.  If we get caught sneaking in with a fake slave, there could be consequences,” Julie warned.  “Maybe even lawsuits.” 

They paused before the table, talking to a very handsome woman attorney and her geeky male intern.  They went to work on their computer, filling out information and printing forms.  I heard them laugh but didn’t know what it was about.  Then I was summoned over.

“We understand the situation,” the lawyer said, pushing a contract towards me.  “This is an indenture certification.  Just sign at the bottom.  It says you owe Miss Cummings and Miss Moss $3,500 and they have a call on your services.”

“At the end of the night, they can rip up the papers,” the young man said.  “No harm, no foul.”

“Guys, are you sure about this?” I questioned.

“It will be fun,” Julie assured me.

As we approached the lobby of the grand ballroom on the 2nd floor, a sign pointed to the right.  MASTERS MUST REGISTER THEIR SLAVES.  The girls had been right about papers being needed.  We went to the main desk where Julie signed us in, the receiving clerk barely looking up from her computer.

“Your slave can change behind the curtain,” the clerk said, pointing to a small locker room, for I was still wearing a blue summer dress and high heel shoes.

“No need for a curtain,” Sandra said, starting to remove my day clothes and stuffing them in a satchel.  First the dress, then the shoes.  I looked at her quizzically when she reached for the bra.  She crinkled her nose, green eyes insisting.  I relented, crossing my hands over my chest as the bra disappeared.  When she got down to my panties, I balked.  A dozen men and women were watching from the receiving line, grinning and gesturing.

“I can’t be stripped like this!  Not in the open!” I protested.

“Don’t be so shy, Cass.  We’re all adults here,” Sandra responded, putting her fingers in the waistband and slowly peeling them down.  And then she made me stand there, totally naked on gray carpeting, while getting my new outfit ready.  It was a skimpy black lace corset held together with strings and Velcro patches.  No shoes or stockings.  I was barefoot.  Despite trying to cover up, witnesses had seen that I was recently shaved, my mound smooth and vulnerable.  Desperate to leave, I turned toward the door to the auditorium, seeing a lot of activity.  Sandra stopped me.

“We’re not done yet,” she said, opening a cardboard box.  It was filled with leather restraints bought from the vendor that afternoon.  Sandra cuffed my hands behind my back before adding more cuffs to my ankles.  My perky breasts were fully exposed.  Fortunately, they were still round and firm, not yet beginning to sag.  Julie stood before me holding up a collar.

“You’re going to look so cute,” she smiled, making sure our audience could appreciate the moment.  I looked around, appearing to panic.  Julie attached a leash, preventing me from fleeing.

A man in a blue uniform wearing a gold badge approached, glancing briefly at the papers Julie was still holding.

“No decal?” he asked.

“She’s new.  We haven’t had time,” Julie answered.

“Just a minute,” he said, going back to the admittance counter.  I heard a printer.  He returned a moment later with a clear elastic sticker that he applied to my left shoulder blade.  I could feel how it bonded to my flesh.

“What’s that?” I asked, unable to see it.

“This is the official QR code,” he answered. 

“QR code?” Julie questioned, seeing the matrix firmly pasted on me.

“It allows authorities to identify your property in any state where slavery is legal,” the officer responded, holding up a scanner.  “If you take your property to a free state, getting her back may be difficult.  They aren’t as progressive as we are.”

“Don’t worry, we like Florida,” Sandra replied.

“Time to get the show on the road,” Julie said loud enough for all to hear, giving me a slap on the ass.

It was a big party just as advertised, filled with executive types.  I noticed managers from many important companies including my own.  Competitors.  CEOs.  Corporate board members.  Two attractive young women and their chained slave soon gathered attention.

“This is awesome,” Sandra gushed.  “I’ve never seen so many rich men in one room.”     

“Rich women, too.  I bet they would like to cop a feel,” Julie added, playfully wiggling a finger in my crotch.

We were quickly surrounded.  Julie held up her hands for attention.  A photographer pressed closer to record the event.  And then I noticed the girls had recruited a private security guard.  There was a bi-speckled accountant with a credit card reader. Only a few feet away, a sturdy young man with spiky red hair and a vest filled with pockets of money was ready to accept cash payments.  Julie and Sandra had hired extra help?

“Friends, we have come to introduce our new slave,” Julie brashly announced, holding up her hands for attention.  “How much for the left side of her bra?”

“My bra?” I exclaimed, looking distressed.

“You don't need so much clothing,” Julie declared.  “What about it, guys?  Are you going to help?”

I looked around the hall.  There were dozens of slaves, male and female, in sparse outfits. It seemed my outfit was about to get sparser.

“$100!” some freak bid.

“$200!” a sick SOB encouraged.

“$300!” the victorious bidder called out.

Sandra tore the left side of my bra off, revealing my curvaceous C-cup breast.  I tried to shrink back.  She threw the garment to the lucky winner. Handcuffed as I was, I couldn’t cover myself.

“Right side!” the game continued, the rest of my top rapidly disappearing for another $300.

“Who wants these panties?” Julie asked.

“No!  No, Julie.  Please.  Not my panties,” I begged, hunching over.

“$400!”

“$600!”

“No, sirs, please don’t strip me.  Not like this.  Not in front of everyone,” I begged, nearly on my knees.

“$1,000,” a rabid bidder pressed.

“$2,000!” the winner shouted.

Julie stood before me, letting the drama play out.  And then she unpeeled the Velcro bindings to take the black panties off, leaving me chained and naked in front of hundreds of spectators.  I bent over in shame.

“Can we touch her?” an excited young man asked.

“You can do whatever you want to her, for the right price,” Sandra answered.  “Tits, pussy, ass, it’s all for sale.”

