The Substitute Pt. 01

[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 involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory for any sexual interaction.)

(if you find the basic premise of a wife doing this for her husband, I suggest you check out the following:
https://www-timesnownews-com.cdn.amppro ... e-93519019 )

(Gwen Murray’s viewpoint)

“No, Don. You know my tushie is off limits—that would hurt!”

My husband sighed, mumbled “Sorry,” and rolled over to sleep.

I felt bad about turning him down again—heaven knows I wanted to put the fire back into our love life, but the idea of his humongous dick stretching my delicate rear end, however nice it might be as a fantasy, seemed to promise major pain; I just couldn’t face it (or rather, turn face down so he could try me out!)

Sigh. I guess lots of marriages experience dry spells like this, but OUR dry spell had been going on for well over a decade. When Don and I first found each other in college and then married, we went at it like rabbits for four years, pausing only for about six months during the last months of my pregnancy and the first few months after Don, Jr., was born. I really LOVED our times together, not only when he pinned me down and pounded my brains out, but also when he asked me to swallow his love club—I hadn’t done that in years, but even now I remember how great it felt when he gradually inflated inside my mouth while I knelt, gazing upwards at his smiling face. And swallowing his cum—or sometimes letting him paint my face with it—gave me an especially dirty thrill. Somehow, the fact that it was HIS ejaculate made my swallowing a gift of love, regardless of the horrible taste.

But that was a long time ago. The combination of my second pregnancy (Phyllis, the cutest baby and now one of the cutest young women in the world) and the challenges of raising two kids pretty much doused the rest of our love life. Now, perhaps once a week, we’d go through a perfunctory lovemaking session where Don kissed and hugged me, fondled my boobs a few times, and then rolled between my legs, pushed them apart, and thrust into me; I still climaxed occasionally, but love making had turned into a five minute ritual of him just unloading into me before he went to sleep after which I quietly got myself off. I knew Don missed our old intimacy as much as I did, which is why he kept trying to nudge me into something different like anal sex, but it just wasn’t happening. We still loved each other and got along great, but the spark was gone. And it would take a LOT of lust for me to let him put that monster up my back passage.

We both looked pretty good for a couple of 40-some-year-olds with two kids in college. I had lost the baby weight and recovered my form after Phyllis was born—in fact, two children had given me breasts that were more D cup than C. I worked out regularly to keep my aging body as young and flexible as possible.

I had long since returned to teaching community college, where I could tell by the stares from young men—not to mention their half-concealed boners—that they found me a very attractive MILF. Brown eyes and light brown shoulder-length hair, tanned legs and face, tight rear end—I may have been middle aged, but I knew that Don AND my college students still enjoyed looking at (and maybe fantasizing about?) me. Now OUR kids were both college students, and empty nest emotions just made me feel old and discarded.

Fortunately, both Donny and Phil had partial scholarships to pay for college, and Don’s a successful oil executive in Dallas. (By the time that these events occurred, the kids rarely came home, spending their summers in various jobs or internships.) To simplify Don’s task in paying the rest of their educational costs, three years earlier I had cut up all my credit cards linked to him. Instead, I applied for and got a credit card based on my own teacher’s salary, meager though it was. Since the advent of the 34th Amendment, all banks, or at least all of them here in the South, required that the applicant pledge him/herself as the ultimate form of collateral, but I had enough saved that I saw no reason to worry about the bank foreclosing on my middle-aged body. Truth to tell, when I typed in my slave grade (Choice Plus) and Slave Identification Number, both of which were two decades old, I got a little thrill at the unlikely prospect that—at my advanced age—I might become enslaved for debt, but after that I almost forgot about it. OK—once in a while I fantasized about being a sex slave, but so do most women, right? My fantasy owner always bore a remarkable resemblance to my husband, so it wasn’t as if I was contemplating sex with another guy . . .

*****

Those fantasies probably contributed to the weird idea that grew in my head until I almost HAD to act upon it. Given that my husband wanted to have sex in ways that were painful and demeaning to a free woman like me, why not buy him a young female slave who could satisfy those lusts, taking the mental pressure off both Don and me? Besides which, on his rare visits home Donny Jr. might enjoy having such a slave around—I loved him dearly, but he was a bit of a nerd who (as far as I could tell) had never bedded a woman, so giving him access to a sex slave could be good for both his self-confidence and his technique. Hell, if the slave’s tongue was any good, Phyllis and I might (in private) ride her face for our own pleasure. But, my main purpose, however twisted it may sound, was to give my darling husband what he seemed to want in terms of physical sex—somehow, I thought this would make him happier and remove the sexual disagreements between us. I know, I know, that sounds weird, but I meant it for the best. Why else would I contemplate giving my husband a younger model to play with?

