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Service Animal Pt. 02

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Carl Bradford
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Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by 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.)

[Previously, or “How the hell did I get myself into this mess?” College student Debbie McAdams had resisted her attraction to her older, Army veteran roommate, Doug Sherman. But she became fascinated by a new innovation, based on the restoration of human slavery in the South. Officials had begun to use slaves as intelligent, long-lived substitutes for service dogs trained to assist people who needed help with hearing, vision, or (in Doug’s case) emotional support from PTSD. To substitute for a dog, the slave usually crawled on hands and knees with cables connecting her wrists together (running through a pulley connected to her pierced nipples!) while wearing a voice control box that, except for a few specific words, converted whatever the slave said into canine noises.]

(Fascinated by the combination of bondage and implied sexual submission, Debbie persuaded Doug to accept HER as a voluntary, part-time emotional support animal (ESA). She had already gotten her uncle, a slavery attorney in Texas, to draw up a unique contract that, although it appeared to be a voluntary Free In Name Only self-enslavement agreement, actually offered her unique protections against the worst aspects of slavery. Despite this legal protection, she promised Doug that, while acting as a service animal, she would of course provide sexual services whenever he authorized them—meanwhile she actually hoped that her new “owner” would use her himself. “Master” Doug honored these restrictions, although he got to see and touch every inch of her body when she went to a local market to have her agreement registered. Having studied how actual slaves were trained for this new role, Doug also fondled his new “servant” (nicknamed, by her lascivious uncle, “Deedee” in recognition of her large breasts) as a reward for responding correctly. Even after she was certified as his ESA, however, he still tried to treat her with the respect due to a free woman, freeing her from her restraints whenever they returned to the apartment. So she forced the issue by entering his bedroom, removing her robe, and servicing him orally before curling up in his arms to sleep.)

(Debbie McAdams viewpoint)

When the third renter in our apartment, Tim, returned from spring break in Florida, he was frustrated to discover that in his absence I had somehow become Doug’s girlfriend and bed partner. (We were VERY careful not to tell him about my serving as an ESA, which he would have broadcast to the world and then tried to use as a lever to fuck me himself.) Meanwhile, “Master” Doug and I (Doug and his Dog?) had what is traditionally described as a torrid affair every night in his bedroom. He discovered that I, enjoying my role as his support animal, would do anything for him and allow him access to any opening in my body. It’s a good thing that he was so responsible, because he demanded I show him all my course assignments and study daily. Only when I had done my schoolwork would he provide “rewards” such as the following:

As Deedee the ESA, one night I lay slave naked, flat on my back with my hands tied (using soft cloth) to the top of my master’s bed. At the moment, however, I was frustrated because he was straddling my body, using his hands to wrap my pendulous “boobs” (as he smilingly described them) around his shaft while he pumped slowly back and forth on top of me. When he pushed forward, my tongue did its best to lick the tip of his huge cock (and I’m not just calling it “huge” because slaves are expected to praise their owner’s equipment—he really was well-endowed.) I wished he would just cut to the chase and ram himself between my widespread thighs, but all I could do was moan and growl softly (not because I was wearing the damn voice box, but rather because I didn’t want to give Tim, who was undoubtedly eaves-dropping at the door, any indication of how much Doug controlled my body!)

Eventually, Doug whispered clear instructions to me, and when he quickly rolled off me to my right, I rolled the other way, assuming the traditional “Slave 4s” position, wrists still bound to the headboard, so that (Yes!) ten seconds later he mounted me “doggy style.” I’d fallen in love with that position, both because it fulfilled my self-appointed role as a support animal and because it felt so good for him to get as deep as possible while making me his literal “bitch.” Damn, that guy had stamina, frantically thrusting against my buttocks while his strong hands pulled my shoulders in the other direction—if he hadn’t done that, I think he would have rammed my head (which had already had all its brains pounded out by that magnificent intruder) right through the bedroom wall. Instead, I was held strictly immobile while he climaxed inside me, followed quickly by my third orgasm that I muffled by chewing on a pillow.

