You take a Walk of Shame

Your freedom was legally gone, shortly thereafter, your physical freedom was gone as well. Only a few minutes after your signature was on your enslavement documents, you'd been stripped, collared, manacled, shackled, and gagged.

The collar was heavy, heavier than any you had worn for fun back home. It made turning your head a chore, and restricted your breathing. What is more, it had been welded shut. Maybe someone with the right tools and a lot of patience could cut it off you, but most likely you would wear this collar until the day you died, and maybe beyond. Maybe they buried slaves in their collars. You did not know, perhaps some future archeologist would dig up your bones and the collar would tell them they had uncovered a ****.

The gag was new to you as well. The metal **** your jaws closed and a phalange held down your tongue. This probably was not permanent, since they would need to feed you and likely use your mouth for oral sex, but it was possible, likely even, that you would spend most of your life gagged. Speech was denied to livestock slaves, and the gag ensured it.

Even the manacles on your wrists and the shackles on your ankles were heavy and punishing. The manacles were tight, and trapped your arms above your ass, while the shackles meant you could only hobble slowly. No matter how hard your new masters tugged the chain leash connected to your collar, you could not move faster than a shuffle unless they wished to drag you. Since that seemed a possibility, you shuffled as quick as you could.

Without a care for your feelings, not that you expected or wanted them to take that care, you were led out into the airport. It would not have been hard to take you out through service corridors, but instead you were displayed in your chains to anyone who cared to look. What was sobering was that not many did. Naked slaves in chains were apparently common enough that most Ligandans barely glanced at you before dismissing you as unimportant. A few, young men mostly, gave you an appraising look, some even walking alongside you to fondle your breasts, caress your ass, and poke your cunt still oozing with the result of your enslavement orgasm. The airport worker tasked with your delivery did nothing to stop them, teaching you an important lesson....your body was no longer yours in any meaningful sense.

The gasps and giggles of some tourists brought an involuntary flush to your cheeks. It seemed to be a tour group, a dozen Americans and Canadians of a variety of ages and genders, though all were fairly well off. The clicks and flashes of camera phones going off made you moan into your gag. The very idea of your enslaved body being captured in dozens of pictures, to be masturbated over and shared online made you wet. Wetter, that is, since you'd been unable to contain yourself ever since you landed in the country.

Finally, you emerged from the airconditioned terminal and into the hot African sun. Ahead of you the back of a small truck is open, revealing half a dozen naked female slaves, chained, collared, and gagged as you are. You meet their gazes one by one, wondering what emotions are to be found in the unfamiliar faces. Pity? Lust? Resignation?

The airport worker and the truck driver hauled you up into the back of the truck, and slammed the door behind you as you knelt with the other **** girls. Moments later, the truck engine roared, and you were driven en route who knows where.