Slave Yoga Ch. 04: Slave Shaming

"Flat as a board, all right. Not much there."

"Wait till she gets her bra off. She's like a boy."

"No, we'll have to get her pants off to see that."

"Okay, Julie, keep turning. Stop when everyone can see the rear view."

"Nice butt cheeks."

"Yeah, firm."

"I'd like to spank that!"

"Toast 'em up as red as her underpants."

"Yeah, I'd give them a good squeeze while I was fucking her."

Julie completed the circle. "Now take off your earrings, too, Julie. The ring as well."

Julie's earrings were gold with a tiny trace of red; a sly tribute to her underwear, perhaps. Girls like to coordinate but it was of no matter. Soon everything would be off.

"Take off your lanyard, Julie. Put that in the box too."

Julie objected. "Professor Crush, the man at the gate said we should never remove our laynards. He said that females without lanyards would be assumed to be slaves."

At this the slave grader spoke up. "She's right. She should keep the lanyard."

At this Professor Crush pushed her way through the students to the front where Julie was standing. "She will keep it...right in my hand." Julie didn't resist as Professor Crush took off her lanyard, wrapping the cord tightly around it until it disappeared into her clenched fist.

"All right, now comes the good part," Tad said.

"Yeah. Let's see those BOOBIES!"

"Bra! Bra! Bra!" one of the female students said, clapping her hands. Soon everyone joined in, except for Professor Larson.

"Bra! Bra! Bra!"

The tears flowed freely as Julie reached behind her, unsnapping her bra. She shrugged it off her left shoulder, then her right."

"Bra! Bra! Bra!"

Julie surrendered her brassiere into the cheap cardboard box, covering herself with her arms as she did so.

Quickly the chant changed. "Tits! Tits! Tits!"

Much to my surprise I found myself joining in. Professor Crush seemed a bit surprised at first, then amused. I too was slightly astonished at how I joined in with the others given my own recent experiences, however truth be told Slave Shaming was actually quite fun when you were in the position of power.

"You heard them, Julie. Hands at your sides."

Tears flowing freely, Julie complied.

"See! Flat as a washing board."

"Yeah, thanks for showing us your tits, Julie."

"Not that there's much to see."

"Thanks for nothing."

"Still think you're too good to fuck me, Julie?" Tad asked. "Bitch!" he added under his breath.

"Less like boobs than bumps."

"Yeah, let's not waist time looking at nothing."

"Yeah. Let's see her snatch."

"Panties! Panties! Panties!" the crowd began to chant. It was all good fun. Laughing, I joined in.

"$5 says she's an aviator blonde."

"What's that?"

"Blonde on top with a black box!"

"Panties, Panties, Panties" the crowd chanted.

"Think she shaves?"

"No, I bet she lets it grow wild."

"I'll bet you five it's trimmed, neat and pretty, just like her racy red panties."

The reaction of the crowd intrigued me. I was enjoying her predicament but I did not really know her. Even as tears formed in Jule's eyes the coeds who might be expected to treat her with some level of empathy, if not sympathy, freely mocked her. Did the poor girl have no friends in the room?

Indeed she did. Her friends were easy to spot because they were the last ones to join in the chanting. But join in they did, albeit reluctantly at first. But soon, they were indistinguishable from the rest, and indeed, were smiling and laughing, as if stripping Julie of her dignity and reducing her to a state of chattel slavery was great fun for all -- as indeed it was.

From a psychologist's point of view the reaction of her friends fascinated me. I was reminded of my studies of "The Bandwagon Effect" in both microeconomics, medicine, and psychology, where unproven or false ideas were accepted as incontrovertible facts once a critical threshold in public opinion had been reached. Julie was in a room filled with adult college students and academics. But now we were acting like a mob.

The studies had used smaller groups to generalize to a larger population. Was what I was seeing a microcosm of our society's rapid acceptance of feminine slavery? Perhaps I had been too harsh on my students and Principal Bolton. After the "threshold" had been reached it was right of them to want to see me pleasure myself like a juicy little slave slut. It was how the human mind worked, and the ramifications for economics, law, and society in general were enormous.

The question now, however, was more immediate. Should Julie be stripped butt naked and processed in front of her Professor and fellow students as if she actually were a slave? Yes, she should. The Bandwagon Effect made it right because everyone thought so.