After we both frantically clawed for oxygen, he released my wrists from their restraints and cuddled me spoon shape, not forgetting to plant one huge hand between my legs and the other gently massaging my left breast (he only used crude terminology like “boobs” and “cunt” while in the throes of passion—otherwise he was a gentleman, even when talking in private to his designated service animal!) He murmured into my ear,

“I know I’ve said it before, Deedee, but you are one fantastic bed partner. I love doing you doggy style, but I can’t help imagine planting my cock—pardon the expression—up your cute little rear end.” The thought of such a huge shaft in such a confined space was daunting, but I was too turned on and/or too submissive to object. Instead, I happily wiggled my money maker against his (still half aroused) penis, and repeated the slave mantra, “I live to serve you, Master—only please use some KY when you decide to take me back there!”

He chuckled, but there was a note of genuine concern in his voice when he assured me that “You know I’d never want to HURT my favorite slut, except maybe when she’s earned a spanking.”

“Mmmm. It’d be worth it to misbehave if that spanking was followed by another good shafting, ‘Master.’”

“I’ll see what I can do, Babe.”

*****
Frantic end-of-term studying and project completions kept us from having much sex, but just cuddling with him late at night was reassuring for both of us—who knew that an “emotional support animal” could receive as well as give emotional support? Not surprisingly, a pissed-off (and nearly flunking) Tim declined to share an apartment with us for the next academic year, but we were able to rent an efficiency apartment instead—why bother with two bedrooms? Still, we had to wait impatiently for Tim to move out at the end of term, after which my Master put me through some refresher training, both as an obedient pseudo-dog and as a compliant sex object. Yumm.

Two days after exams were over, we put most of our stuff into storage and then we went (together!) into a gas station restroom for me to suit up and reappear in public as his crawling servant. We had reservations to fly from Montgomery to Atlanta and thence back to Dallas-Fort Worth (if you live in the Southeast, everything goes through Atlanta Hartsfield. Purgatory may not exist, but when I die I fully expect that my soul will have to stop off in Atlanta on the way to heaven or hell.)

Doug got a special low rate from the airline for an adjoining seat to accommodate his support animal, although of course I paid him for that ticket. Once we landed at Bush International and reclaimed “our” luggage, he would take me into a family rest room so I could morph back into a college co-ed before I went home for the summer, interrupted as often as possible by “dates” with my “owner.”

At least, that was the plan. As the saying goes, George Armstrong Custer had a plan, too!

Going to the airport, the service slave naturally had to tow her owner’s bags—at least he allowed me to walk upright while doing so, and he manhandled those bags onto the shuttle bus going to the passenger terminal. Then we sat on one of the long benches that stretched most of the length of the bus. Master Doug was careful to keep his service slut under strict control, with my leg and arm cables clipped together with a carabinier. That way, the horny ESA couldn’t resist (not that she wanted to!) when her owner, is arm crooked around her neck, casually reached inside her vest to fondle her nipples—nipples that were, of course, erect under the strain of the yoke, connected by rings in my boobs, that held up the middle of the cable connecting my two wrists. That also ensured that I could do nothing but moan quietly when, with my owner’s permission, the guy sitting on my other side reached under my very short skirt to toy with my damp clit and labia. Neither one of them let me get off, just edged me until we reached the terminal. I care deeply about my “owner,” but he can be a bastard sometimes.

Fortunately, the airline provided curbside luggage check-in, so Master Doug and I were soon waiting in line for the TSA security check, me on hands and knees and him wearing a light backpack and holding our tickets.

And that’s where it all went tits up, you should pardon the expression. We were diverted from the line and taken into a private room where an (admittedly handsome) TSA agent announced that the agency had encountered so many kinky impostors masquerading as support dogs (No! imagine that! I’m shocked, shocked to discover . . . By the way, who stole my idea?) that he had been authorized to test them all out. In other words, just like the license examiner who had approved me as the ESA, this guy expected me to prove I was a docile slave by screwing him every which-way!

So Deedee the service slut ended up on her back (as I said, the situation literally went tits up—pun intended), hands above her head, restrained to the corners of a table and bent double so that her feet were near the neck and her naked bottom was jutting off the other end of the table. To hold me there, bent double with my branded tushie protruding, he tied my ankles to the same ropes that held my hands.

