Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 03

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or to have any intimate contact with slaves. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory.)

(This tale is inspired by the work of Mr.Smith27 as well as the novels of Jennifer Jane Pope. Thanks to Mr.Smith for his review of the draft.)

(Mary Jacobs’ viewpoint)

My husband Bill parked the ranch’s pickup truck, towing a horse trailer, near the edge of the parking lot for the Longhorn Slave Market. On Saturday afternoon, the lot was full but many people appeared to be leaving, some of them towing naked and restrained young women who had probably just finished their slave grading and were looking forward to regaining their freedom.

Bill looked at Lois and me, and quietly suggested that the two of us “get ready” in the back of the trailer, after which he would “be along to collect you.” Four minutes later, Lois, a beautiful 29-year-old with auburn hair, was completely naked except for a slave collar (already connected to a leash) and a pair of flip-flops. Her eyes were shining with a mixture of excitement and apprehension as she looked at me, similarly unclothed, although at the age of 46 I didn’t look nearly as sexy as she did; the best I can say for myself is that I was well preserved: a pleasant face, a fit body, and breasts that sagged only slightly.

“Remember,” I cautioned her. “Talk softly and obey; don’t make a scene that will bring attention to us.”

Just then, Bill dropped the ramp on the back of the trailer, exposing our nudity to view from the outside, and walked up next to us. He knew better than to stare at Lois, instead using zip-ties to restrain our wrists behind our backs. Having done that, standing between us he suddenly placed a cupped hand on each of our rear ends, and we both shied away from the unexpected groping.

“Oh, come on, sluts. You can expect a lot more than just a hand on your ass when you get inside.” He didn’t persist in his fondling, however. He used his left hand to retrieve a clipboard full of papers and an ominous cloth bag, from which the two-foot neck of a branding iron protruded. I noticed Lois looking at the bag, and wondered if she were as frightened as I. No time to think about that now: Bill gathered both of our leashes in his right hand and led us, willy-nilly, down the ramp into full public view and towards the sign that indicated the main entrance to the market. How the hell did I talk myself into this?

*****

I knew the answer to that, of course. It all began because Lois, the divorced owner of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, developed a bad case of the hots for her own property, a champion pony boy stallion appropriately called “Stud.” She confessed to me, her stable manager, that she was obsessed with the idea of pretending to be a pony girl so that Stud would use his oversized cock on her. I had helped Lois with this masquerade, which went fine until an emergency forced me to leave her, bent and tied on a mounting frame, while Stud was in the midst of fulfilling her fantasy. That would have been great for her, except that while I was gone, Stud took advantage of the opportunity to extract the horse-tail plug from Lois’ rear entrance and thoroughly butt-fuck her. Then, once the assigned ranch hand collected Stud and led him off to a shower, another ranch hand, Bob Grant, had come upon Lois (aka Pony Girl Ginger) still tied to the frame. Bound and unable to reveal her identity, Ginger had no choice but to let Bob shaft her as well.

All’s well that ends well. I rescued Lois without—as far as we knew—anyone identifying Ginger as the proud and reserved ranch owner. She obviously enjoyed the fucking (and I think playing submissive, although she wouldn’t admit that part.) Lois was visibly more relaxed and happy for the next several weeks. So, of course, because I liked her I suggested various ways to reprise her role as a horny pony girl. The third time I brought the subject up, the conversation went something like this:

“Oh, right,” retorted Lois, sarcastically. “I’ll admit I had fun, but the risk of discovery is too great. If nothing else, most of our ponies are branded, in case you’ve forgotten.”

I tried to encourage her. “So, we get you branded. No big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” she replied. “Quite apart from the pain of getting my butt burned, I can’t very well walk up to the ranch smith, drop my panties, and ask him to use an iron on me.”

I sensed that she really wanted to play pony again, for all her protests, and I thought she needed a chance for happiness, so I persisted. “I’ll admit that branding must hurt, but you’re a woman. We’re built for pain, and it can’t be any worse than childbirth. As for where you get branded, there are places that can be discreet. I know some people down at the Longhorn in Houston—I’m sure I can arrange to have it done without publicizing your identity. Again, not a big deal.”

