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

Proud, educated, professional women who secretly long for humiliation, discipline, or slavery have their fantasies fulfilled.
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imreadonly2
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My Wife's Hospitality, Part Four, by Joe Doe

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I had been woefully unprepared for my last visit to Slave Smart, and vowed not to make the same mistake again. Yes, I had wanted to surrender control, but in a controlled way. Naked in a slave market, without money or identification, had left me feeling many things, but ‘in control’ was not one of them.

Brian had surprised me when he had locked every stitch of clothing I had in a secure location where his little slave girl couldn't get to them. I had to give my husband credit, for it had been a masterful mind-fuck. It was also one of the greatest turn-ons of my life.

When I took a shower at home or at my private club, I was undressed, but it was at my own volition. But at Slave Smart my clothes and ID had been TAKEN, and safely secured well out of my reach. Salting away my clothes and placing them under lock-and-key effectively recategorized me. I wasn’t merely a naked girl; I was slave pussy. It’s a subtle distinction, but a vital one. Slave girls aren’t merely undressed. They are chattel for whom clothes are simply not an option. Brian had locked the bucket bag containing everything I would need to escape slavery securely in the trunk of a car a half mile away. I had zero chance of getting out of the building by myself or making it across the parking lot, leaving me utterly dependent on the mercy of clothed men who were in the business of showing no mercy to naked girls. Having sandals, pants and a shirt was the difference between ordering Perkins to fetch me a water versus sucking on his dick in the hopes that he wouldn't brand me.

With my clothes locked up, I wasn’t naked by choice, I was naked by decree. This utter loss of control transformed me from being a girl taking a guilty thrill into eye candy for Tom or AJ or anyone who cared to ogle my naked body. It made sense that they didn’t see me as Margot, because at that moment Margot did not exist. I was a Pleasure slut, an object to be appraised, sold, and used solely for the pleasure of men. “Margot” was locked in a bucket bag in my husband’s trunk. I was tits and ass, a realization, very nearly a legalization, that left me aroused beyond belief.

This time, however, I was prepared. I had even called up my mother-in-law, Agnes, who had once worked at Slave Smart. She heartily approved of my plan and offered to come along to watch. I assured her that wouldn’t be necessary, as every aspect of my plan was researched and rehearsed.

“A lot of smart-ass college girls think that,” she scoffed. “But it’s like preparing for the gallows. Reading about shit is one thing, having your neck stretched is another. But I am looking forward to seein’ yer photos, so I can figure out why my son puts up with all shit. I imagine ya’ won’t look like such a princes when you’re slave naked, bent and spread.”

I assured her the photos would be private, and her “assistance, while appreciated, would be neither welcome, nor required.”

“Well la-dee-dah!” she said.

Agnes was wrong. This time I was prepared, and it was Brian who was surprised, and I was the one in charge. After a light lunch at Seasons 52, we drove over to Slave Smart, so that getting back to the car wouldn't be such an ordeal. I got out of the car and Brian followed like a good little puppy dog, doubtlessly expecting a repeat of my shower show.

I took charge as soon as we walked through the door. Brian headed back toward the rear entrance, but I stopped at the front desk, where a young Hispanic woman with a name tag that read IMELDA, INTERN was working at the reception desk.

"Hi. I'm Margot Thornton, and I'm here to check in for my registration. I think I filled out all the paperwork online."

Pulling up the Slave Smart app on my phone, I let her scan in my URC code. The computer responded with a satisfying BEEP.

"You're getting REGISTERED?" Brian said, his jaw dropping in shock. "Like slave-registry registered?"

I had been looking forward to Brian’s surprised expression, and the moment didn’t disappoint. I had grown up in Australia, where slavery wasn’t nearly as prevalent as it was in the American South, and registration among upper class free women was almost unheard of.

“I don’t need a UPC code,” I’d snap, whenever the subject came up. “I’m a human being, not a box of cornflakes.”

“You’re right,” Agnes said. “I wouldn’t have as much fun branding cornflakes.”