"Groupthink", "Heard Mentality", "The Asch Conformity Experiments", "Crowd Abuse." The literature was filled with examples of what I was witnessing. I wondered how many of the students would have been brave enough to demand Julie to strip if they did not have the backing of each other. Not many, I supposed. The mob made their behavior acceptable. Indeed, it made it fun.

I knew Julie was lost when at long last Professor Larson joined in. He did it slowly at first, looking around tentatively as if he expected someone to reprimand him. Surrounded by smiling faces and sensing the approval of the crowd, he chanted more loudly. Finally he smiled as he put the folder he had been using to shield the tent-pole in his pants to one side. Even his blatant erection was nothing to be ashamed of, since the other males in the room were in the same turgid state. Indeed, the male's condition was quickly twisted to become Julie's fault.

"Little slut," I heard one of Julie's friends say. "Giving all the guys a boner."

"I hope they do take her panties away."

"Someone should paddle her ass."

"We all should."

With all her protectors gone a tearful Julie reluctantly hooked her fingers into her panties and pulled them down, stepping out of them one leg at a time and then holding them in front of her as a final shield.

"Be a good girl and drop them in the box, Julie," Professor Crush said in her matronly tone.

"Yes, no panties for you. Panties are for ladies," I said, picking up on my Professor's cue.

"Slave sluts don't get panties."

"Box, box, box!" Soon we were all smiling and chanting and Julie, surrendering, dropped her lacy red panties into the cardboard box.

"She's bald as a billiard ball!" one of the boys exclaimed.

"What a whore!" one of the girls observed.

"Yeah, a regular little porn star."

"Allows for faster cleanups between guys. Ha-ha!"

"I like shaved pussy. I don't get hair in my teeth."

"Yeah, her snatch does look good enough to eat."

"Finger lickin' good!"

"A sweet little peach."

"I wouldn't put my mouth on it, though."

"Yeah, a bit too sloppy for me. I don't want to lick some pussy that every guy on campus has blown a load into."

I found the comments intriguing. Given her shyness I sincerely doubted that Julie was in anyway used to such exposure. However the shaved state of Julie's sex was now being used as incontrovertible evidence that she was a slut, a whore, a porn star. Yet how many of the girls who called her out were shaved or trimmed?

The male observers, on the other hand, quickly moved from macho bragging about how they'd like to perform oral sex on her shaved mound, to a still more macho position that such a proposition was unacceptable due to Julie's fallen state.

Still, I had my doubts. "Does she sleep around?" I asked one of the girls standing next to me.

The girl, who had been smiling broadly as she listened to the catcalls, seemed surprised at my question. Refocusing she said, "No. She's sort of shy. She had a boyfriend but she broke up with him a while ago."

The girl, clearly unnerved by my question, resolved the uncomfortable psychological paradox I had created by re-establishing herself as part of the crowd. "She's got a purple vibrator in her room. Her roommate told me. Slut."

The verdict was in. Julie masturbated, like every other male and female in the room. Hence her Slave Shaming was just and proper.

Now that she was entirely naked the slave grading was ready to proceed. The slave grader pressed a button on his phone app and a few seconds later a slave girl entered. In keeping with the theme of Roman House she was wearing Roman sandals and dressed in a simple, roughly hewn burlap sack tunic, sleeveless, long enough to cover her bottom but slit down the middle to expose the sides of her breasts and cut up the thighs to expose her thighs. She had long black hair and was pushing a sliver cart with a laptop and various apparatus that would be used in Julie's grading.

I felt a bit puzzled as she removed a wide, shallow, tin wash bucket from the bottom of the cart and placed it at Julie's feet. Julie, who was standing with her hands shielding her breasts and privates, looked as confused as I was as the slave girl calmly forced her feet apart and slid the bucket between her legs.

"Hands on your head, slave girl," the raven-haired slave girl said to Julie.

It was an intriguing moment. The girl in the tunic addressed Julie as "slave girl." The reference to Julie as a "slave girl" surprised me at first, and clearly surprised Julie as well, for she simply looked down at the girl, dumbstruck. However after a moment's the confusion over Julie's status made perfect sense. Stark naked and ready for a slave grading, with no lanyard to identify her as a guest, Julie appeared to be every inch a naked slave girl, from her bare feet to the blush on her lovely fresh face. The raven-haired slave girl had made an understandable mistake. Or perhaps the mistake was Julie's?