“OK,” Lois replied, caught between sexual frustration and impatience at my nonchalant attitude. “I can tell that you’re determined to get me branded, and you think it’s not a big deal. So, I dare you to put your ass where your mouth is. If I have to go to the Longhorn, so do you, and whatever I have to do, you do also. If I’m naked and collared, so are you. If I get fondled by slave wranglers, so do you. And if I get the spinning wheel brand on my rear end, so do you. As you said, it can’t be worse than childbirth, right?“

Oops. Trying to be supportive of my boss, I had gone too far. We had a long discussion of reasons why I couldn’t do it, but she was stubborn. I thought I had her when I said that, if I were playing slave along with her, we’d have to let someone else into her secret. She had an answer to that one, however—I would have to tell my husband, the head cook of the ranch, why I was going to Houston overnight, so why not make him the ticket holder? (When you’re being slave graded or kennelled in a slave market, the ticket holder is your temporary owner, the only one who can spring you from their custody.) Me and my big mouth.


*****

(Telephone conversation, the next day.)

“Mary Jacobs.”

“Mary, this is Jesse Foster at the Longhorn, returning your call.”

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly; I’m sorry to take up your time, but I need your help with a rather delicate situation.”

“No problem,” came his calm voice with a slight southern accent. “Anything legal we can do for a good customer like the Spinning Wheel, we’ll be glad to.”

“Well, I might as well just come out with it. There are two free women who want to get branded, very discretely. I was hoping you could kennel them, brand them, and keep them overnight for medical observation.”

Jesse replied in the same kind of “no big deal” tone I had used talking with Lois. “Free women getting branded is becoming more and more common, and most of them want to keep it quiet, just like you. In fact, one of my female wranglers is even talking about getting herself marked for her husband, because she signed a FINO contract with him. We need a court order to use the circle star criminal brand, but other than that, we have all the common brands or you can provide your own.”

Mary: “Great; we’ll bring along the Spinning Wheel branding head we use.”

Jesse: “But, you said you wanted to be discrete, and I guess that’s why you want these women kennelled. Whenever we kennel someone, and especially when a branding is involved, we need to have a legal release for liability reasons. Are these ladies going to give power of attorney to whoever acts as their ticket holder?”

Mary’s voice was troubled. “Ummm, isn’t it kind of risky to sign a power of attorney at a slave market?”

Jesse tried to dispel her concern. “If you’re talking about an unlimited power, where the attorney-in-fact has the right to sell the person, I agree wholeheartedly. The Longhorn is in the business of selling slaves, and if someone walks in with unlimited power of attorney over another person, it’s SOP to convince the owner to sell. But in your case, I’m talking about a very limited power that specifically does NOT authorize sale but gives the attorney-in-fact a temporary power over the person in question, including power to physically alter that person. I’d be glad to e-mail you a few different versions.”

Mary: “That would be great. Now, how do you treat individuals that are kennelled with you?”

Jesse again tried to sound very matter of fact about a delicate matter. “As a minimum, the same rules that apply for free people being slave graded: the individual must arrive already naked, collared, and with wrists bound, and that individual has to obey all instructions and expect to be handled by the wranglers. If you want to specify no sexual favors, we can put a pink-colored tag on the collar; my people will respect that limitation, but if you’re worried about being anonymous, a tag like that will make everyone look twice and try to identify the person, so I don’t recommend it.”

Mary: “Basically, then, any wrangler can demand oral services, just like our hands do at the ranch?”

Jesse sounded relieved. “I’m glad you understand that; I feel uncomfortable discussing such things with a lady. I don’t let my people do anything beyond fondling and oral sex unless the customer specifically authorizes more. Since we’re talking about women who want to be branded, though, I have to ask: are these ladies looking for a . . . more authentic experience, as if they were really slaves? Sorry to put it that way, but some people have decided that normal slave grading rules are too tame, and they want at least the risk of something more happening to them while they’re in our custody. Not injury, of course, other than the branding itself, but some free people want to get used as if they were really enslaved.”

Mary: “Well, neither of these women is an 18-year-old horny kid. To be honest, I suspect that the younger of the two—she’s 29 and I think she was graded Choice plus when she was younger—might really enjoy being a full-service slut for your staff, but the older one . . . she’s 46, so I doubt anyone would be interested even if she wanted it, which she doesn’t.”

Jesse: “One last question, which you don’t have to answer but I wish you would. Back when I first started here, we had an incident where a young woman drugged her sister and tried to sell her into slavery using a valid power of attorney meant for another purpose. Because of that, I always ask, whenever free people are in our custody, what their names are so that I can put an electronic flag on those files, just in case everything else fails and somebody tries to sell them. Would you mind telling me who these two people are?”

Mary, suddenly sheepish and sighing in resignation. “You’ll find out anyway when we arrive, so I’ll tell you, but PLEASE keep this close-hold: it's my boss, Lois Spalding, and me.”