At that point, the TSA agent looked to my supposed master, since slaves may only be used with permission from their owners, and inquired, “May I?”

My “owner” was wise enough to know that being dominated by a stranger in such a situation actually thrilled me, so he shrugged. “The little slut knows that part of being my service animal is servicing any free person I choose. Which end do you want to sample first?” (That callous, demeaning comment just made me even more aroused.)

In response, the stranger (he wouldn’t be a stranger much longer, I realized) strapped a sort of ring gag into my mouth that held it open and protected his sensitive parts from my teeth.

I have to say, the guy was thorough in his testing! First, he had me lean my head back, making my throat a nice straight column for him to “search” with his fleshy “probe.” Said probe wasn’t nearly as big around as the one my master used on me regularly, but it was still a respectable length to reach down my throat. Good thing my owner had made me practice repressing my gag reflex. It wasn’t too bad, actually—at least the guy had showered that morning, and as I said he was kinda thin so I could breathe around him. Ten in-and-outs while my tongue fluttered and he was done, although then my owner decided that he needed to give ME emotional support by using his much thicker probe to again slide through that ring gag and distract his helpless, quivering property.

Meanwhile the TSA guy had gone to the other end of the table and quickly slipped a condom around his search instrument before ramming it into me. If you’re read this far, you will NOT be at all surprised to read that he found me slicker than a West Texas highway in a rainstorm, so he was fully mounted (aka “balls deep”) in just two thrusts, after which—to use the usual expression—he rode me hard and put me up wet. Only in my case, most of the wetness was on the inside. I’ve said before that his shaft wasn’t really that large, but I was so thrilled by the submissive sensation of a stranger tying me down and using me as a slave that I really got off on the entire experience. Thank heavens he used a condom—professionalism at its finest! Likewise, it was a good thing he put that ring gag on me, otherwise I might have unintentionally clamped down on my owner’s larger dick—and dick-licking Doug, of course, only contributed to my arousal.

Then, just as it seemed as if the TSA guy was slamming me so often and so hard that he would bruise my poor pussy, he stopped. Worse than that, he pulled out! With my mouth full and the voice control box in place, whatever noise I made came out like a dog whimpering—which was entirely appropriate, although in this instance I was frustrated, not in pain. At least, not YET in pain.

And then I felt something wet and rubbery pushing against the brown starfish between my lower cheeks. Even if I had been able to articulate a protest, I knew it wouldn’t do any good—by this time, regardless of his excuse for “examining” me in this way, the stranger was clearly determined to get maximum jollies from my defenseless form. In combination with Master Doug he was going to spit-roast me. Submissive fantasies are one thing, but my mind quailed at the thought of being shafted back (or down) there with only my vagina juices for lubricant. If I haven’t been clear before, this was my last virginity; I silently thanked Doug for insisting on a daily enema.

My owner realized his intention, but seemed determine to rub my nose in it, so to speak. All he asked was, “I thought you were testing her out—what now, are you searching for contraband or just mining for something down there?”

In the same kind of jesting voice, the TSA man replied, “Might as well do a cavity search at the same time I test her obedience.” Both of them laughed in that crude manner that guys share sex jokes, but the sudden thrust of his dick up my rectum meant that it was no joke for me! I focused on pretending I was pushing out a turd (there’s no polite way to say this!), because I had heard somewhere that this was the best means of relaxing the muscles to accommodate an intrusion down there.

That trick must have worked, or perhaps my first idea—that his penis was sort of small caliber in comparison to the man I had expected to sodomize me—had been correct. Either way, I was able to overcome the discomfort and just focus on the sense of being completely dominated and possessed (“Occupy Washington,” Hell—how about “Occupy Deedee’s butt?”). I had hoped to work up to this level of abasement with my darling Master Doug, but now a total stranger was truly using me as a slave, taking me “where the sun don’t shine.” (I prefer that to the cruder descriptions about “packing fudge.”) If there’s any greater experience of being just plain USED by a man—a man whose name I didn’t even know and whom (I hope) I would never encounter again—well, all I can say is that if there is such a greater experience of being taken and used, I’m not sure I could handle it without going into shock!

