My Wife's Hospitality, Part Three, by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

My adventure in the showers at Slave Smart had been exciting, and that night my husband Brian and I went at it like teenagers. My role playing as a slave was lightyears better than our previous games.
Brian had told me the thrill of it was seeing me stark naked with a gaggle of other slave girls, and realizing that, once stripped of my clothing, money and identification, I was entirely indistinguishable from the rest. Brian’s battle-axe mother, Agnes, who had once worked in a slave market, and was a very tough cookie. When I had remarked once that I didn’t understand how Pleasure Sluts could behave in such shameful manner, she had acidly remarked that if I were put up for sale in a slave market I’d figure it out rapidly enough, and I’d be “just another peach in the bushel basket.” The phrase had stuck with me, although I really hadn’t fully grasped what it meant until now.
It wasn’t totally surprising that the waiter from Seasons 52 didn’t recognize me, although he had served me less than an hour before. What shocked me was that Tom and AJ, who I knew quite well, clearly had no idea who I was, even though they evaluated my naked body in great detail. Brian told me that in slave girl mode I was a “different person”, humbled, trepidatious, and diffident. When he led me through the slave market, with my hands cinched behind my back and a noose around my throat, I had been unable to make even make eye contact with the clothed people ogling my body. He was right; I FELT like a different person. The chance to play with the persona of slave girl, and release myself from the responsibilities of managing hundreds of other people, play the part of a Pleasure Slut who existed only for sexual pleasure, was a huge part of the thrill.
Being randomly shaken into an assortment of other naked slave girls was a key factor in what Brian teasingly called “my slave girl costume”, a joke which always made me blush, as it was no costume at all. Tom and AJ saw me not as a Brian’s wife, or a successful professional woman, but as tits-and-ass, registered and ready for sale. Just another peach in the bushel basket.
The phrase, and the cool, appraising way his mother said it, drove me nuts! It was beyond exciting, and looking back on the experience, my main disappointment was that I hadn’t been wearing an authentic slave collar.
“Be glad you weren’t registered and collared,” Brian said, as I slowly rode him up and down. “You might have ended up in a Tag Tail Sale.”
“How much do I think I’d bring?” I teased. “Would you buy me, Master?”
I groaned and threw my head back as I said “Master.” Brian groaned, too, and I could tell he was struggling not to burst, trying to make it last. I, on the other hand, rode on, enjoying myself, and showing him no mercy.
“Impossible to predict a block price. As the saying goes, ‘The price is told/when the pussy’s sold/and you got the gold.’”
“Come on!” I teased. “Your mom used to work in a slave market. Make a guess!”
“I worked in the market, too, over the summer in college, remember? What I learned is that it’s impossible to say what your pussy’s worth, sweetie, until we put it on the block, and sell it to the highest bidder.”
The limerick, and the casualness of my husband’s reference to putting my pussy “on the block”, made it clear that deep down, he was his mother’s son.
“It seems sort of random,” I objected. “Wouldn’t my price be based on who showed up that day?”
“To an extent,” he said. “But Slave Smart is a pretty big outlet, and there are always a few large, licensed brokers who are monitoring the sales online. If they see a bargain, they’ll put in a bid to a local agent in the audience to snatch it up.”
“A snatch snatch,” I said. “What would the brokers do with me?”
“Who knows. They may have a buyer in mind, or an order for a pussy like you in hand. Or they may just flip you, or sell you overseas. Those same planes that bring tourists from all over the world in, can take slave girls out, in cargo.”
“Would you really do that to me? Put my pussy on the auction block? Sell me into some harem, half way around the world?” I teased, riding him like a cowgirl.
“You’re the one who wanted an accurate price,” he said. “That’s how you get one. New money for old rope.”
I rode him harder. “But tight, wet, hot rope!” I said, feeling him pulse inside of me. “You’d never sell me, not even in the heat of the moment.”
“Nothing hot about it,” he said. “Before they’d release you from a tag tail sale, I’d have to meet with the sales manager, and his boss, and the auctioneer. They’d explain the price you got, and show me all the inventory I could buy for that price. They’d make sure I really thought it through. They always say, ‘Don’t say no till they show you the dough!”
Since my-pal-Perkins had so rudely introduced the topic, I looked up Slave Smart’s ‘Tag Tail Sails’ on the web. Although the seller could call off the transaction, Slave Smart had been cited numerous times for using high pressure sales tactics to push the sale through. Sellers were given free drinks, made to wait for hours to get the papers to call off the sale, and forced to talk to a succession of managers and supervisors, each of whom tried to seal the deal by sweetening the offer.