After a pause, Jesse replied, “Oh. . . I gotta say, you surprised me.”

Mary responded, “It’s a long story, but as you can understand we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. That’s why we’re asking you to do it—we couldn’t do it on the ranch.”

Jesse: “You sure you want a permanent brand and the authentic experience?”

Mary replied. “No, I’m not, but Lois will insist on both of us getting exactly the same treatment. Besides, I’m so old it’s probably safe for me to be in your custody—no one’s likely to look twice.”

Jesse: “I wouldn’t be too sure; a lot of my young guys admire well—do you know what MILF means?”

Mary, laughing. “Not helping, Jesse! Yeah, I know about MILFs, but I doubt it applies in my case.”

*****

The next day, I showed the powers of attorney to Lois and explained about the “authentic” clause, which in effect pimped the signer out to the slave wranglers. As I expected, she had no problem with that except that she demanded my power of attorney be phrased exactly the same way as hers. Crap. At my suggestion, she and I practiced auction block moves, aka Slave Yoga, in private, preparing to perform at the Longhorn. Lord, it had been 25 years since I had to do those moves, and my bones creaked. I have to admit, though, that posing like that while repeating suggestive slave mantras got me a little excited, and Lois was really turned on but again wouldn’t admit it. The last time we practiced, I insisted that we do it slave naked; my boss just exuded sex appeal, so I had to be careful she didn’t catch me staring at her.

After that, I still had to explain this crazy situation to my husband; he had already suspected something because my sex drive had increased after practicing with Lois. Bill grinned and said that it would cost me—when we got back from the Longhorn, he wanted to play with his personal branded pony girl. I told him I would be in too much pain to do that, so he suggested we practice BEFORE the big day. I have to admit it was kind of fun to play master and pony girl, even at our ages. My sex drive was ramping up as I secretly looked forward to being a kennelled slut; I only hoped the wranglers weren’t so attracted to my sexpot boss that they ignored me!

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

If you’ve read the previous sections of my story, you may have concluded that I was the horniest, most submissive slut in the Western World. Ninety percent of the time, that wasn’t true. Most of my employees were male, and the nature of our business was soaked in testosterone, but I had no desire to make love with any of those guys, even though I respected and liked most of them as people. However, for several months before this point in my story, I’d become fascinated—hell, obsessed—with the idea of being rendered helpless like any of my pony girls and thoroughly used by strong males like my stallion, Stud. Mary had helped me bring that wet dream to life, and although some things had gone wrong the resulting sex had been so fantastic that I thought often about repeating the experiment.

I recognized that the whole idea was foolhardy, and in fact the danger of being exposed—or perhaps actually enslaved—fed my sexual excitement. Still, the risk seemed too great, so when Mary tried to nudge me into another round of playing pony girl, she was offering me something that seemed like both candy and poison. That’s why I insisted that she get branded along with me—either she would back off on the whole idea, or she would help me do it while gaining a real sense of the worry and risk involved. I wanted her to have some “skin in the game.” Literally.

Some people might ask why I didn’t get a temporary brand, the kind that only marks the epidermis so that it fades away after 8 to 12 months. I could answer that asking for such a brand would draw attention to the fact that I wasn’t really a slave, and that would be true. Mary and I planned that, if the truth ever got out, we would just say it was a private dare to prove how dedicated we were to the Spinning Wheel Ranch. Deep down, though, I suspect that this was another manifestation of my fascination with playing pony girl. My mind told me being branded was always risky, because it might help an unscrupulous person claim that I wanted to be enslaved. Yet, my libido told me it was one more step towards making the pony girl fantasy more complete, more real. I know it doesn’t make sense, but at that moment a brand became the next goal, plus going to the Longhorn would be another opportunity for submissive sex.

Being led across the parking lot that day, I had many second thoughts, now that it was too late to turn back. On the plus side, I was hoping that some hunky slave wrangler would ring my chimes a few times, just as when I had played pony girl. On the debit side of the ledger, I felt guilty for dragging Mary into this, and dreaded the pain of branding. At the moment, though, I was getting turned on because my sensations were so similar to those I’d had when I had played Pony Girl Ginger—not only naked in public, but with absolutely no control over what happened to me. I trusted Bill Jacobs, and Jesse Foster was almost an oxymoron as an ethical slave merchant. Still, when you’re used to controlling everything around you, suddenly becoming a naked slut at everyone’s mercy is a shock—at once terrifying and arousing. And this time I didn’t even have a mask and pony tack to conceal my identity. I just had to hope that no one would recognize me as—what was it Mary said the staff called me? Oh, yeah, the ice princess ranch owner. Which just reinforced the necessity of my being cooperative and submissive, much as that grated on me.