I didn’t like Agnes much, and the feeling was mutual. Nonetheless, my caustic mother-in-law’s voice loomed large in my decision. Showering naked with the other slave girls, I was, to use her phrase, “just another peach in the bushel basket.” Without a registration number, a registration could be assigned to me, or worse, a brand. My butt cheeks tightened at the thought, even as my nipples hardened. As delicious as the feeling was, I realized it was far too dangerous to play slave girl in such an untraceable state.

The legal situation in Florida was also making a “protective registration” increasingly desirable, especially for a young woman like me. In a masterful bit of liberal trolling, our Governor had recently signed a “slave check” law giving local officials the right to check unregistered girls without a Florida driver’s license who were “suspected” of being escaped slaves. In practice, this meant that unregistered liberal girls who came to the state to register voters or engage in “subversive” activities would find themselves showing their breasts, and pulling down their pants, bending over and spreading their cheeks to prove they had no incriminating brands.

The ironically named “Free Women & Families” Protection Act was enforced selectively, and put a target on the back of every liberal woman visiting the state. Several female celebrities with houses in Florida made the mistake of thinking their wealth and fame would save them the indignity of a slave check.

“I don’t care how many People Magazine covers you got, or how many Grammys,” our unapologetic Governor explained to his adoring fans. “Florida ayn’t woke, we refuse to become a sanctuary state for escaped slaves. Visitors to our state either toe the line, or they toe the line.”

Soon invasive “hidden pocket” searches were added to the mix, and the image of famous female celebrities being cavity searched endured our Governor to his fanbase. After losing several court challenges, a number of celebrities either discretely got registered or crossed Florida off their concert tours or filming destinations.

I, of course, had a Florida Driver’s license, and was immune from the law, or so I thought. I had been driving to a conference in Atlanta and had decided to stop by the Hamilton County Sheriff’s office to see Brian’s old friend Roger, who had once been on the force in Orlando with him, and was now the County Sheriff. I had checked in with the front desk, and was waiting in the lobby for Roger to come in, as he was still on patrol.

It was a scorching hot day, so I was wearing my good-old-girl Daisy Duke jean shorts, tan ankle boots, and my crop top T-shirt that read:

FEMINIST (noun): the radical notion that women are people.

I didn’t view the T-shirt as particularly ‘radical’, and it wasn’t, in Orlando. In truth, I think it was the amount of skin that I was showing, more than my Australian accent and T-shirt, that drew the attention of the two male officers chatting and sharing doughnuts behind the counter. They looked at me, and then at each other, and smiled.

The older, balder cop hooked his thumbs into his belt as he did the slow “power walk” to confront me in the lobby.

“Where ya’ from, Sweetie?” he said, looking me up-and-down.

“Orlando,” I said. “My husband and I live in Celebration, near Disney World.”

“You’re husband’s a lucky man,” he said, walking around me to get a view of my ass. “Yer’ one cute little cola bear.”

“You mean Koala Bear?” I said, correcting his pronunciation.

“You registered, professor?” he said, clearly unimpressed.

“No,” I said. “I have a Florida’s driver’s license, though,” I said.

I started to open my purse, but he took it out of my hands and handed it to his grinning deputy. “I don’t need you pulling no gun on me, sweetie. We’ll search your bag later. Show me your lip.”

“I have a Florida driver’s license,” I replied tensely.

“You also got a foreign accent, and a big mouth, and T-shirt folks around here don’t much appreciate. You wanna show me your lip, or not?”

I knew where he was going, and I also knew that I could stop him dead in his tracks by explaining that I was a friend of his boss, the Sheriff. But in truth, having two rednecks with badges and guns look me over like I was a slab of meat was strangely exciting. I could feel my nipples harden, and I knew it wasn’t from the uselessly slow ceiling fan oscillating high over my head.

I could tell he was enjoying toying with me, relishing his power. “Come on, sweetie. What’s the harm in letting me take a little look. Show me them pearly whites!” he said.

I felt sick as he winked at me, and when he grinned, I saw he was missing two teeth. But I also felt a delicious tingling between my legs. My excitement overpowering my reluctance, I tilted my head back, opened my mouth wide, and used both hands to pull up my lip and expose my upper gum.