Buying a young, attractive slave was a considerable investment, but I had over $35,000 in my savings account, mostly from my teaching salary. Don had always insisted that MY money be used as I saw fit, and I couldn’t think of any more fitting use then to buy my husband a sex toy for his birthday!
I didn’t know how to purchase a suitable slave, and besides I anticipated that just entering a major slave market would bring back some of the erotic impulses I had felt so many years ago when I was initially graded myself. Fortunately, Jim, one of my best students in Dallas College Brookhaven, was a wrangler at the Longhorn Slave Market; when I hesitantly asked him, he saw nothing unusual about his MILF prof (he was one of those who discretely stared at me) buying a slave, so he told me how to register as a buyer and gain entry to the public display/grading of slaves prior to auctions.

That’s how I found myself at the Longhorn, along with dozens of 18- to 22-year old spectators, gawking at naked, collared, defenseless young women secured spread-eagle onto horizontal metal racks. The young visitors, both male and female, were having fun by fondling and examining these poor, terrified young slaves while discussing in graphic detail how those slaves might provide sexual service; anticipating my own (sympathetic) reaction to this display, I had taken a valium to chill out, but my mind kept churning with fantasies of being a helpless slave slut in that same exposed position.
I had taken the trouble to find old photographs of myself as a young, bikini-clad college student at about the age when I had met my husband—call it vanity or narcissism, but I set out to find a younger version of myself to service Don in ways I was afraid to do, hoping illogically that slaking his lusts inside a young bimbo would somehow make him more interested in gentler intimacy with the original version.

I found her when the third group of slaves and wannabe slaves (those appearing just to get a slave grade, while remaining legally free) were put on display. Although the young woman wasn’t my exact double, she could easily have been my daughter (a thought that gave me pause until I remembered that my actual daughter had her father’s hair and eyes, not mine.) Looking up her SIN in the market records, I found that this terrified 22-year-old was just about ideal for my purposes—Angelica, as her national registry information indicated, had been enslaved for a five-year period to pay off a personal debt of $25,000. That didn’t mean that her sale price was $25,000, just that her new owner wouldn’t accept a bid for much less than that, plus the 10 percent fee the market charged.

In fact, of course, a cute (Choice) young woman like Angelica was worth AT LEAST that much serving in a slave brothel. Perhaps my only advantage in bidding on her was that she was petrified with fear, making her stiff and less-than-sexy when she appeared on the block. Still, it took almost everything I had saved--$32,800—to make the winning bid. I cringed at the thought of her suffering but decided to go the extra mile and have the slave market brand her with the outline of a longhorn skull pressed diagonally across her left buttock, after which the letter “C” (for choice) was centered over the skull. I didn’t know whether my husband was one of those guys who enjoys the thought of branded human livestock, but I wanted to give him every opportunity to fall in lust with his new toy, regarding her as livestock rather than the equal of his wife. (I had timed my purchase for a period when he was out of town for a week, giving Angelica time to heel before he first met her.)

Once the slave had been branded, then treated with spray-on dressings and pain killers, I took her home—I couldn’t imagine how painful it would be for her to kneel, with her tushie on fire, in a slave shipping container. Instead, I led her out of the Long Horn on a leash, then told her to lie face down across the back seat, her head on a pillow. The poor girl was obviously in shock from the triple whammy of enslavement, naked auction, and branding, so she was very docile and cooperative throughout, saying nothing except “Yes, Mistress” and, when I had offered her a bottle of water, “Thank you, Mistress.” Once she was as comfortable as possible lying inside my car, I re-cuffed her hands behind her, assured her that things would get better, and drove her home. There, I gave her real food instead of slave kibble, allowing her to eat while standing up at the kitchen counter before I let her use the toilet and then locked her into a cage with a large mattress on the floor. (when we bought the house 20 years earlier, like all newer Texas houses it came with a slave cage built into the back corner of the garage, but we’d never used it before and kept it locked so that small children wouldn’t play.)

The next morning after breakfast, I changed the dressing on Angelica’s brand, and couldn’t help sucking my breath in sharply when I saw the angry red wound. Even though it was a common part of the slavery process that subjugated a former human being like nothing else could, I blamed myself for that brand, imagining how I would feel if one of MY children had to undergo this. Suddenly, slavery seemed all too real and sordid. Yet, Angelica never complained or mentioned it, although she moved rather stiffly at times and was thankful every time I gave her ibuprofen. On the following day, I took her to a slave medicine clinic to ensure she was healing well; the grateful look on her face was all the thanks I needed.