My determination to be a docile slave got put to the test before I even reached the front door of the slave market. As Mary and I followed Bill across the parking lot, a tall, older gentleman was walking the opposite way and stopped to talk to our ticket holder.

“You’ve got some classic slave pussy on a leash, friend. Are you planning to sell them?” He asked, a wide grin on his face.

Before even replying, Bill snapped “Present!” at his two charges. Ordinarily, that would mean interlocking our hands behind our heads while standing with our feet apart, offering a full-frontal view, but since our hands were still bound behind us, Mary and I just spread our legs and froze in place, like naked hunting dogs with our nipples indicating the quarry.

“Sorry, sir; got to keep the sluts under control,” Bill apologized to the stranger. “In answer to your question, I’m not planning to sell today, just need to get the photos in their Slave Registry files updated. For the moment, this is my bed-warmer [I was startled when he grasped my right boob firmly, but I tried not to show surprise or pull away] and my old maid-of-all-work.” He slapped his wife’s rear end briskly, making me wonder whether the slap or the word “old” would be harder for her to handle.] He pursued his explanation: “Older, used slaves like these aren’t usually worth much. So, sometimes the best thing is to sell or trade such cunts online rather than paying a big commission to the market, but to deal online I need to get their files up to date. I thought maybe, down the line, I would trade them in for a couple of younger, juicier whores. I appreciate your interest, though—would you care to check them out?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the stranger. With no further warning, I suddenly felt one of his hands squeezing my left breast HARD, while he thrust two fingers upwards, deep between my labia. I tried my best not to flinch at this intimate invasion, and his fingers came out of my cunt very damp.

“This little bitch is nice and hot—got a lot of fucks left in her, I imagine.” He let go of my boob and suddenly pushed that hand up into Mary’s innards in the same way he had explored me. Now I was feeling REALLY guilty that I had involved her like this when she had no interest in my slave games, but then the guy’s fingers came out wet with HER juices, as well! “Even the old lady seems to still have an interest in serving, which is a good thing, although I imagine with a cute younger slave like Red, here, you only use the old one for blow jobs.”

Bill grinned, “Yes, the old girl still has some life left in her. Kneel, slut! Mouth! Would you care for a sample suck?” To preserve our cover, my stable manager dropped to her widespread knees, practically skinning them on the asphalt, and then opened her mouth and licked her lips. Lord, I hated to see her so casually debased, right out in the parking lot with dozens of people around! And, to be honest, I wanted to be the one to swallow his load in the parking lot.

Fortunately, though, the stranger declined. “Much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, friend, I’ve already had three sluts service me today, and I’m late for lunch with my mother. Here’s my card, though—if you think about selling these two, give me a call, will you?”

“I’ll keep you in mind, sir.” Both Mary and I remained frozen in our submissive positions as we heard the guy walk away. Under her breath, Mary said “Bill, you SOB. That was taking realism too far. When we get done with this trip . . .”

He cut her off. “You’ll do what? Chew me out and make me sleep in the couch? Mary, you should be happy I maintained your cover, instead of telling him you were my wife who liked to play slave girl and was here to have her ass branded. And you ended up not having to suck him, right? I’m trying to help you two carry out your crazy plan, so cut me some slack. Would you rather I tell the Longhorn boys to devox you so you don’t give yourself away? Or should I just take you home the way you’re dressed now and show everyone at the ranch?”

Still on her knees, Mary swallowed, and regained her composure. “You’re right, ‘Master.’ Thank you for correcting me and protecting me.”

“Glad we’ve settled who’s in charge here, darlin’. I’m on your side, remember? I love you; now, Stand and heel.” And he resumed his brisk walk towards the main entrance.

*****

My sense of powerlessness only increased when we arrived at a registration podium; this time Bill ordered BOTH of his “sluts” to kneel. It seems like a small thing, but it certainly got my attention. Pony girls don’t usually kneel because of all the tack they wear—they may get bent over a fence railing or a mounting platform to be screwed or spanked, but that’s all. By contrast, being on my knees, spread wide with wrists bound while I literally LOOKED UP at the free people who controlled my body, was a real eye-opener.