I had heard the euphemisms and even imagined Master Doug gently “sodomizing” me or making “anal love.” But this wasn’t a time for euphemisms or cloudy images of romance. This was a free man with some official authority (which he might or might not be exceeding) taking his pleasure from me while I was reduced to the status of a tethered animal. The only terms that capture what I felt were really crude ones I had overheard guys saying: I was a “bitch” who was thrilled to get “butt-fucked.”

Once he had stretched my sphincter out, the inspector increased his pace to what can best be described as “ramming speed,” pausing only occasionally to dribble some lube onto his dick and my labia. I was breathing hard, barely remembering to tongue the shaft in my mouth, afraid that I would pass out from the experience—I was afraid because I didn’t want to miss one thrilling second! Fortunately for my consciousness, in what felt like only two minutes he collapsed on top of me and I noticed a further warmth in my bowels—presumably he was unleashing his cum into the condom.

My unknown dominant had an easier time catching his breath than did I, for a few seconds later my Lord and Master’s cock, still deep in my mouth, twitched and discharged its usual, huge amount of cum down my throat. I had become accustomed to swallowing Doug’s massive cum, but this time I had to struggle to keep some of it in my mouth, so that like a dutiful slave I could exhibit it to him on the tip of my tongue. (Extra hard to do when my head is upside down, so the jism is dripping off my tongue!) Thank heavens he nodded permission for me to finish swallowing.

Just then, I saw and felt the TSA guy pull out, toss a full condom into a nearby wastebasket, and zip himself up, all so smoothly that I suspected he “inspected” service animals several times each shift. I guess the pre-cut ropes tied to that table were a dead give-away. Imagine being paid every day to fill all the openings of any woman you suspect is pretending to be a slave—even if your suspicions are correct, she’s unlikely to complain because of the embarrassment of being caught playing naked canine slave. Nice work if you can get it! (Cum—pun intended—to think of it, it had been a long time since I had heard that TSA had trouble recruiting!)

“You can release her, Sir,” he finally announced with a smile. “It’s obvious that this one is a genuine slave—in fact, she was so lubricated she must have been born to the collar. Congratulations on owning such a fine piece of slave ass—I’m sure she’ll provide you many years of slutty service.”
Smiling kindly down at me as he untied my wrists from the table, my master replied, “I intend to use that ass as often as possible.” I didn’t know whether he was in love or just lust, but my heart fluttered at the affection and desire in his eyes. I had loved being spit-roasted as a slave but doing it to please Doug made it fulfilling as well as thrilling.

*****
Getting intimately probed by the TSA in a public space checked a lot of boxes on my bucket list of things I dreamed of experiencing as a pseudo-slave. Unfortunately, even though we had arrived at the airport early, that little examination caused us to miss our flight to Atlanta—and therefore, the connecting flight from Atlanta to Houston. The airline was apparently accustomed to such hold-ups, since without argument the service representative made us new reservations, but we would have to stay overnight in Atlanta. That was fine with me—another night in bed with my putative master was always fun—but of course our luggage traveled on the original flight, which meant that I had nothing to wear other than my service animal vest, footies, and restraints.

Doug did manage to get a relatively cheap hotel room with a shuttle to the airport. I had to be the dutiful little service slut in public until we made it to the room—but what the hell, that was part of the thrill for me, one of the main reasons I enjoyed being Deedee the service animal. Once we reached our/his room, Doug immediately released me from all that paraphernalia. I hugged him, saying that I wouldn’t dream of kissing him until I got that cum taste out of my mouth. Fortunately, he was carrying a folding toothbrush in his carry-on backpack and there was a tiny courtesy bottle of mouthwash in the bathroom.

First, we had to telephone our families to tell them we had missed our flights (but not why—just a “hold up with TSA”) and we would return to Texas (vaguely) tomorrow. Then we took a long shower together, enjoying the sensation of running soapy hands over each other’s bodies. Somewhere in there I ended up on my knees, the warm water cascading over us as I licked his monster dick while trying NOT to trigger another discharge into my just-cleaned mouth. At the end of our close encounter of the intimate kind, he left me to wash and condition my hair while he went out to order a pizza delivered to the room.