For the remainder of the week while Don was on his business trip, I tried to prepare our new possession for her service to my husband. She wasn’t a virgin but was almost as apprehensive about anal sex as was I, so I had her follow a daily regimen of an enema following by several hours of wearing progressively-larger butt plugs, always well lubricated, to prepare her. (I could have used the same process to stretch MY starfish, but I had spent a lot of money for her to perform that painful service as my substitute.) I also tried to give her a regular schedule of gentle block moves/Slave Yoga (avoiding those that would stress her butt), plus light cleaning, laundry, and cooking.

Angelica remained silent and submissive at all times. Only when I prodded her with questions did she describe her pre-slave life in an orphanage. She had finished high school and the first semester of community college (NOT, I might add, at Brookhaven, where I taught) before debt led to her foreclosure and indenture. She made no complaint, however, and appeared to be relieved that she had ended up as a family servant rather than chained to a bed and gang-banged in a slave brothel or bound on her knees sucking cock 14 hours a day in a glory hole. Up until she mentioned these possibilities in detail, I had never really imagined the truly demeaning uses to which slaves—especially female slaves—were put. My rosy erotic fantasies of serving a single, kind master went up in smoke, and I quickly realized that, far from being horrified by her new “job,” Angelica appeared to be determined to provide the best possible service to her new owners both inside the bedroom and out, if only to avoid the alternatives.

*****

Whenever I talked on the phone with my husband—and he called intermittently when he was away—I mentioned the “surprise” that I had waiting for him without being specific. He probably thought I would greet him dressed in sexy lingerie. Instead, however, I had his new present eat dinner early, shower and enema again, lubricate her tushie, and then lie on her back on our bed, her hands tied loosely to the headboard. (By that time her brand had largely healed.) When Don came home, I offered him a quick dinner and then urged him to go into the bedroom and “play with his new present.” Boy, did they play! I didn’t watch, of course, but the sounds coming out of that room would have made an excellent soundtrack for a porno film. In between rhythmic pounding noises, both of them moaned and groaned. At one point, I distinctly heard the new slave begging him to “Please ream my ass, Master, harder, PLEASE!” OK, I had told her what I expected her to do for my husband, but she was either a world-class actress or genuinely thrilled by the sensation of a stranger’s huge (by my standards, anyway) shaft stretching her sphincter. I certainly had NO desire to be “butt-fucked” to use the crude male terminology. On the other hand, I couldn’t help but remember the many times, years earlier, when I had pleaded with my husband to pound me harder in missionary sex . . .

Several hours later, he staggered out of the bedroom to kiss me and thank me profusely for his present—but his middle-aged dick was obviously worn out for the moment, at least. While he took a shower, I released Angelica from the bed and helped her into a bath in our second bathroom. She was covered in sweat and other bodily fluids but grinning, relieved that the worst was over and finding she had really enjoyed it. Now I knew what men mean when they describe a woman as having her “brains fucked out”—another fond memory of my youth. I quickly changed the sheets and threw the soiled ones into the laundry.

When Dan emerged from the shower, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, he was smiling a mile wide and profuse in his gratitude for my gift, remarking, “that felt almost as if I were making love to you, darling, back when we first met.” I handed him the Agriculture Department certificate of slave ownership, which I had made out in his name because it was his present. In retrospect, I suppose I should have kept ownership in my name. But in a loving marriage, I couldn’t realistically dispose of his present without his permission, so why risk future friction?

At least, when I asked if he wanted to sleep with his new toy, he made the right choice and selected me for his bedmate; after I gave Angelica a snack and helped her to bed in her cage, he was very loving as he cuddled and kissed me. No, we didn’t have sex—a middle-aged guy can only get it up so often, but we were feeling much closer to each other than we had in years, murmuring endearments.

I encouraged my husband to make full use of his new pet; I had thought he would focus on anal sex—and by the sounds of it they did that several times each week—but soon it was not unusual for me to see him watching TV with Angelica kneeling between his legs. There, she eagerly swallowed his substantial sword until he mashed her face against his groin and almost choked her with his semen. Since every load he gave her was one less he had for me, I soon learned to use her oral talents for my own purposes, getting off several times a week. The kids came home from college briefly during a holiday about this time. Based on the sounds coming from their bedrooms (and Angelica’s visible exhaustion after they left) they, too, got full use of the family slut.
Thereafter, Don bought her a few (tight, revealing) clothes and took her along on several business trips as his “personal assistant”—and his colleagues, like me, were in no doubt of what kind of personal services she provided him every night in the hotel room.