It’s not just that my mouth was at a convenient level to lick their cocks or pussies; I had been reduced to the level of a child or small animal, cringing and physically subservient to my masters and mistresses. Both Mary and I were already turned on as we walked across the parking lot and got felt up by a complete stranger. Now, however, my posture and point of view reinforced my complete domination by Bill and the Longhorn wranglers. I’m a tall woman, 5 foot 10 to begin with and usually wear heeled riding boots. At that moment, my head was suddenly about 3 feet off the ground and I was looking up at a group of people each of whom was well over 6 feet tall—and looked even taller from my viewpoint! I don’t think I’ve ever felt more intimidated in my life.

Even the female in the group was powerful. The woman behind the podium wore combat boots and a belt hung with an electric cattle prod, control for electric shock collars, whip, radio, and handcuffs, but even without those advantages over my kneeling, bound nudity, she was big. Not fat at all, but HUGE--tall, well-muscled, and endowed with breasts that made my B/C cups look prepubescent. She must have been 4 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than me. She also radiated a self-confidence that made her both imposing and attractive in her own right. Her Longhorn polo shirt, stretched tight over her bulging chest, carried a nametag that read “Florence.”

In response to Florence’s rumbling, slightly-amused inquiry, Bill laconically announced that he had a reservation to kennel “two whores” overnight and have them branded using the iron he had brought from Spinning Wheel Ranch. He gave her a plausible explanation of why we were here, some combination of the ranch’s smith having a communicable disease and the management not wanting these “old biddies” on view this weekend anyway, when potential investors were visiting and expected to see nothing but cute little pony girls and boys. He produced our kennelling papers, including his limited powers of attorney over our bodies. Florence read them carefully, asking for clarification that they did NOT authorize sale, but did absolve the Longhorn from any responsibility if the wranglers decided to use us intimately. She didn’t even hesitate or blush when she mentioned that clause. Stated baldly like that, I really felt like a piece of slave meat at the mercy of these muscular men and women. Florence seemed like a smart person who realized that we were legally free, although she never articulated that idea to the other wranglers (I found out later that Jesse Foster had given her instructions to conceal our identities as much as possible, which wasn’t much!)

Once she accepted those powers of attorney and gave Bill the tickets for us, we were under kennel rules anyway. Heavy leather cuffs replaced the zip ties on our wrists, and even heavier shock collars, each with two electrical contacts digging into our necks, replaced the simpler collars we had worn in the door. Now we were indistinguishable from genuine slaves, and just as defenseless. Florence went through the familiar spiel to newly-arrived slaves. You’ve all read such warnings before, but one key phrase really made my mind cringe now that I was in their power: “all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO electrical shock and whipping.”

It was equally daunting to realize that we had no speaking parts in this drama, other than “Yes, Mistress.” After charging Bill for the kennelling and branding fees, like a good saleswoman Florence tried to sell him some extras.

“Since they’ll already be restrained and sedated for branding, how about we pierce their nipples at the same time? Only $20 per boob as an add-on to the branding, and we throw in the disinfectant and bandages to be used in wound care afterwards.”

I could see Bill was trying very hard not to laugh, looking at his wife and me on our knees as he added to our discomfort. “Yeah, why not? Most of the younger sluts at the Spinning Wheel have nipple rings already, so the old gals must feel left out. Let’s pierce all four of these nipples and install titanium barbells—bill it to the same account as the rest of their accommodation.” I almost bit my tongue at the thought that my cook had just, graciously, decided that I—as the ranch owner—would have to pay for my own nipple piercings!

Sensing she was on a roll, Florence went in for the kill. “For the low cost of $10 each, we’ll give you a framed photograph of the slut’s glowing ass right after the brand is applied. Of course, you’ll miss the fun of seeing how they squirm and cry when they get branded. Usually, they climax and lose control of their bladders at the same time! For another $25 each, we’ll record the entire branding and piercing process, both picture and sound, and give you a labelled disk of the show.”

By this time, Bill was grinning even wider and looking with unholy glee at his wife’s worried face. I’m sure he was imagining hanging a photo of her branded butt on the wall of their bedroom. “By all means—both photos and disks, and bill them to the ranch’s account, too.” At the time, I mentally promised myself to audit my head cook’s food expenditures to recover some of these costs. On reflection, though, I realized that Bill was just playing his part—if he had hesitated about any of these additional embarrassments, someone might have wondered why he was so solicitous of a couple of over-the-hill sluts. Mary and especially I were responsible for putting ourselves into jeopardy like this, and I should have expected that going to the Longhorn would set a new high, or should I say low, in humiliation and subjugation. And that (in addition to a good fucking) was why I had agreed to this, anyway. But, it suddenly felt very real, even menacing, and became even more so when Bill traded Florence the branding head for the tickets and receipts. Then he left, and I imagine Mary felt just as abandoned as did I.