“Nice choppers. But she’s not registered, Billy-Ray,” he said to his younger partner. “She could be anyone.”

“I just heard over the squawk box they were lookin’ for an escaped slave with an Australian accent over in Polk County.”

“If she was a slave, she’d have a registration number,” I said, knowing where this was going.
“Who knows what the fuck they do in Australia?” he replied. “You got any slave brands, kangaroo girl?”

“No,” I said.

“Mind if I take a little looki-lou?”

My breathing quickened as I fidgeted before the two leering men. “Where would you look?” I said innocently, enjoying the tease.

The fat man smiled. “I don’t see no brands on your arms, or thighs, or hands, so we can skip them spots. Reaching out with his finger, he slowly lifted my left breast, bobbing it in his hand. My breath was coming in short bursts, but I didn’t try to stop him. “Some masters like to their girls on their titties. Some underneath, and some topside, so they can see it even if they have a dress on,” he said, running his finger on the top of my breast.

Reaching down he ran his finger down the zipper of my Daisey Dukes. “Some masters like to brand their girls right on their glove boxes, right ‘bout ‘chere.” I gasped as he poked the front of my mound. “Makes it clear who owns the box.”

“Some fellas like to brand a girl on her ass, like she’s a pig, or a goat. Plus they can squeeze it when they fuck her.”

“Don’t forget between the cheeks!” his young assistant added. “We’ll need to check there, too!”

“Don’t worry none, we’re going to check our little Crocodile Dundee here, EVERYWHERE.”

“Where do you think I’m branded?” I asked nervously.

The fat lawman smiled. “I bet if I pulled down your britches, I’d find a big kangaroo, branded right on yer’ Ozzie ass.”

“I’m sure of it,” his partner chimed in.

“Hey Margot, how’s it going? Sorry I’m late,” Roger said, taking off his enormous Sheriff’s hat as he strolled into the lobby. “Ready for lunch?”

“Sure am,” I said, grabbing my purse, and leaving the two cops with tents in their pants and VERY unhappy expressions as I sauntered out the door, being sure to swing my hips so they could dream of what they missed, when they went to the men’s room to jack off.

I had escaped a humiliating slave search, but it had been a close call. Yes, I had a Florida Driver’s License, but I also had a foreign accent and a smoking hot body (or so Brian says!), and ruby red rural Florida is not blue Orlando.

The experience at the station house had been transformative. As much as I hated to admit it, my mother-in-law was right: a naked girl was just another peach in the bushel basket. The naked, collared slave slut that I was going to have shipped to my husband’s hotel suite simply had to have a registration number, so she could be properly processed and tracked through the system. It was good business practice, and common sense, really. The beds, dressers, and couches in the rooms all had tracking numbers, and slave girls were, from an accounting point of view, no different than any other fixed asset we might buy or rent.

In that spirit, I had already directed the foreman at the loading dock to record arriving and departing slave girls in our Asset Panda tracking software. I told him that it was no different than renting extra audio-visual equipment for a conference. Which was true, except that the thought of seeing the registration number for a large projector on my office computer screen didn’t cause me to juice my knickers.

Depersonalizing the experience empowered me to evaluate the situation objectively and make the correct decisions. Guests who signed up for the slave girl package would have to be registered. It was simply too risky to throw a naked girl into a slave market with no way of tracing her.

Which is why Isabella the Intern was scanning the QR code on my phone. "Oh, yes, Margot Thornton" she said. "I have you in the system. You wanted the deluxe photo package, too."

"That's correct," I replied.

"It looks like you prepaid, so you’re all set. Will you be giving your clothes to your husband, or are you going to check them with us?"

“I’m going to check them with Slave Smart, where I can get at them," I added, giving my husband the side-eye.

"I understand," Imelda said cheerfully, taking a plastic bag from behind the counter. You can put everything in here, and we'll seal the bag."

“We use those property bags at the jail,” Brian noted unhelpfully. “Weird to see them here.”
“Where do I undress?” I said, looking around.

“Right here,” she said. Shaking the bag, she added cheerfully, “Everything inside. Purse and jewelry, too.”