To be honest, though, I had to consciously resist being cruel to her. I couldn’t help being jealous of her not only because of the way she used up my husband’s attention and erections, but also because of the joy and pleasure she so obviously experienced. I knew that was hypocritical—I had bought her to provide my husband with sexual pleasures that I was afraid to give him myself, and now I envied her (and him) those pleasures. Dumb, huh?
After a month of this, I began to fantasize about being in her situation, a bimbo slave legally obligated to offer my entire body to my masterful husband (read: husband/master) for use whenever and however he chose. In fact, on the rare occasions when her birth control permitted her to have a period, I relegated her to the cage in the garage and instead offered myself, as “Slut Gwen,” wearing a training collar so that I and my husband could pretend that I was just another slave whore to entertain him. We—or at least I—enjoyed that little game, but it was clear that Don had too much love and respect for me to use me in the same no-holes-barred manner that he employed with Angelica. He never, for example, even suggested any anal sex and only expected me to slurp on his harpoon for a minute or two before he moved me gently onto the bed and gave me a long, loving screw, usually on my back or my knees and elbows. It was fun, yes, but we both knew this role playing didn’t really equate to the casual dominance and exploitation that he imposed on his favorite new ”birthday present.”

*****

I confided most of my concerns, including some of my slave fantasies, to my best friend and fellow community college instructor, Kat (Katherine) Henderson. Kat was the kind of full-bodied, energetic blond who enjoyed life to the fullest and made no secret of her own hot-and-heavy love affairs with various men. In her late 30s, she was single and still looking. The only guys she would NOT bed were her students, because we both respected the ethical restrictions against sex with subordinates (Ironic, isn’t it, that in a world were men regularly harass and exploit their female underlings, female teachers are doubly reluctant not to have sex with the young studs they teach, even when those studs clearly lust after them? And if we HAD succumbed to the temptation for sex with young, healthy adult males, we would have been condemned not only for using our positions but also for being “sluts.”)

Kat, bless her, did not criticize me for what, in retrospect, was the dumb move of buying my husband a younger sex surrogate. Instead, she encouraged me to pour out my concerns and even my fantasies to her. When I finished, she thought for a minute.

“OK, Gwen. What I hear you saying is that you’d like to act out your fantasies, submitting to your husband as a pseudo, temporary sex slave. Trouble is, not only DON’T you want to be a real slave (Duh!), but you feel you can’t compete with a slut 20 years younger than you for whom being his eager servant is the best possible outcome to her current life. Is that about it?”

I reluctantly agreed. We both thought for a minute, and then her mischievous grin re-asserted itself. “I can think of one thing you can do—quite legally—to act out your fantasies AND practice being a hot slave momma.” My libido overcame my sense of propriety and I quickly demanded to know what she was talking about.

“We'll sign up for classes at the Ananke Academy of Female Arts. I’ve always been curious about that place, and this sounds like a good excuse to test it out.”

I couldn’t pretend to be completely ignorant of the Ananke Academy, which frequently appeared on local TV infomercials, but Kat called up the website and explain it all to my naïve ears. Essentially, the string of workshops throughout the Dallas-Fort Worth area offered a series of classes, ranging from the usual (fully clothed) “Slave Yoga” that young matrons took as a combination of exercise and teasing, up to full scale block position classes and even classes on how to service men sexually and accept corporal punishment from a dominant. In the advanced classes, qualified slave wranglers drilled (legally free but temporarily collared and naked) women in the lewdest forms of exercise, learning to flaunt themselves and repeat the nastiest come-ons (“Master, Please ram your monster cock into all my horny holes”) imaginable. The purpose of all this, besides exercising the sexual imagination of the participants, was to make the women more sensuous for their mates and better prepared for slave grading or even Free In Name Only contracts.

Kat argued that we should both take the beginning (clothed) Slave Yoga class to learn how to move and think like slave sluts.

So we tried several sessions of that class over the next week. I had to admit that it was both good exercise and great fun, with the slave wrangler talking contemptuously to us as if we were a couple of bimbo slaves, all while his eyes undressed us, imagining us naked and at his mercy. THAT gave me a shiver and helped improve how I walked and acted, but it still wasn’t enough to satisfy my itch to have my husband treat me as his “love slave.”

As we were relaxing after the third session, Kat looked at me. “OK, sweetie, I can see you’ve got it bad, you really want to be your husband’s bed-warming slut, right?” She knew me too well, so I had to agree, flushing crimson.