*****

After that, though, things started to look up, at least as far as indulging my submissive sex drive. I mentally blessed Jesse, because he seemed to have arranged that Mary and I would be in the care of two muscular slave wranglers straight out of central casting! Both were even larger than Florence, which is saying something, but beyond having handsome faces they were very different from each other. The guy assigned to process me was Dave, a massive African-American. He smiled casually, and in a calm, quiet voice ordered me to stand and walk through the swinging doors behind the podium. He guided me along with one large hand cupping my ass cheek, his blunt fingers gently goosing me well into my butt crack. As I tried to cooperate as best I could, out of the corner of my eye I saw another wrangler, whose nametag read “Josh”—6 feet, 4 inches, blond hair and blue eyes on top of a body-builder’s torso—herding Mary in the same manner. I felt completely cowed, but my tummy suddenly started hoping that these two guys would find time to use us. Thoroughly.

First, however, we had apparently arrived in time for the last round of block move (Slave Yoga) training for the day. Master Dave and Master Josh walked us over to a battered wooden practice platform containing 5 other naked young women, released our wrists, and slapped our butts sharply to encourage us to mount the platform and join the class.

An unusual slave wrangler began snapping out commands and criticisms in rapid fire. She looked to be about my age, with brown hair, generous boobs, and a cute face that was vaguely familiar. She was dressed like the other wranglers, including the boots and menacing array of weapons, but she was far smaller than any other wrangler we had seen, in fact shorter than I was. Then I noticed a nametag that read “Shirley,” and my mind suddenly remembered where I had seen her—this was Jesse Foster’s wife, whom I’d met at various social functions! That marriage explained why she would be able to work as a slave handler despite her diminutive size. Crap—if I could recognize her dressed up in wrangler garb, would she recognize the lewdly-gyrating redheaded slave in front of her as the wealthy owner of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch? If so, she gave no sign of recognition.

For the next half hour, that worry took a back seat to the humiliation of shouting slave mantras (“Please buy me and use me, Master;” “I long for you to ram your monster cock up my ass,” “Three holes—no waiting,” and so on) while I stretched and shook my naked body along with the other slaves. I was grateful that Mary and I had practiced our block moves/slave yoga before we surrendered ourselves for kennelling, so we didn’t look as clumsy as the other girls.

In fact, Shirley used us to shame the other slaves. “Look at these mature ladies [indicating Mary and me]—if they had been sexually active at a VERY young age, they might have been your mothers. Yet both of them know their block moves and look sexier than some of you. Get the lead out of your butts, kids—you want every potential owner, male or female, to covet your body, and right now any owner would rather take these two gals instead of you.”

Eventually, the pint-sized wrangler called a break and gave us the sexiest motivational speech I’ve ever heard. I can’t recall all of her words, but the basic message was, whether you’re just here for slave grading or about to be sold to a stranger, you need to convince everyone who sees you that he or she wants to own your body. Free or slave, the more attractive and desirable you are, the better your treatment in life. It was a cynical ploy designed to maximize profits for the Longhorn and slave merchants, but I know that Mary and I both got turned on!

When she released the class, Masters Dave and Josh resumed control of us. Now their methodology became apparent, as they took photographs of us while we were still aroused from the class. [When this whole adventure was over, I called up the resulting images on the National Slavery Registry, but I wished I hadn’t looked. Whether standing in Present mode, kneeling with one hand on my breast and the other opening my labia, or a rear view with my head on the floor and my hands spreading my butt cheeks—in every pose, I was obviously aroused and exposed, with a distracted expression appropriate for the most braindead of bimbos. Thank heavens only licensed slave merchants had access to the registry, but even that access meant that my peers and competitors could talk to me professionally and then go back to their offices and jerk off to my photographs.]

(Mary Jacobs’ viewpoint)

Up until that point, our processing had resembled that given to young women being slave graded—a little humiliation, a stretch of block moves to get us worked up, and then photographs while we were aroused. I did notice that the handlers were a lot more “handsy” than I had expected, grabbing and stroking my aging breasts, bottom, and loins for any and no reason. I was surprised by how horny all this made me feel, and I sure hoped no one in the slaving industry looked me up on the Registry, but this trip had gone pretty much the way I expected.

Until the photographs were done, and then things became a lot cruder. Leaving my hands unrestrained, Josh led me over to a computer desk, obviously intending to upload the obscene photos he had just taken. Only, when we got there, he pointed to the kneehole on the desk and told me to crawl into it, butt first. Not wanting him to shock me, I complied, and when I looked up at him from my crouch, he was calmly unzipping his jeans and pulling out an impressive cock and set of balls. Then he sat down, reached over my head towards the keyboard, and told me to “get to work.”