"Oh," I said, a bit surprised. "I thought I'd undress in back, where we were doing the photographs."

"No, you check in your clothes and we collar you here, so you’re in the system.”

“I brought my own collar,” I said, reaching into my purse to show the pink plastic “play” collar we used at home. Much looser than a real collar, it had the little buttons on the side for easy release.

Isabella shook her head, feigning fake corporate sadness. “No, I’m sorry, we have to have everyone wear one of our collars.”

This was not going according to plan. “I saw the videos online. The girl undressed in back. She said you could bring your own collar. I want that package.”

“I’m sorry. You must have watched an old video. The accountants revamped the whole system last month, for better inventory control. They wanted to standardize inventory receipt, so we switched to Asset Panda.”

Fucking Asset Panda! “I’m not INVENTORY,” I protested. “I’m just here to get registered.”

The cocky little intern cheerfully corrected me. “Technically, you are. Stock are goods available for sale. Inventory includes ingredients that CAN create stock that is sold, and as you might choose to be sold at any point during the registration process, you’re classified as inventory. I learned that in my business accounting class,” she added proudly.

“I don’t care what you learned in school,” I shot back. “I’m not going to choose to be sold. I just want to be registered.”

“I understand, Ma’am,” she said. “It’s how we record things in the system. We need to track you in the system.”

“DUH! That’s why I’m getting registered,” I said.

“I know, but you’re not registered yet, and we need to track you until you get your registration number. You can call a Supervisor if you like.”

“This isn’t what I signed up for. Can I get a refund?” I asked. “Maybe I should do this somewhere else.”

“Cancellations have to be made 48 hours in advance,” she explained. “I can call a Supervisor, if you’d like.”

I might well have called a Supervisor, if Brian hadn’t been next to me, biting his lip to keep from laughing. As a hotel manager, the bane of my existence is uninformed hotel guests who insist on eating their way up the food chain to talk to whomever is “in charge” to complain that their room doesn’t have a view of the golf course, the Atlantic and the Pacific, Cinderella’s castle, and the rings of Saturn. My hotel also had the 48-hour rule, and I regularly bitched to Brian about idiots “who can’t plan their lives two days ahead of time.” Brian had gotten an earful from me over the years, and he was delighted to see me become what I had beheld.

I looked around. It wasn’t Tuesday afternoon, and it wasn’t particularly busy. There were only two registers open, and customers were purposefully searching for what they wanted, not looking at me. The slave catcher cop with the mirrored sunglasses looked bored, and the slave hound dog he held on its leash was licking itself.

I knew that, like ripping off a Band-Aid, faster was better. “Fine,” I said, grabbing the plastic bag from the know-it-all coed as I kicked off my sandals. “Let’s get this over with, so I can get registered.”

I had worn a bell shirt with no bra, with a very light jacket that I could use to cover myself at Seasons 52 so the poor waiter didn’t have a heart attack staring at my headlights. My jean shorts and lacy pink panties did not take long to get off.

A man who had been looking at collars near the end-cap stopped his hunt and turned to watch me undress. Smiling, it was clear he liked what he saw. Pervert.

The slave catcher cop, led by his Doberman Pincher slave hound, trotted over to watch the proceedings. The dog sat down a few feet away and watched quietly as I stripped. But when I handed the bag to the clerk, the dog let out two quick loud BARKS, signaling his displeasure.

“Easy, Bonkers,” the officer said, calming the dog. Looking at Brian, he explained. “She’ll need to hand over her earrings and wedding ring,” the police officer explained. “Slave girls don’t have diamonds, or wedding rings.”

I handed them over to my husband and gave the girl the plastic bag. “We can get a slave ring punched through your nose, if you like,” she offered unhelpfully. I gave her THE LOOK, and she smiled back. I guess I didn’t look as threatening now that I was naked.

Isabella sealed my property bag, turning the tamper proof strip green.. She scanned the barcode on the bag into the system, and without even bothering to turn around, tossed it away. It landed in a large, green, wheeled industrial green tote that reminded me of the trash cans we had in the hotel kitchen. I guessed it was about 10 gallons, and peeking over the counter I saw that it was filled with property bags similar to mine, as well as several collars, leashes, and other items that needed to be restocked.