“Only one solution, Gwen—I’ll hold the key to your clothes.” I looked startled, so she continued. “You know what I mean, girl. we’ll sign up for the intermediate class, the one that includes real slave sluts along with other free women, some wearing clothes and some not. The difference is, you’re gonna leave your clothes—ALL your clothes—in a locker while I hold the key so you’re dressed just like all the livestock in the class, wearing nothing but a collar while you obey your training master. IF you’re an obedient whore and ask nicely, I’ll give you the key to reclaim your clothes afterwards. How does that sound?”

It sounded dangerous, humiliating, and thrilling, especially the risk of being mistaken for an actual slave; the reality was even more erotic than my imagination. Walked slave naked out of the locker room to the exercise room and participating in that intermediate class wearing only a training collar left me dripping between the thighs. I was in public, mixed in a group of free women but as naked and defenseless as the slaves around us. The slave wrangler for this class, Marcus, singled me out for particular attention, demanding that I kneel in front of him, mouth open and hands behind my neck, whenever we were resting. If he had told me to suck his dick or allow him to plow me in front of all those women, I would have obeyed without hesitation, but fortunately or unfortunately he didn’t. After I showered with the other naked, collared women to get the slave stink off me, Kat made me kneel in front of HER in the locker room, addressing her as Mistress and begging for my clothing. The real slaves giggled and remarked that I clearly was born to the collar. As we exited the facility after she relented and let me dress, we passed the slave wrangler who, while looking directly at me, made a comment about “Slave girls pretending to be free women.” What a rush! Short of actual slavery, that was about as realistic an experience as I could imagine.

I was still in a submissive mindset when we left the Ananke Academy and walked out to Kat’s car. My car was in the shop for extensive repairs, so I was still in effect dependent on/submissive to my best friend, waiting quietly for her to unlock the vehicle and allow me to enter. When we climbed into her car, she started giggling, and eventually broke into a full belly laugh that irritated me, thinking she was still enjoying my slave girl humiliation of a few minutes earlier. When I finally got irritated enough to ask her to cut it out, however, Kat tried to stop laughing and reassured me—

“No, no, sweetie, I wasn’t laughing at you. Well, maybe I was, but only because I was imagining how we should attend ANOTHER class of slave yoga. If you REALLY wanted to get the feel of being a slave, you ought to come in my car again, only when we got here, we’d go through the whole drill as if you were going to a slave market. You know, I’d have you climb out of the car and strip, back hands to be cuffed, and kneel to be collared out here in the parking lot, then I’d walk you into the class as a slave on my leash, and after class we’d reverse the process, not allowing you to dress again until we got back out to the car so you could walk both ways as a naked, collared sex toy. You’d love it.”

I vehemently denied her statement, and I was certainly blushing, but I could almost imagine how it would feel to be a leashed and cuffed slave in public. I told myself fiercely that I had to get my submissive fantasies under control before I did something truly stupid such as what Kat had just suggested.
That night, Kat came over to our house. With Angelica on her knees but giggling softly and grinning like a Cheshire cat, my best friend told my husband in loving detail how slutty his wife was, advising Dan to collar me permanently. I was blushing the entire time.

His only response was an off-handed “perhaps I should.” He kept a straight face in front of my friend and our slave, yet I could tell by the look in his eyes that he not only enjoyed the idea of my becoming a real slave but thought I would enjoy it too. Trouble was, he was right!

*****

I mentioned that my car needed major repairs, and that turned out to be the start of even greater woes. The final bill was over $3600 for tires, brakes, calipers, etc. etc. If that sounds like a lot, imagine how difficult it would have been for me to buy a new car—most of my husband’s available income and credit was tied up in paying the mortgage and two sets of college bills, so I couldn’t reasonably ask him to help me finance another car.

I know I told you that I taught community college courses at Dallas College Brookhaven campus, but I had no tenure or guarantee of employment, which is why I’d have trouble financing a new set of wheels. Ordinarily, I would have been able to pay either for the repairs and for a good used car using my accumulated savings, but the expense of buying Angelica had left me very tight on money. I used most of my remaining savings to meet the next credit card bill, knowing that I usually got hired to teach one or two introductory courses in history or poli sci every semester, which should have righted my financial woes in a few months.

. . . and then I got a letter from the dean of Brookhaven, regretting that his budget had been cut, so he did not anticipate being able to hire me for the approaching semester and wasn’t sure about the following term. Crap, now I really was in trouble. I swallowed my pride and explained the situation to my husband. He was able to give me enough money to meet my monthly minimum payment, plus another $100 towards the balance I owed, but that was about all he could spare.

Then, when the next monthly credit card bill arrived, Don (with Angelica) was out of town for an extended business trip, and I was left holding the bag. I couldn’t even get him to respond to my frantic phone calls, e-mails, and text messages. The moment I defaulted on my $2000-plus credit card bill, my fantasies of enslavement would become reality, like it or not.