Jesse Foster had warned me that oral sex was almost inevitable while I was kennelled here, so the fact of fellating this guy wasn’t any surprise. Yet, this was an incredibly casual approach, where the slave was just a minor entertainment while the wrangler went on with his work. I didn’t mind giving my husband a blowjob—I’d done it just two nights earlier, when we were playing slave girl and master—but it had been 25 years since I’d sucked off another guy, and even then I had done it as a great concession for which he thanked me profusely. In a way, being treated as if I were a piece of chewing gum to amuse Josh made it even more humiliating.

Again, though, I had no choice. Besides, when would I ever again get to play with a young man like this? So I reached out, one hand wrapping around the base of his substantial prick while the other began to gently massage his scrotum. I licked around the bulbous head of that prodigious proboscis, but when his hips moved forward it was obvious that he expected more. I took a deep breath and tried to fit as much as possible into my mouth. When that head struck the back of my mouth, I breathed again through my nose, tried to line my throat up with his shaft, and pushed him in even deeper. I bobbed back and forth rapidly while stroking his balls. It must have worked because his invader became even larger and more rigid. I just hoped he came before I ran out of air.

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

Yum! I heard gagging sources from Mary at the next desk. In the back of my mind, I felt guilty that my best friend and stable manager was being used just to satisfy my own sex drives, but the thrill was so great that she slipped my mind. Perhaps I was the female equivalent of the male cliché about “a stiff dick has no conscience”—maybe “I have no conscience when I see a stiff dick?”

I mean, this face-fucking, treating me as a subjugated toy, was the cherry on the top of my adventure sundae. The first recipient of a blowjob from me had been an African American friend—we went to the prom together soon after both turning 18. I’d swallowed a fair number of dicks since then and usually enjoyed it, if only because it made me feel desirable when the guy inflated in response to my sucking. Until that day at the Longhorn, however, I had not believed that African-American males were particularly more endowed than Caucasians. But, OMG (as the kids would say), Dave seemed to be as big as my champion pony stallion Stud, and THAT made this experience phenomenal for me. Naked, collared, on my knees under a desk, being forced to give head to a huge shaft that smelled clean and tasted sweet—what more could I want? He was kind enough to pull back once in a while so I could breathe, but otherwise just treated me as if I were his private glory hole while he worked on the computer.

Then I remembered something—if he was uploading my new bimbo portraits into the file attached to my Slave Identification Number, Dave was also looking at my real name and status—I was only listed in the National Registry because I had been slave graded a decade before. I blushed with humiliation at that thought, but at the same time the submissive in me got even MORE turned on, assuming that were possible. Now Dave must know that I had willingly given my body to the Longhorn to play with! I redoubled my attentions, slobbering all over his man-meat until he suddenly went rigid and blasted repeated shots of cum down my throat. He was already so deep that I couldn’t have held his jism on my tongue if I tried—it all went down my esophagus with almost no swallowing.

There I was, completely at his mercy and with a belly full of his sperm. He knew who and what I was, yet never betrayed it in the manner he treated me. Not that he was respectful, kind or anything like that, but neither did he jeer at or belittle me. He just zipped himself up, murmured “Good work, slut,” had me crawl out and stand. As he cuffed me again, I saw Josh doing the same thing to Mary, who had a contented expression as well as some semi-transparent white stuff on her face. Looks like the two “old biddies” from the Spinning Wheel were both enjoying themselves, so I didn’t have to feel so guilty about dragging Mary along. Then I remembered that we still had to face nipple piercing, butt branding, and whatever other tricks Jesse Foster might have planned . . .

(To be continued)

[Mr. Smith]

Carl has introduced the limited power of attorney which prevents the holder from selling the piece of livestock. I belive this type power of attorney is discouraged at many other slave markets for the obviousl reasons. I hear the Big D even prohibits the use of a limited power of attorney or maybe only for Any Chance auctions.

[lovethissite]

I'm curious how many people will discover Lois true identity from the slave registry. Then it could interesting.

[Hooked6]

Excellent. Only quibble I have is referring to the slave's calling out their availability (“Please buy me and use me, Master;” “I long for you to ram your monster cock up my ass,” “Three holes—no waiting,”) as Slave Mantra's is a mistake as various authors have used them as Affirmations.
Different word: Slave Hawking? Slave Invitations? Slave Enticement? Slave Lure?