What the fuck? Where were my clothes and ID going, anyway?

The little bureaucrat looked at me dispassionately over the counter, her eyes roaming freely over my naked body. “You’re shaved, that’s good,” she said, staring between my legs. Any tats I should make a note of?”

“No. I don’t like tattoos. I think they make you look cheap,” I said.

The girl, who had several tattoos on her arm, frowned. Good. It was fun to give the little chippy a bit of her own back.

“You realize you’ll be tattooed as part of your registrations process?” she noted coolly.

“Yes,” I replied. “It will be on the inside of my lip, though, so no one can see.”

“Turn around, please,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“I have to note any damage.”

At this point the front doors slid open, and an older man and his son walked in. They both looked my naked body up and down appreciatively.

“Can we do this in back?” I asked.

“As soon as I get my inspection entered into the system. Turn, please.”

Gritting my teeth, I turned around.

“She got her ass slapped pretty good last week,” Perkins volunteered, referring to Perkins’ humiliating spanking when I had joined the slut showers.

“I don’t see any marks. Could I see the bottom of each foot, please?”

I obeyed, showing first my left foot, then my right. The girl handed Brian a steel loop. “Where’s the keyhole?” he asked.

“It’s electronic,” the clerk replied. “I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

“What for?” Brian said.

“I need to scan it. If you decide you’re not going to sell her, you need to show your license to get the collar off her. They’ll only release her to you. You are the registered owner, right?”

“Yes, he’s my CONTACT,” I said, correcting her, “and I’m going to be REGISTERED, not SOLD.”

Again, I was ignored. I was very conscious of the man at the end cap, and the older man and his son, and the clerk, and the cop and his canine friend, carefully examining my nakedness. “Collar me, so we can get this over with,” I said to Brian.

I extended my neck and Brian reached up, collar in hand. Once again, Bonkers BARKED.

“She needs to kneel, and beg for it,” the officer explained, again addressing Brian while ignoring me totally.

“Fine,” I said. Kneeling on the cold cement, I pulled back my hair, and extended my neck as if I were putting it on the chopping block. “Collar me, Master,” I said. “I beg for your collar.”

Brian, clearly enjoying the moment, pressed his bulge against my face as he fitted the steel collar around my throat. “It’s too tight. And those steel shock prongs are digging into my neck.”

My protests were ignored as the collar SNAPPED shut around my neck. I felt a mild shock and gave out a silly squeak.

“She’s in the system,” Isabella said, grinning as she handed Brian the remote to my shock collar. “I have it set on 1, but I wouldn’t take it higher than 5, seeing as how she’s a newbee. She’ll be plenty docile, and probably piss herself, with a 4.”

Brian examined the remote, smiled at me, and slipped it into pocket. Bastard. I hope he enjoyed jerking off, because that’s all he was going to get if he used that remote on me.

“Now zip tie her hands, leash her, and you’ll be on your way,” the intern said.

Brian took the one of the zip ties from the bucket on the counter, and with the practiced skill of a police officer, zipped my hands behind my back. Using a second tie, he zipped my elbows together.

With my hands rendered useless, Bonkers stepped forward, eager to take full advantage of the situation. His head was waist high, and it was easy for him to stick his cold, wet nose somewhere I did not want it to be. I tried to pull back, but Brian, held me in place as Bonkers, his bopped tail wagging, relentlessly wormed his nose to get a really good whiff.

“That a boy!” the officer said, praising the dog’s hunt. “What-do-ya smell, boy? What-do-ya smell? You smell slave honey?”

Bonkers stepped back, and raised a paw, signaled his satisfaction.

“She’s slave hot!” the officer said, watching as Brian leashed my collar. “Slave hounds are never wrong. You got yerself' 100%, Grade A, Prime slave pussy, Mister!” the officer said cheerfully.

“Bet ya’ the grader will offer you a really good price. Crazy not to sell her,” the clerk agreed. "Here's your coupon, for Two-fer-Taco-Tuesday Special. You can get your taco while she's getting her lip tattoo."