"Hands on your head," the slave girl said roughly. "A slave girl never hides her body from her masters."

There was some laughter at this, as the male students clearly enjoyed being referred to as Julie's "masters". Reluctantly Julie obeyed, exposing herself again to the crowd, only now with her feet spread about 3 foot apart by the tin tub between her legs.

"Nice pussy lips", one of the boys commented.

"I'd fuck that!"

"Squat," the slave girl said flatly. Julie was being ordered to squat over the bucket, but why? I suspected a purpose, but surely they wouldn't make her...

Julie looked over her shoulder at her raven-haired slave girl/mistress. The girl said, nothing, but taking a small leather strap from the cart snapped it across Julie's naked ass!

Julie shrieked, grabbing her bottom cheeks.

"Squat!" she repeated, her voice loud and firm. For a slave girl she certainly knew how to give a command. I was reminded of the adage that slave girls made the cruelest Mistresses, and thought of Sunfire's threats to whip me. This was certainly the case now. Julie was still wincing from the first blow and struggling when the strap cracked across her naked bottom for the second time.

Julie cried out, but the second stroke had its intended effect as she squatted over the tub with her hands on her head.

"Make your water," the slave girl said flatly. "I don't want you peeing yourself during your examination."

Desperate, poor Julie looked to Professor Crush and Professor Larson for deliverance.

"Do your business, Julie," Professor Crush said curtly. "Dogs and slaves must learn to loosen their bladders at their master's command, and so then must you."

"Pee! Pee! Pee!" one of the boys started to chant. Soon everyone joined in, laughing and cheering as they did so as Julie, quite miserable, squatted over the pot with her legs spread wide.

The slave girl, impatient with the delay, struck Julie once again across her bottom cheeks with the strap, and in her precarious position she almost fell forward. Looking to Professor Larson for deliverance she held on, until at last he joined the chant. With her last protector gone Julie knew that she must obey.

A few drops fell...

Plink!

Plink!

Then a stream, then soon a mighty river flowed!

The depth and hollowness of the tin made her stream echo loudly around the room, like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. Tears flowed freely from Julie's eyes. I looked to Professor Larson, but he did not seem sad at all; indeed, he whispered something to the student next to him, who laughed. His sudden change in tenor didn't surprise me; once an individual surrenders his principals and conforms to group norms they often become the most enthusiastic proponents of the actions they used to propose. Whether Julie knew it or not, she'd be getting no more help from her Professor.

Julie's bladder was very full and it took a long time to empty. When the hose like stream finally slowed to a trickle there was some nervous laughter, then applause as the last few drops splattered noisily into the bucket.

"Wipe her," the Slave Grader said. The female slave in the toga went to retrieve some paper toweling from the cart, but Tad had different ideas. Fishing her panties out of the box he rubbed them between his fingers.

"She's soaking wet!" he said. "The little slut creamed her panties!"

The panties were soon passed around to everyone, and became Exhibit A in the case against Julie.

"She's slave hot. No doubt about that."

"She gets all juicy at the thought of being slave graded. She's hungry for her collar."

"Cute lacy knickers. Slut red."

"She's hot pussy."

"Hot pussy sells better."

"It's a waste sending her to college, really."

"Yes, she doesn't belong here with the rest of us," one of the girls said defensively.

Everyone got a turn with Julie's panties. Some simply passed them on, others inspected the wetness visually, while still others verified the stain by rubbing the gusset of her underpants between their fingers. A few of the boys even held it up to their nose for a good whiff.

The curious aspect to me was the way the group adopted Julie's excitement as prima facie evidence that she was a slave slut in need of collaring. Every single male in the room sported noticeable erections. The telltale signs of excitement -- rapid breathing, prominent nipples, thigh squeezing, were obvious in many of the girls too. I must confess that I was excited as well, and if my underpants had been examined they might have been wetter than Julies. Watching Julie's grading was objectively exciting. Did that make us all collar meat?

If Julie did have friends eager to defend her they dare not speak now. A witch trial was underway, and anyone who did not participate eagerly would be the next to be accused. There was no saving Julie. If you did not torment her you would join her.