[Hooked6]

Excellent. Only quibble I have is referring to the slave's calling out their availability as Slave Mantra's is a mistake as various authors have used them as Affirmations.
Different word: Slave Hawking? Slave Invitations? Slave Enticement? Slave Lure?

I too also thought that the use of Slave Mantras as a term was out of place as well. I love Slave Hawking! great term

[Carl Bradford]

My apologies to Gary and Hooked6, but I've used the term "Slave Mantra" half a dozen times in various stories on Literotica, so it's a little late for me to change terminology now. I don't think I originated it, either--I could swear I acquired this by reading the Great Masters (i.e. Joe Doe and/or Gentleman Mariner), although I just ran a quick check and couldn't locate it in their writings. I know I lack the originality to have come up with the whole idea and terminology; just as in my non-fiction writing (don't ask), I specialize in summarizing the hard work of others!
As I recall, "Slave Mantra" like "Slave Yoga" is notionally a watered-down term used when explaining the concept to Soccer Moms (which is why I thought I got both terms from Joe)--the correct term for Slave Yoga is, of course, "Block Moves" or "Slave Block Moves," but these other terms exist to avoid shocking the free women who get turned on submitting but don't want to admit out loud that they're practicing to be sold. By extension, therefore, I'd be happy to consider "Slave Hawking" as the "REAL", slave market terminology for slave mantras, if that would satisfy others.

[Hooked6]

A subtle difference I agree between a Mantra or an affirmation and what Gary called Slave Hawking.

Using the New Oxford dictionary as well as other sources, a Mantra is a word or statement that is repeated over and over to aid in meditation to change a negative view of a situation into a positive one. Similarly, an affirmation is a statement that attempts to change a negative view about something that a person believes to a positive one. Both an affirmation and a Mantra are techniques that attempt to change the person saying them into believing what they are saying is true and is a positive or a good thing for that person.

Slavery is inherently a bad thing and the life of a slave is generally viewed negatively. Repeating mantras or affirmations like “I am happy when I serve you,” or “Your pleasure is my highest goal in life,” reinforce the idea that true happiness can only be achieved when serving the wants and desires of another. It is a life-long commitment to self-improvement.

Slave Hawking, it would seem, is a transitory or temporary attempt merely to sell goods or services in order to obtain a higher profit for another person. It has little to do with changing the outlook or belief system of an individual (slave) for the long term or improving the life of the person saying them. The person benefiting is the Slave auction house or the owner of the slave NOT the SLAVE.

“Please buy me and use me, Master;” or “Three holes, no waiting” are clearly statements to sell something and are most likely only used in an auction setting or a proprietary setting like a brothel. In both instances the goal is only increasing profit and does little to change a belief system of the slave, hence the subtle distinction of an affirmation and the suggested new term Slave Hawking, which seems a bit more appropriate for a "selling" situation as opposed to Mantras which seem better suited for Slave Yoga, Slave Training, etc.

Just a thought from underneath the shade tree.

Hooked6

[Carl Bradford]

Hooked6 makes a fine distinction that I have been guilty of glossing over. I DID locate the term "slave mantra" in Joe's fantastic "Sandy Foot Girl" series, which is where I probably picked it up, but in that case, Sarah Hollister was making an affirmation ("Slavery is my destiny") that also represented one small step in the tale of how her own diabolical processing system at the Big D brought out the closeted slave girl inside her haughty persona.
I, on the other hand, have been having my slaves and potential slaves loudly announce more crude hawking-type statements. In my defense, I believe and have written that these lewd statements are meant not only to sell slave meat but also to imprint on the slave or potential slave a sense that she/he (usually she, of course) exists as a sexual servant of the potential master. This is a form of brainwashing suitable for George Orwell which, I have implied in past stories, was meant to give the potential slave a positive view of that kind of sexual subordination. In other words, such come-ons are part of the process of causing the practitioner to accept slavery as a good and enjoyable state. I may be deluding myself, but I thought that Gentleman Mariner had the same intent when he had Frankie and the other trainees repeat similar (if slightly more dignified) statements of submission in the second "West" story series. Or did I imagine that?
Anyway, thanks for the clarification, and I agree that I should have been more precise in word usage and explanation. It's a fun plot device because it requires both real slaves and wannabees to embarrass themselves by appearing to offer their bodies to any free adult; what's at issue is the label we use for such loud and potentially humiliating auto-put downs.

[Hooked6]

It's a fun plot device because it requires both real slaves and wannabees to embarrass themselves by appearing to offer their bodies to any free adult;

And that, my esteemed friend, is what makes your stories so much fun to read.