I, of course, had no clothing other than my service dog outfit, because most of my possessions were in transit to Dallas. Still, I was glad to spend another night curled up naked with my “owner.” If I haven’t made it clear yet, I got as much emotional support out of being his docile lover as he did out of having a sex slave to use—and we both loved cuddling.

I woke up a few hours later, with my slightly-pained tushie reminding me of losing my anal virginity, which naturally made me fantasize about the even greater dominance I would experience if my lover/”owner” used his large-caliber dick in the same manner. It would be uncomfortable at best, but my experience with TSA had confirmed my suspicions that I would REALLY enjoy the psychological submission of having Doug control and use me in that way.
I slipped out of bed and, in the bathroom next to the half-empty bottle of mouthwash, I found a similar sample of skin lotion. Half of THAT little container was sufficient to lubricate my colon, or at least as much of my colon as my long middle finger could reach. (Doing that brought a very different meaning to the tradition of flipping such a finger at someone.) Carrying the rest of the bottle with me, I crawled under the covers and began kissing, licking, and fondling his massive equipment. The thought of that thing roaring up my rear passage made me nervous, but by now I had become obsessed with the idea of total surrender, including all three of my openings, to my handsome owner.

Master Doug must have been really exhausted, because he didn’t regain consciousness until I had his battering ram standing swollen and stiff. “What have we here, Deedee?” he inquired in a drowsy but lecherous voice.

I flipped the covers away so I could talk to him while I continued to fondle his shaft. “Gee, Master—I feel neglected since you let that TSA clown try out all three of my openings when what I REALLY wanted was for you to—as the slave mantra goes—shove your massive cock up my tight ass. How about it, Sir?” I asked, giving him a grin every bit as randy as his own.

His voice shifted to one of genuine concern. “Geez, I dunno, girl. I’ve always worried about damaging you back there, even before that guy decided to search all your cavities yesterday. Doesn’t that cute little butt of yours hurt too much?” Given that he could have sodomized me almost any time he wanted, I really loved the fact that he was instead worried about hurting me. I told you this guy was a gentleman, right?

“Not to worry, Boss. That guy was so tiny compared to you that I barely felt anything at all.” (OK, that’s an exaggeration, but remember I was trying to overcome his natural scruples.) “Besides, this time I’ve got lotion frosting my bung hole, and I’m about to pout some more lotion on your battering ram. I promise I’ll tell you if it hurts too much, but can’t we try this for real? Please?”

“What young guy is going to turn down a beautiful woman who asks him to dip his wick in her tight butt? I’m not a saint, darlin’.” That word “beautiful,” in conjunction with his concern for my welfare, just made me care about him even more. So, I slathered lotion over his prong and “assumed the position”—slave fours, with my head low and rear end up high.

Give him even more credit for the way he slowly worked his way into my intestines. When confronted with such an opportunity to experience total ownership of a young woman, lots of guys would have just RAMMED themselves in, but not my personal hero/owner. OK, he had to push hard to overcome the tight muscles of my anus, but once inside he paused, absolutely still, for several minutes while he caressed my back and praised my bravery. Then he worked SLOWLY in and out, an inch at a time, all while distracting me with thrilling manipulation of my ringed nipples and dripping clit. I can’t say the penetration was easy, but I got through it and was soon pushing my keister back at him, urging him to speed up and really TAKE me. The combination of my respect/care for him and the usual, dirty sense of being completely dominated and mastered got to me, and I had a series of little climaxes while he was still working his way up to his big one. By the time he was fully inside me, we were bumping my buttocks back against his thighs in a flurry of forbidden fornication, all while I begged him to fuck me deeper, harder, and faster. God, what a rush!

I think I passed out for lack of oxygen at the critical moment; when I came too, he was using a warm, damp washcloth to gently tidy me up. After washing himself off and insisting that I swallow a glass of water, we again cuddled together and collapsed into a long-delayed sleep.

*****
Fortunately, the flight to Dallas wasn’t until 1:30 the next day, so we were able to get cleaned up and to the airport in plenty of time. He didn’t insist that I wear that fake tail in my stressed bottom, but I certainly strutted and swung my butt around like I was the horniest canine bitch-in-heat that had ever been in an airport—which wasn’t far from the truth! At least, that day we didn’t get singled out by TSA—I wonder if someone put a special code on our tickets?