When my turn came I examined her panties closely. I had never had the opportunity to examine female self-arousal before, except for my own, and I was curious about how Julie compared. Her underpants were indeed very damp although not much damper than my own. Curious, I smelled them, comparing her scent to my own. I thought she was a bit muskier. I found myself wanting to taste her, but resisted as I knew everyone was watching and I had been the only female to actually smell her underpants, a point not lost on the smiling Professor Crush.

I hoped she didn't misunderstand. I was not a lesbian, but smelling Julie's knickers allowed me to discover what being a lesbian might be like if Suzie or Professor Crush forced me to pleasure them.

"Let's get her up on the table," the slave grader said. "I want to see how quickly she comes."

Julie didn't have a chance to obey or resist as the male students around her quickly descended on her and lifted her into position, spreading her legs wide and fitting her feet into the widely splayed stirrups. The examination table had straps but they were not needed, as her smiling classmates jostled for the chance to hold her naked body in place.

"Do you want to use the vibrator?" the slave grader said, addressing the slave girl in the Roman tunic.

"No, Master," she said, bowing her head. "She's slave hot already and I can do it faster with my hand."

The slave girl went right to work and as Julie was already excited and the slave girl's technique was excellent it didn't take her long to work the moaning Julie into a total lather!

"I have something of a confession to make," Professor Crush said. "Julia's selection today was not entirely a coincidence. I have a bot that scans the web searches of our students, and Julie's name came up on my list of young women with an unnatural curiosity about female slavery. It seems that she frequented several web sites, including a particularly prurient one called LITEROTICA, that features stories of young women being enslaved."

Parting the crowd Professor Crush walked up to Julie, and lifted her chin so she could look her directly into her eyes. "That's right, little Julie, I know all about you! Playing the sweet and innocent girl at school while at night you rub your pussy all nice and juicy as you read your Internet porn. Disgusting."

Smiling broadly Professor Crush playfully wiggled Julie's nose, reminding me of the move that Suzie had used on me when I had been naked in my slave cage. "Isn't that right, Julie? Are you slave hot? Do you have slave pussy? We're in a slave processing center, and you know what they do with young women who have slave pussy here, don't you?"

Professor Crush's expression hardened as her voice went cold. "Resisting my advances! Calling me a dirty lesbian! You're a disgusting, juicy, slave slut, in need of a good slave shaming. Today I will make your dreams come true."

"No!" Julie gasped. "No, please. Please don't do this to me! I'm not a slave girl. I'm free!"

"For now," Professor Crush teased, rubbing Julia's nose again. "At least until the slave center shows the videos of you juicing on that slave slut's hand to a Judge." Professor Crush switched to the slow syllables might use when playing peek-a-boo with a baby.

"You have no family, as I recall. No real ties so you decided to make your fortune in America! Now little Julie-woo-wees papers get all signed by the big, bad Judge, and no one will care. Then Professor Crush will pay to have you slave trained and sold."

The slave trainer spoke directly to Professor Crush. "You'll get the commission on her," he agreed. "That was the deal."

"Yes, I'll put her on the block. It will amuse me to see her squat for the buyers. After I finish with her myself, of course," she said, gently running her hand over the trembling girl's cheek.

I realized now that Julie had been set up. The cameras in the corners of the room were recording her "juicing" and combined with her browsing history and the testimony of Professor Crush, Professor Larson, and her other so-called friends. Julie had proven herself to be collar meat and there was more than enough evidence to have Julie enslaved.

"Little slut," one of the girls hissed.

"Yeah, I bet the slavery stories don't seem so hot now, do they Julie?"

"I don't know. Look at how wet she is. Maybe real life slavery is even hotter than the fantasy."

Was it true? Even as she wept bitter tears Julie writhed under the slave girl's skillful ministrations.

Professor Crush was relentless. "Dat's right, little Jule-woo-wee! Juice yourself for us! Show the Judge your juiciness so I can put you on the auction block and sell your hot slave pussy."

Watching Professor Crush I was reminded of a paper I had read on the psychology of teasing. Teasing is a natural primate activity, and has been observed in monkeys and apes as well as humans. Often it can be used as a learning device, or can be fun for both parties: mothers playing peek-a-boo with their babies, for example.

However when a high-powered individual relentlessly teases a low powered individual, the teasing can quickly turn hostile, with irony and sarcasm being used as weapons to humiliate the helpless victim. So it was that Professor Crush's gentle teasing of her students revealed itself as a naked expression of her absolute power.