"I'll use it later," Brian said. Smiling at me he said, "I want to watch her get it."

"I hear you. Did you know about our Butt Blistering Bargain?" the clerk said.

"No, what's that?" Brian said.

"Spend $100, and you get a free temporary branding, on the site of your choice. You're spending $100 on her photo package, so the branding is free."

Brian looked at me and smiled. "Don't get much cheaper than free," he laughed, clearly enjoying the shocked look on my face. I was about to say something, but Brian winked at me, signaling that he was just having fun, and playing into my submissive fantasies.

"So where would you like her branded?" the little chippy behind the desk, her fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Definitely on her butt," my husband replied. I squirmed as Brian reached my ass, causing the watching cop to laugh, and Bonkers to wag his tail.

"Good choice," the man waiting with his son observed.

"Yeah, she has a sweet little ass," his son agreed.

"Look who's squeezing her thighs together at the thought of getting her butt branded," my husband teased. "Getting you all hot and bothered, are we, slave girl?"

Much to my embarrassment, he was right. I was increasingly damp down there. "If we sign up now, we don't have to do this, right? What about anesthesia?" I asked hopefully.

"Your husband has authority until you're released, so the final decision is his. No drugs. Not even aspirin. It's against corporate policy."

Isabella turned to Brian. "But if you ask, they'll let her hump the branding iron handle, to relax her, and put a rubber dick in her mouth, so she doesn't bite off her tongue."

"Seems fair," Brian said, shrugging it off.

Having heard enough, I turned on Brian. "Fuck you, Brian, and fuck your Southern redneck ass if you think... SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK,"

My voice turned into comical squeaks as Isabella explained. "I used the collar to devoice her. You can use the remote to turn it back on, if you want."

"Naw," my husband said. "I'm good."

"So what sort of brand do you want?"

"What would you recommend for a Godless foreign feminist liberal who tells her God fearing Republican veteran husband to fuck off?" Brian teased.

"Turn her around, so I can see her butt again," Isabella said.

Brian used the hook in my collar to turn me around. Leaning over the counter, Isabella surveyed the canvas before her thoughtfully.
"We have a map of Florida, with MAGA written on the panhandle, a little R in the center of the state. It's sort of a big brand, but she has a big ass."

"That she does," the man standing at the end-cap agreed.

Brian laughed. "Brand her ass MAGA red!" he chortled, knowing how much it would irritate me. I squeaked, squeaked in protest, causing everyone around me to laugh.

"Go ahead and try and get out of those zip ties, girl," the cop said. "Make those ta-ta's bounce."

"It's all in the system," the chirpy clerks said. “They'll pull the branding iron out of inventory and have it hot and ready. Go back through the front door, take a right, and walk around back, to receiving. They’ll scan her in, and get started with her registration. After that, they'll smoke that cute little ass of hers. It's a popular brand, and might increase her price, if you decide to put her on the block.”

I glared daggers at Isabella the intern, always trying for the upsell. Brian nodded and took his sunglasses out of his pocket, and gave me a little wink, once again signaling that we were just playing.

I felt myself go flush as I rubbed my thighs together. The thought of getting the most humiliating butt brand imaginable was turning me on, but it also terrified me, and I was horrified that it was all programmed in the system. What if something went wrong? What if Isabella 'forgot', and it wasn't temporary. The thought that somewhere a red-hot MAGA iron was waiting, waiting, waiting for my defenseless ass filled me with dread, even as it made the slave honey flow. Genuinely fearful, I tried to pull away as Brian used my leash to lead me out the door, causing a disapproving Bonkers to BARK as I "squeaked" pathetically.

"Let's GO," Brian said, punctuating his command with another sharp spank across my naked ass.

SQUEAK! Everyone laughed. I staggered out the front door, slave naked, my clothes bagged and basketed. Unlike Brian, I had no sunglasses, and had to close my eyes tight as I was blinded by the blazingly bright Florida sun.
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Re: My Wife's Hospitality, Part Four, by Joe Doe

Post by lovethissite »

One step closer to gaining a slave. Love it. Hope you finish this story. Thank you.
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