After a few days of worrying, I finally decided to take the plunge and see the bank about my credit card loan, hoping that complete honesty would convince them to trust me for another few months as the most secure means of gaining repayment. I put on my best suit to appear confident and affluent, which was far from what I was feeling. By appointment, I saw Mr. Sauron, the credit card manager at the bank. I assured him that I was good for the money but would not be able to even make the minimum payment that month. He frowned, held up one finger as a symbol to wait, and then made a quick phone call whose purpose I couldn’t understand. As I continued to argue my case, I became aware that an armed security guard was standing behind and to one side of my chair.

The conversation quickly went downhill. Sauron asked for my driver’s license, then held onto it. A secretary brought my original application for the credit card, and he compared the signature on it to that on my license, then asked me to verify that I had, in fact, pledged myself as “chattel” (I noticed he avoided the word “slave”) if I defaulted on any debt. I was terrified but did my best to appear calm.
Just then, as if in answer to my prayers, my phone rang—it was Don! I began to pour out my troubles to him, but he seemed to know all about them. His voice was a reassuring combination of love and control.

“Darling girl, calm down, everything will be all right. I love you and you’re safe.”

“But--,” I began. He gently but firmly cut me off.

“Don’t worry, Gwen, I’ve got you. Let me speak to Mr. Sauron, please.” How did he know the guy’s name, I wondered? Oh, well, no choice. I handed my phone to the bank official, and they had a three-minute conversation, consisting mostly of Sauron agreeing with what my husband said while clicking on his computer and reading whatever documents he called up. Sauron’s grave, worried expression gave way to a tiny smile. When the conversation was over, he handed the phone back to me, saying, “Your husband wants to say something to you.”

“OK, sweetheart: Here’s the deal,” Don resumed in the same reassuring tones. “You’re about to live out all your fantasies and still be ultimately safe. I anticipated something like this last month, so I set up a separate line of credit with the bank, using our house slave as collateral, to purchase you if the bank decided you had defaulted on the credit card. Yes, you’re going to be a slave for at least three years, but you’re gonna be MY slave, which is what you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it?”

Gulp. “Yes, Master,” I replied, softly. Strange how quickly I had slipped into a submissive mind set.

He chuckled in the deep tone I had often heard him use when we were being intimate. “That’s right, Darling slut, I’m your new owner, you’re my newest slave whore, and there’s a nice cage waiting for you in the garage as you well know. Now, to be fair to the bank about the debt you’re paying off with that body, once you’re registered as a slave, you’ll be shipped to a slave market for another grading to establish your value—that way, the bank gets to charge me the true market value for your cute little slave ass, plus processing and training fees.” [“Training fees?” I wondered silently, but he resumed talking.]

“From there, you’ll go to a training school because I want to ensure that my newest piece of livestock is fully qualified to provide sexual services—you wouldn’t want Angelica to outshine you about being a sex slave, would you? Don’t worry, eventually you’re coming back to home—MY home, that is, since slaves have no property. So, you behave yourself and obey orders like a good little slave; if you don’t, I may have to spank you when I see you a few weeks from now. Understand, girl? Make me proud to own your sexy butt, and if you’re good enough you may get to sleep with your master most nights for the rest of your indenture. Mess up, and you will not only get spanked but you’ll spend the nights in the cold garage while Angelica shares the nice warm bed with me. Even if that happens, however, never forget that I love you, slave.”

I was stressed out and daunted by the prospect of three or more years in a collar, but still hopeful that, despite the humiliating circumstances, that collar promised to rejuvenate my marriage, which is why I got into this crazy situation to begin with.

The only correct response to his instructions was one of the cleaner slave mantras I had learned, which I now repeated with as much passion as I could express: “I live to serve you, Master.”

“Don’t forget it, sweetheart. I love you.” And he hung up.

I knew that Sauron had heard my submissive replies; With much trepidation, I looked at him, waiting for the next move. It didn’t take long.

“Hand me your phone and your pocket-book,” he said with a firm tone of command. “Don’t worry, I’ll return all your property—including your clothes—to your new owner when he returns to town.” My heart sank, because that matter-of-fact sentence confirmed, as if I needed any confirmation, that I was about to be stripped naked. Seeing no alternative, I quietly handed him my phone and bag.

“Stand up.” He demanded, and I hurried to obey. Looking at the security guard, he said “I don’t think she’ll give us any trouble—cuff her hands in front of her. She might as well be comfortable for the drive.”