The bi-speckled assistant with the credit card reader stepped forward, tapping one account after another as the men struggled closer.  Those using cash kept the red-headed kid busy.

“Who wants their cock sucked?” Julie offered.

“What?  No!  No!  What are you talking about?” I objected, seeing the army of amused spectators squeezing closer.  “Stop!  Stop, I’m not really a slave!”

“Remember those papers you signed?” Julie explained with glee.  “Surprise, surprise, bitch.  Those were real indenture papers. We registered you.  Legally.  Officially.  We own your scrawny ass.”

“We’re going to whore you out,” Sandra added, making sure a group of guys could hear.  “To get back the money you owe us.  And at the end of the night, we’re going to sell you.  Maybe to a Saudi Arabian prince.”

“Or a Nevada whorehouse,” Julie sneered.

“Sell me?  No!  Oh, please, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for everything,” I whimpered, standing before them naked and helpless.  “Please don’t sell me.”

The men surrounding us chuckled.  Several wealthy women looked interested.  None had sympathy for a stupid bitch who had signed herself into slavery.  I dropped to my knees, sobbing.  Julie and Sandra knelt close, evidently enjoying every moment of my misery.

“You’ve leached off us for years.  Now you’re going to pay up,” Sandra said. 

“Who wants to rub her tits?  $50 for a full minute!” Julie offered, displaying a stopwatch.

There were plenty of takers.  I lost track of how many had their grimy hands on me.

“Who wants to suck her tits for $75!” Julie shouted, causing a new line to form.  One of them was my boss, Simon Marsh, the financial manager at Jinks and Clawson. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long, you filthy slut,” he whispered, his wet tongue sucking hard.  “If there weren’t so many taking pictures, I’d be fucking your ass.” 

Mr. Marsh made other suggestions that had me cringing, and not so private as he thought.  I found it disgraceful for a married man to be acting like that.

As more took their turns, I felt buffeted, unable to retreat as Sandra and Julie held me in place.  After many had their fill of my tits, Julie opened bidding on my pussy at $100 per grab.  I was pawed, fingered, and stroked.  And growing wet, unable to resist their eager attention.  Which everyone noticed, laughing at my disgrace.

“Ass!  $200!” Sandra summoned, holding up a tube of lubricant.  My mistresses had latex gloves for those who wanted them, but most entered me with raw fingers, driving deep as I squirmed.  They whispered dirty remarks in my ear, speaking of nasty things they wanted to do to me.  I was a slave, legally subject to their perverse desires.

By now The Cassie Show was the center of events, right out in the middle of the ballroom.  There were other female slaves, and a few male slaves, but they appeared compliant.  Consigned to their fate.  I was whimpering.  Crying.  Humiliated.  Fighting for the last shred of modesty that they were determined to deny me.  The men couldn’t get enough of that.  My mistresses moved me to a 3' high carpeted platform where more could watch.  Many were taking photos.

“Per convention rules, we get paid for those photos!” Sandra demanded from the stage.  “We have security watching you.  $10 each.”

She pointed to her security, keeping studious accounts.  There were no objections, some voyeurs taking as many as twenty photos.  I tried to resist, which made the men even more keen to have me at their mercy. 

“Time for cock-sucking,” Julie decided, waving more forward.  “What’s the first bid?”

“First bid?” I asked.

“The night is young, Cass, and we have plenty of customers,” Julie replied.

I looked around, seeing thirsty eyes and smirking expressions.

“Please, sirs.  Please don’t make me do this,” I pleaded, getting a round of mocking laughter.

There weren’t as many cocks as one would think, most of the men being reluctant to perform in front of such a large audience.  There were a few older men with nothing to lose, and a younger man who didn’t care what anyone thought.  Probably a billionaire.  I was on my knees, visible to all, hands restrained behind my back as Sandra held the leash.  I sucked and sucked.  Cum splashed my face, wiped off each time by Julie to give the next customer a clean field.  It was actually kind of thrilling, though of course, I couldn’t let anyone know that.

It took forty minutes to complete the entire group, Julie spanking my ass with a strap if I started to let up.  After the last one, I leaned back, glad it was finally over.

“Who wants to fuck her!” Julie shouted.

There was a lot of jostling for position.  A convention official came forward.

“Ma’am, this is a classy exhibition,” the official said, delaying the proceedings.  “There are special rooms around the perimeter available for private performances.”

“They can’t fuck her here?  On stage?  For everyone to see?” Sandra questioned in surprise.

“Management would rather not have that happen,” he grimly warned, pointing to security guards of his own.

“How about one?” Julie bargained.  “We’ll have a tight circle around her so only a few can watch.”

The official backed away, talking to the main office through his transmitter.

“Once only,” he agreed.  “And a very tight circle.  No visibility from the main floor.”

“That will work great.  Thank you so much,” Julie gushed.  “Guys?  Did everyone hear?  One customer gets to fuck her, fifteen get to cheer him on.  Place your bids now!”

I couldn’t hear everything that was going on, but someone yelled $8,000 at one point, and I don’t even know if he won.  Twelve men and three women crowded around, shoulder to shoulder, as Sandra kept me on my knees.  They were drinking, chuckling, and completely enthralled, making all kinds of lewd remarks.  I think a couple of guys were making bets, though what the hell they were betting on was a complete mystery.

A tall older man with gray hair emerged from the pack, blue eyes and puffy red cheeks.  I caught a glimpse of his pants opening, his shirt hanging down to modestly cover his male equipment, and he went to work.  Sandra held my head.  Julie kept an arm wrapped around my waist, holding me like a breed mare.  There was giggling and sly comments.

My expectations for the performance were...