By 4:30 we had reached Dallas, recovered our luggage, and retired to a family restroom where I metamorphosed from slutty service slave to carefree college co-ed home for the summer. After a long, lingering kiss and hug (OK, he groped me a little but he was entitled), we parted temporarily to be picked up by our respective parents. Over the summer, we saw each other often enough that even my slow-on-the-uptake father asked how serious the relationship was—good thing he never saw Master Doug walking Deedee, cleavage on display and bare butt bouncing, on a leash.

My senior project for Apparel and Textiles was a series of outfits, in which service dog vests were coordinated in fabric and details to stylish suits and casual wear for their (male) owners. My report didn’t emphasize the fact that the skirts on those service vests contained various detachable sections so that the owner could enjoy intimacy with his slave while she “innocently” sat on his lap. Needless to say, Master Doug and I held some long sessions testing out that aspect of the product line—one time, I think Alabama scored 21 points (Roll Tide!) while my owner’s prong was promiscuously probing my rear portal.

In case you’re wondering, we both graduated on schedule and found jobs in Dallas. But we don’t socialize much with our colleagues in either firm. If you want to find us, visit the slave park in Fort Worth, where a nearly-naked slut with a butt-plug tail and a voice box gambols around, teasing the other animalized slaves, until her owner finally takes her doggie style in both of her (usually moist) openings. How many other guys can legitimate refer to their love interest as “bitch,” and all she replies is “Yes, Master”?

I’m half-way through a five-year FINO contract that obligates me to act as his ESA, and we’re back to practicing “heel” as well as slave yoga positions because (next month) he wants to enter me into a “dog show” for slave servants. I’m a little intimidated by the thought of publicly mounting large-caliber dildos to demonstrate my service potential, but the thought of flashing my pussy at a huge audience of dog fanciers makes me cream.

He’s also proposed, and I accepted, to be his combination wife and slutty little bitch, which means a lifetime of cuddling. We may have to suspend our games for a while if I come down with a litter of pups, I mean, kids . . . I hope that service dog show has a senior division for competition when we’re in our 40s and said offspring are off to attend Alabama (Roll Tide!)

(To Be Continued??)
Last edited by Carl Bradford on Fri Sep 23, 2022 4:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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Just a wonderful romance story. I love happily ever ending stories. Just love your work.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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Thanks for the kind words, Belinda. As you know, I like writing stories like this where the subjugated person actually enjoys being subordinated to the master. However, I recognize that this is the stuff of fantasy--there are, indeed, members of all genders who enjoy being submissive IN THE BEDROOM, but I have to be careful not to assume that "all" women really want to be owned and dominated full time. Which is why I've championed both Free In Name Only and (in this story) Slave In Name Only contracts to allow someone to enjoy part time submission to someone she/he loves anyway. Corny, but I suspect more realistic than arguing that a lot of people of any gender are "born to the collar."
Thanks for reading and posting.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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A nice piece of work, with a sweet happy ending. I thought the idea of transporting the service animal on an airplane was a unique one. What I was expecting was that the flight would be overbooked, or they'd have an aircraft switch that would require him to gate check his bitch rather than take her in the passenger cabin. As he was sitting on the starboard side and they were packing luggage on the port side he wouldn't be able to see if she made it on board or got...diverted!

It's an interesting theme, considering a lot of the stuff about tattoos on the inner lips and slave kibble and bowls clearly comes from dogs, so making her a dog really takes it full circle. Could service animals be kenneled with regular dogs at the pound, or taken to regular vets? That might prove interesting...

Again, great job, as always! :D
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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Joe has a great idea with the flight being overbooked and having to gate check the bitch. Unfortunately the hold was full and the slave had to be transported on a follow on flight. I had a bag that got lost by Southwest on a flight from California to Idaho. Somehow the bag ended up in first Las Vegas and then somewhere else further south and east. Imagine the service animal gets lost ending up in Atlanta or LAX and kenneled at the airport until arrangements are made to fly her home. What an adventure she would have since all those airport workers would wander by the kennel while on lunch breaks looking to sooth the frightened pets.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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Mmmm Mr Smith I like where you're going! Just imagining her in the pet section of the airport unclaimed ! The airport workers she would have to "service"!
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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jeepster wrote: Sat Oct 01, 2022 4:50 pm Mmmm Mr Smith I like where you're going! Just imagining her in the pet section of the airport unclaimed ! The airport workers she would have to "service"!
Or maybe she gets put on the baggage carousel, going around and around while passengers feel her up...
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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Hahaha!