He made a quick phone call, obviously arranging an appointment for me, and then the two men walked me out of the building. I already felt humiliated and demeaned, but told myself that at least, SO FAR, I still had my clothes on! In the bank parking lot, Sauron had me tell him which car was mine, after which the three of us climbed into a nondescript sedan with the bank’s name on the side. As they drove me to an unknown destination, I felt as if I were a criminal, sitting in the back seat in handcuffs being transported to another location. That was pretty close to the truth, but at least I didn’t have to ride with hands behind my back—be thankful for small favors, I told myself.

A few minutes later, we parked downtown and entered a tall government office building on North Congress. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but the two men had obviously done this before. We rode up to the 8th floor on the elevator; when we got off, I saw a large sign that indicated this floor was part of the Texas Department of Agriculture. Even I knew what THAT meant—because slaves were legally another form of livestock, not people with civil rights, the Agriculture Department registered and administered all slaves in the state. That’s when it really sank home to me that I was about to join Angelica in the ranks of collared sex objects!

The pace of events really sped up at that point. I walked down a corridor between office cubicles; several people clearly saw my handcuffs but had no reaction except to stare at my breasts! Three minutes later, I found myself in the cheaply-furnished corner office of a Mr. Simmons, the regional director of the Agriculture Department’s “human livestock” division.

Sauron, whom I told myself I’d better start thinking of as “Master” Sauron, explained the situation to Master Simmons, producing the credit contract (which included pledging my body as collateral), my driver’s license, and a print-out of my large and almost-overdue card balance. The whole procedure was so matter-of-fact that I had to assume both of these men had conducted similar transactions, probably quite frequently.

After the guard removed my handcuffs, Master Simmons had me sit down at a table, then summoned an older lady from the outer office, asking her to copy the pile of documents and then return to act as a witness. Again, it was evident that they went through similar procedures almost every day. When she returned, the state official turned on a camera pointed at me, and in a bored voice announced the date and location of this film, naming himself, the other woman, the bank official, and me, and displaying my license to verify my identity.

He briefly summarized the nature of my indebtedness, concluded with a simple statement that the bank contended I was about to forfeit my security (including my freedom!) for failure to repay a loan, and that I had already been purchased, for a period not to exceed four years, by a “Mister Donald H. Murray.” My new owner had posted another “rightless former citizen” (Angelica) as surety for HIS loan, “the value of which loan shall be determined by independent evaluation at Longhorn Slave Market, an independent slave business, including both the market value of the chattel in question plus ten percent additional commission for the Longhorn and another $3000 for subsequent training of the chattel formerly known as Gwen Aaron Murray.” That all sounded like a LOT more than the $2,000-plus that I actually owed on the credit card—capitalism at its finest!

The only lines I got to say on camera, when prompted by Master Simmons, was to agree that, to the best of my understanding, his statement of fact was accurate, and my freedom and body had been forfeited to the LMNO Savings and Loan Company, which in turn had sold me to “Mister Donald H. Murray, a free citizen of the state of Texas” for a period of three to five years.

Shivering with fear, I signed a certificate to this effect, produced by Master Simmons and witnessed by the bank official and the other woman.
I dreaded what was to come but reminded myself that my husband/owner had directed me to “obey orders like a good little slave.” Master/Mister Sauron announced that he was acting as my temporary master “as designated by the new owner,” after which he ordered me to stand. I looked fearfully at him, but the inevitable blow fell quickly:

“Strip, slut” he said with no emotion in his voice. I knew better than to hesitate, but immediately kicked off my (expensive) shoes and began to rapidly unbutton, unzip, and divest myself of the high-quality suit I had so carefully chosen that morning. I yanked my panties and nylons down to my ankles, then bent over, displaying everything I owned, to remove them. I didn’t want to be accused of delay, so as rapidly as possible I folded my beautiful clothing into a pile and offered it to Sauron, who casually stuffed it into the plastic bag that already contained my cell phone, handbag, and all of my (now voided) identity documents. He even insisted that I hand over my engagement ring and wedding band.

I thanked heaven for Kat, whose suggestion that we take all those slave yoga classes had taught me how I needed to act, including the Present position for a slave awaiting instructions. I faced the bank official, spread my feet slightly more than shoulder length apart, and interlocked my fingers behind my neck, which naturally lifted my almost-D-cup breasts upwards and caused them to jut out towards the two men who controlled my body and my fate. I couldn’t help noticing that my nipples were painfully erect and my thighs were damp—I might be terrified of the reality I faced, but my submissive fantasies still ruled my libido, making me the original brainless, horny slave bitch.

