A tourist, of a sort

Most of your life was unexceptional. You didn't particularly do much to stand out; you simply lived your life, went with the flow of what those around you were doing - or what they suggested you should do, as the case may be. All terribly normal, all terribly dull. None of it what you wanted.

What you wanted, in fact, was to give up control. You wanted that so terribly much. When you were at your dull office job you'd fantasize about a manager coming along and telling you to do some degrading act right where everyone could see, about how you were being given a new position where you'd have to give the rest of the office sexual relief. In the street you'd daydream about some coming up and grabbing you for their own use, or perhaps just pushing you to your knees and pulling down their zipper. And so on and so forth. But it never happened, of course.

And then you found the pamphlet. A travel brochure for a distant country, but instead of the usual touristy locales and sights, when you opened it up you were immediately confronted with a woman in chains. That would prove to be characteristic of the brochure, you'd find; mostly women, a few men, all collared and chained in various situations.

The text of the brochure helpfully explained that slavery was a legal option for people to choose in this country. It was illegal to **** someone into it, but anyone could volunteer for it and citizens of the country - defined as anyone born within the country's borders - were directly required to choose between freedom and slavery when they reached eighteen. Restrictions against damaging properly meant that even a ****'s owners could not cause undue harm to a ****, but beyond that protection a **** had no control over their lives. They were, after all, property, meant for their master or masters' use.

It was exactly the sort of thing you'd always desired. You brought yourself to more than a few orgasms just studying that brochure, in fact. The difference now was that the brochure represented a way to make those daydreams real, especially once you'd done your own research to confirm it was all real.

The brochure also detailed how, before they were sold at public auction, prospective slaves would go through specialized training facilities. One could choose which training facility one wished to enter in order to determine what kind of **** they would become. Helpfully, a list of government-endorsed facilities and their specializations was also provided.

Your mind made up, you quickly set your affairs in order. You were estranged from the rest of your family and had few friends, none close, so a notice that you were moving to a place without much contact with the rest of the world sufficed there. You donated your personal possessions to charities, including deals to have the things you couldn't give up before you left - aside from the set of clothes you'd be wearing onto the plane - to be picked up after you were gone. You got the bank to put your house on the market, bought a one-way airline ticket to the country, and handed in your two-week's notice. And finally, you boarded the plane with all your remaining worldly possessions - a shirt, pants, underwear, passport, and a few hundred dollars for emergencies and offering to your new trainers.

Everything is set. You watched out the window the place you'd known all your life fall away as the plane took off, and knew with a delighted thrill that you'd never see it again. You did your best to restrain your excitement. It wouldn't do to leak all over the aircraft's seat, after all.