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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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As tempting as it is to have Deedee become "unclaimed baggage" [in the old sense of a baggage as an assertive, potentially-slutty woman], I have a previous request to ship her, along with a group of other service dogs, in a Southwest Shipping ULD-40 bulk slave container. I'm planning to have her entered into a contest for service dogs, which of course will involve officials taking various "samples" from her body to ensure no illegal substances are involved.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by jeepster »

Yum ! Can't wait to read that Carl!

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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by Mr. Smith »

Looks like you have two chapters to write Carl. First the pet show and another when she becomes lost baggage on the way home. The airport could threaten to auction her off if she is not claimed within a certain amount of time. So many possibilities.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

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"Just a minute, Sir... I'm pulling up her tracking number now. Okay, got it. Looks like you paid for a round trip. Flight there was fine...okay, I'm seeing she didn't make it in the return container. Apparently Southwest Shipping had a flight to Abu Dhabi that day, and she got put on that. They just love their sweet, tight American pussy over there. They got a big ass slave market there, a lot of wholesale, sort of a hub for the entire Middle East. Wholesale isn't too trace, but once they go retail they do lots of handshake deals in those markets, so it's anybody's guess. Anyway, I heard today the whole shipment went FUBAR because their computer systems are down. I don't suppose you speak Arabic? Maybe a friend? With baggage such a mess that's your best bet. Get a friend to call to see if they can figure out what on earth is going on over there... Wait, no worries. You're fully insured for the sales price if she's accidentally sold."

Image
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by Johnny Lawrence »

It seems like after her competition in the pet show, there’s a great opportunity for a computer glitch.

Poor Doug would wait patiently at the baggage claim for them to bring out the bulk shipping container. Eventually he receives word that he’ll have to come back three days later, as the bulk shipping crate had to be loaded on a different flight. It’s just bulk cargo after all, so if it gets routed through three different connecting flights, it’s not considered a problem.

As a result, he goes home with a false sense of security. The experience will probably get Debbie even hotter. What he doesn’t know is that somebody loaded Debbie in the wrong shipping crate. That’s what happens with minimum wage employees. She isn’t bound for Dallas after multiple connecting flights. She’s in Atlanta waiting as unclaimed baggage.

Eventually the airline realizes the mistake, and checks her enslavement records. And they see her address — the one in Alabama, when she initially self-enslaved. A few phone calls later and the airline employee tells her they’ve tracked down her rightful owner. Of course, Debbie has on the voice control collar (to which Doug has the key), and can only whimper as a man strides in to take her back home — her old roommate Tim.

Doug eventually comes back to the airport, only to be told “our records show that you already picked her up, sir.”

Baggage claim problems often take months to get sorted out, if they ever do.
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by Carl Bradford »

Good heavens; you're far darker in outlook than I!
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by jeepster »

Wow thats twisted! I think I kinda like it!
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Re: Service Animal Pt. 02

Post by Johnny Lawrence »

Since it’s apparently a common problem that a lot of free women are pretending to be service animals, what about an automatic software update to the collars? Since it can already prevent them from speaking, the new update might prevent other things as well, like using her hands, walking on two legs, or the ability to read. After the update, the collar may not unlock, even with the key!

The idea is to catch people who are actually free but are defrauding the system. Thousands of women all across the country will wake up the next morning, ready to go to work, only to discover that their collars cannot be removed. And worse, they can’t even get off of all fours! Their only option is to go into a maintenance facility and ask to have the collar removed. This of course will prompt all sorts of questions, and may result in the little cheaters (men and women) being enslaved for real! After all, there are a bunch of people out there who need service animals for real, and those collars are expensive.

Debbie’s detour might be humiliating, but it could save her and Doug both from a more permanent collar. Tim’s not going to bring her in to have the collar checked out, that’s for damn sure.
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