For a long minute or perhaps 90 seconds, these two men in suits, plus the security guard and even the older female witness, seemed to study every curve of my still-fit body. I had played at being a naked slave in the advanced class at Mistress Edmundson’s, but now I felt the full force of a helpless, rightless chattel without a stitch of clothing to my name, being calmly assessed by a group of free citizens. The only thought that sustained me as a quailed before them with the fact that, while they could use and demean me in almost any way they chose, ultimately that had to deliver me unharmed to my loving former husband. That made me feel safer but no less humiliated.

Finally, Master Sauron gave me the command I had been waiting for: “Collar.” Once again, my training classes saved me—in a Pavlovian reaction, I immediately dropped to my knees, spreading them wide, touched my hip with one hand while the other gathered up my hair and held it out and back from my neck, facilitating the installation of a cheap, tight, leather collar. I had worn a training collar several times, but this time I was acutely conscious of the legal finality of my new status—or rather, lack of any status.

In slave yoga drills, the next commands after collaring were almost always “Stand, back-hands” to allow the authority figure to cuff the newest piece of livestock (or should that be piece of ass?). But I had forgotten one step that, according to urban legend, almost always followed the moment of enslavement. The moment Master Sauron gave the next command, my heart sank and my sex-drive went through the roof:

“Crawl around that desk to Master Simmons.” You guessed it, folks, time for the traditional oral “tip” that a newly-enslaved person performs to “thank” the judge or other official who had deprived him/her of clothing and rights. In seconds, I was again on my knees, naked in abject submission before the Agriculture official who was unzipping his trousers in preparation for the ultimate perk of his office.

Calmly, he ordered “Suck dick, slut.”

I know that this story has made me sound like the ultimate, oversexed bimbo, and in my mind that was probably true. The truth of the matter was that I had only fellated three guys in my life—soon after turning age 18, when I was exploring my sexuality, I had given blowjobs—probably poor ones because of my inexperience—to two freshmen dates in college. Plus, as I’ve already mentioned, I enjoyed performing oral sex many times on my husband, who at least claimed that my technique improved rapidly. Still, few guys were likely to criticize a free blowjob. Now, however, I had to service a stranger who undoubtedly got his cock sucked several times a day, so he had much greater experience to compare and find fault with my performance.

Moreover, it had been decades since the last time I licked a dick, and Mr. Simmons had a rather large one that made me choke. I focused on two things to get him off quickly—using my lips and tongue on his shaft while looking soulfully into his eyes as if this was the greatest experience of my life, something I had learned turns most guys on. In minutes, the combination of physical and psychological action was rewarded with a rapidly-expanding shaft, encouraging me to redouble my efforts in hopes that my first slave blowjob would soon be over.

Thank heavens—he clutched my head and unloaded several blasts of sperm down my throat. I thought to myself that imagining being a slave was fun and role-playing as one with both my husband and in classes was even more thrilling, but the reality of being a slave SUCKED. Literally.

(To be continued)

[Belinda]

Your writing skills are amazing. You have created a true gift for us older gals with lifelong feelings of true slavery. A fantasy come true so to speak. Thank you so much kind sir.

[jeepster]

Awesome start! The next chapter should really be interesting! Nicely done!

[openmouth-tongueflat]

I really love your description of Gwen and a great reiteration that slavery is just a couple bills away in a world like that. Middle aged women getting taken for debt is sooo intriguing. And on that note, despite Don's assurances, I love the seeds of jealously you've planted between Gwen and Angelica. Really looking forward to how this unfolds!

[imreadonly2]

This is a wonderful story! I love the novel way the heroine brings it on herself by bringing a slave girl into the house, then envying her, as all girls with slave heat do. The description of her slave yoga class is wonderful, too, and very suspenseful. It's a novel expansion of the universe, well told, and I'll be anxious to see how she is treated at home, and if the neighbors will be aware of her new status (or if she will be available to them, to pay off debts).

"Wow, this block party sure is better with a naked slave girl at it."

"I look forward to you mowing the lawn every week, since you do it slave naked."

"Hey, Don, my son Steve is having a graduation party with his friends on Sunday. Would you mind if I borrowed Gwen for a few hours?"

I know the slave yoga class will have a different feel with Kat, now that she's a real slave. I can hardly wait for part 2, which is awesome, and the mark of a great story!

[jeepster]

Also wondering if she will have to service her friend! She already had her kneeling naked so not a huge step!

[Carl Bradford]

OK, spoiler alerts: contrary to appearances her husband really loves Gwen and will try to conceal her fate from friends and family EXCEPT for Kat, who gets custody whenever Daddy is out of town. But most of that will be in Part 03.

Carl