“We’ll give you $2 bidding dollars for every $1 dollar of her sales price, so you can walk away with a girl twice as hot as your wife. But only if you sign right now, because I can’t make this offer all night.”
Or, “Did you see how wet and sloppy she was on the block? Here’s a closeup. Look at how wet her snatch is! Our slave psychologist was watching, and he says she’s secretly hoping you’ll sell her. Her ass is itching for the brand.”
“You are one lucky man. We had some big buyers in tonight, and it’s a hot market, so you got top dollar. If I were you, I’d sign before they try to weasel out.”
It was all bullshit, of course, but it was bullshit that worked Sometimes they’d even bring in a slave girl to suck off the husband, promising release if only he’d sign. Could Brian resist that? Few men could.
Speaking of sucking, Brian sucks at negotiating, and I always make all of our major purchases. Of course, I wouldn’t be there to negotiate. I’d be locked naked in a slave kennel, fingering myself while my drunken, feckless, eager to please hubby got worked over by a succession of highly trained con men. The image of my caged helplessness brought me into a rocking slave-gasm, pushing both me and my stallion over the edge together.
The very next day I was back at work, hair up in a tight French twist, wearing black frame glasses, pearls, and a charcoal gray pant suit, the very picture of professionalism. I spent most of the day in my office comparing budgets to actuals, although I found myself struggling to retain focus, as I checked out the Slave Smart website. I was torn between fear that my nude body might appear on the website and guilty pleasure at planning our next adventure.
That afternoon the hotel actually took a delivery of two slave girls for a bachelor party, and under the guise of making sure the girls were up to my quality standard, I made a point of being downstairs at the loading dock to sign for the delivery. I nearly died when the van door opened and my old pal Perkins waddled out of the front seat. He blanched when he saw me, as I had complained about his delivery practices, and was doubtlessly #1 on his demanding customer list. Quickly, he unlocked the back of the panel truck to release the two naked slave girls.
It was a surreal experience. Less than 24 hours before, I had been standing buck naked in front of Perkins, begging for my clothes, squirming as his fat fingers felt up my shaved pussy. He had been all grins and leers yesterday, and had a lot of fun at my expense. But it was clear from the fearful look in his eyes that his tiny brain couldn’t associate the naked slave girl whom he had in his grip yesterday with the all-powerful managerial goddess lording it over him now. Good.
The two girls had their ankles zip tied together and were chained to the back of the truck. After he lifted them out, he turned and faced me like a nervous schoolboy sent to the Headmistress’s office.
“They’re trussed up like turkeys,” I said, frowning. “Are these two trouble makers?”
“No, Ma’am,” Perkins said. “It’s standard travel procedure for security.”
“I know that. Get rid of the zip ties,” I ordered.
Arms folded, I impatiently tapped my foot as Perkins used the clippers on his belt to free the girls’ hands and feet. They had sent a blonde and a redhead. I recognized both girls from the showers. The blonde had been one of the little bitches that had held my hands behind my back while they rubbed the burning chemicals into my crotch.
Freed, they immediately knelt before me, kneels spread, hands on their head, eyes down. Good—they knew their place.
“So I’m supposed to kennel them until I need them?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked. “I thought you’d have cages here.”
“I do,” I said dismissively. I just don’t want them peeing all over my cage.”
Slave girls are FILTHY,” I said, crinkling my nose with the disgust only a free woman can feel. “Are these two clean?” I demanded.
“Uh…yeah,” he said, looking a bit confused by my question.
“Did you fuck them on the way over?”
“No, Ma’am” he replied.
“Crotch crickets? Have they been sprayed? My guests pay a lot to be here, and we can’t have bugs in the rug.”
“They’re clean,” Perkins assured me.
“Uh-huh,” I said doubtfully. “When did they shower?” I asked.
“This afternoon,” he said, again looking confused.
“Outdoor or indoor shower?” I demanded.
“Does it matter? I mean… uh… do you have a preference?” he said, confused.
“What do you mean do I have a preference? What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
Perkins stared at me, unsure of what to say.
“Why would I have a preference?” I asked, pressing him to remember me. I was pushing my luck, I knew, but I needed to verify that the dumbfounded Perkins had no idea who I was. I turned my displeasure to the two girls.
“Okay, LADIES,” I said, my voice bristling with sarcasm, “start rubbing those pleasure pots. I got 40 horny guys who are expecting the hottest, sloppiest slave pussy in Florida, delivered to their doors.”
The girls, looking quite afraid of me, immediately began rubbing themselves.
I turned back to Perkins. “Well? Don’t you want me to sign for them?”
He handed me the electronic notepad he was carrying, and I scribbled my signature with my finger.
“See you Tuesday, Porkins,” I said, turning away.
I knew Perkins had no idea what I meant, but didn’t dare ask.
“Come on, LADIES, time to move!” I said, slapping the blonde hard across the ass.
Perkins hopped into his truck and sped away as the concierge locked the girls off to their cages to await their epic gang bang.
“Don’t let the little bitches wash up when the guests are done with them,” I told the concierge. “Take them down to the sty, so the fence jumper’s can have some fun with them, too. I want them ridden hard, and sent back covered in sperm, wet-and-sloppy.”
“Are you sure?” the concierge said. “Our undocumented workers are a rough crew, and there’s a reason they call it the stye.”
I wanted to get my money’s worth,” I shrugged.
The Concierge looked a bit shocked, but nodded, knowing better than to question my orders.
That night, I had an epic time riding Brian as I told him about my adventure.
“It gave me delicious sense of power. I knew the girls but they didn’t know me. And that PIG Porkins, who felt me up, acting all differential. ‘Yes, Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am! No, Ma’am’ What a weasel.”
“You look totally different at work,” he said. “I mean, the glasses, and the hair… You don’t even have the Australian accent.”
“G’arn!” I said.
“See. You’d never say that at work. You’d say, “Oh, really?”
My husband was right, of course. I was Ozzie, but only at home, where I had an entirely different persona.
“Which of us do you like better?” I teased, sliding up and down on him. “The American businesswoman, or the hot outback girl?”
“Ride ‘em cowgirl!” Brian replied.
The next morning, I called up Jerrod, the manager of Slave Smart. We were an excellent customer who dropped a lot of coin for his best product, so he agreed to see me later that afternoon. I met with him in one of smaller but extremely posh conference rooms. Sitting in his leather chair overlooking the little lake behind our resort, Jerrod was suitably impressed. Naturally, I sat at the head of the conference room table.
“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to it,” I said. “I have four couples, quite well to do, who are planning a reunion in July. Several of the men have inquired if slave girls can be part of the vacation. The wives want to surprise their husbands, and be delivered as naked slave girls from Slave Mart, to their husbands.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Does each wife want to get delivered to HER husband, or do they wish to mix it up?”, he asked, writing down notes on his iPad.
“Good question,” I said. “I didn’t ask, but I will, and get back to you. If we deliver the women to you?, can you prepare them at Slave Mart, and deliver them to the hotel, as you would any other naked slave girl? We’ll take it from there.”
“What sort of prep would they need?” he asked.
“Check out their poses, give them a quick review, or a bit of training, maybe. They’ll need to be washed.”
“Deloused?”
“Make that optional. Some want the full experience, some less so,” I explained.
“This sound a lot like our Christmas package,” Jerrod observed. “We package your wife or girl as a slave and deliver her to your doorstep Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning.”
I nodded. “Excellent. You’re familiar with what I want. I want to throw in a leather bag with our hotel logo, and some extras: devoicing spray, a small bag of slave candy, a small bag of slave kibble, a leather leash, an extra remote for their collar, a quirt, a remote vibrator that you can control with a handy-dandy phone app, and a $100 gift certificate at Slave Smart. Oh, and free registration, if the girl needs it. The guests will keep the girl’s collar and the collapsible kennel cage you’ll deliver her in.”
I smiled as he scribbled furiously. “No, don’t bother trying to write it down. Here’s the list.”
His eyes bulged as he scanned the list. “Wow. This is a lot of stuff. The lady knows what she wants.”
I smiled. “The lady does. And it’s not Christmas morning, so I’m not paying Christmas morning prices. I sell the package to the guests at the price I choose, but I pay you $250, and you’ll provide everything but the leather bag with the hotel logo.”
“I’m not even sure I’ll break even on that,” he said.
“You will. I’m in the hospitality business, so don’t tell me that the Bozo in the panel truck you sent to my delivery dock yesterday is costing you anywhere near $250.”
“But the extras…”
“Repackaged gravy train and a dog collar you bought from Pet Co?” I said, challenging him. “You buy the sex toys bulk, and except for the vibrator and remotes, you could get them out of a gumball machine. But the truth is, I’m doing you a favor, Jerrod. You should be paying ME.”
“How do you figure that?” he said.
Smiling, I leaned back in my chair, holding my gold cross pen in my slender fingers as I patronized him with the facts of life. “Because, my dear Jerrod, my customers are the richest and most powerful people who have ever existed on this earth. People who can blow $1,000 a night on a room with the view you’re looking at, and who won’t think twice about blowing $50,000 on a girl who will blow them back. They have money to burn, and they’ll buy three of your best girls, just because they like the way they giggle.”
“Maybe. But they’re not buying my girls. They’re buying their wives and girlfriends,” he countered.
“Which is why, if you’re smart, you’ll throw in a complimentary Pleasure Slut and cage them up with the wife or girlfriend. Give ‘em a little time in the cage together to make friends. I’m betting on a 30% sell through rate on the extra girl, at least, with you setting the price for men who really don’t care about money.”
“Interesting idea. But even if you’re right, I’ll never get it past corporate.”
“I thought of that, too,” I said, smiling. “I called up Dan Tepman, Head of Squeeze Financial. I believe they bought Slave Smart a few months ago? I pitched him the idea and he loved it. He said he’d like to try it when he’s down here with his girlfriend net month.”
“I thought he was married,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said, smiling and almost-not-quite winking. “Neither would you. He said he’s going to pitch it to Slave Smart management this afternoon. Of course, if we can’t do it, because Jerrod says ‘no’…” I let my voice trail off.
“No, fine, we’ll do it,” he said, clearly intimidated.
“Good. I’ll put together a brochure describing the service and get it to you by tomorrow. This is EXCLUSIVE to our hotel, got it? Hilton, Marriot, Motel Six, and everyone else can eat my shit. Agreed?”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I’d like to do a test run, next week. I’ll have one of my employees come by Slave Smart on Tuesday, and you can process her and run her over to one of the guest rooms. The theory is good, but I want to see how this works in practice.”
“Not a problem,” Jerrod said. “Send me the leather bags, and the specs on what services you want, and we’ll do our best.”
“Please do. My hotel is the best in Orlando, so don’t even think of cutting corners. The girl should be transported to the hotel in a locked kennel, and then I want the kennel sent up to the guest’s room. I want the experience to be as authentic as possible.”
“Very good. It’ll probably be a short trip, only a few hours, so she won’t need a floor grid.”
“What’s a floor grid?” I asked.
“It’s a grid with holes in it, so if the filthy little slut pisses herself she doesn’t have to sit in it, or have it slosh around on the floor of her cage.”
I frowned as I pictured myself in the back of a delivery truck, stop X of 15, with my urine sloshing on my hands and legs and feet every time the van turned, sped up or slowed down. “I don’t know. That the grid like a good idea. I mean, what if she has to go?”
“Her handler will order her to squat and make her water before she is caged.”
“A bathroom break?” I asked.
“Not exactly. They get a few seconds to squat and piss over a grate before they’re locked in their kennel.”
I wrinkled my nose at this, and Jerrod smiled. “You said you wanted an authentic experience.”
Without much enthusiasm, I nodded my acquiescence, and he continued. “Did you want a bottle of slave water in the cage, so she can suck on it if she gets thirsty?”
“Yes, that sounds good. What’s slave water?”
“Water with spluge in it. And the nipple she has to suck is shaped like a penis. We’ll keep a vibrator over her clit, too, set to go off randomly, to keep her wet and ready during the trip. We’ll keep her hands cuffed to the front of the cage, so she won’t be able to take it off.”
Jerrod smiled as I squirmed in my chair. “Are you blushing, Miss Thorton? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but I figured you’d want to know the details. You said you wanted an authentic transport.”
“It’s… well, I hadn’t really thought of all the ‘details’, as you put it, but I’ll send a follow up note describing how the girls should be handled. Now, I do appreciate that Slave Smart is putting a lot into this detail, and I want to be fair. We’ll do it for 90 days, and if money isn’t raining down on you, we’ll forget about it. Deal?”
I rose and extended my hand and we shook on it. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Jerrod. You’ll be hearing from me shortly. And please accept this gift bag, with our branded candles, golf balls, scents, and shower products. I’m sure your wife will enjoy them.”
Jerrod walked out of the conference room checking his swag-bag, another satisfied customer. I had already booked the suite for Brian’s birthday. Checking my phone I confirmed what day my ‘employee’ was going to experience her authentic slave girl transport, and be delivered to my surprised husband as a very special present.

[Scman493]

Please be sure our girl finds her way to the stye .... the visual image of that is so perfect.

[lovethissite]

Well Margot is asking the questions that will put her in a collar soon it seems. Please continue.