Shannon and Sean Pt. 01

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace—usually as punishment for serious crime or foreclosure when a person pledged his/her body as collateral for a loan and was then unable to pay. This particular account addresses the third reason for slavery, when a person voluntarily self-indentures. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Joe Doe, Mr. Smith, ZeeChromosome, ESS, Avvy, et al for helpful suggestions. WARNING: includes incest. This is pure fantasy; please don’t try this at home, even if you live in Texas.)

(Shannon O’Brien’s viewpoint)
A gentle breeze across my uncovered skin made being outside uncomfortable on a cold December day, even in Texas. Then my grandfather’s executive assistant, “Belle” Bergen, gave the expected command, the first step into hell: “Collar.”
My bare knees made painful contact with the sun-warmed gravel of the Long Horn Slave Market’s parking lot; in the tradition of all slaves and people undergoing grading, my twin brother Sean and I were “butt nekkid” in full public view, our thighs wide apart, one hand on the waist and the other reaching up to hold our honey-blond hair (mine was shoulder length, his was barely long enough to comb) out of the way while Mistress Belle calmly cinched leather dog collars, each attached to a dog leash, around our necks. Once that was done, she issued another laconic command, or rather two commands: “Stand, back hands,” which placed us in position for her to use zip-ties, restraining our wrists behind our backs. The tension of my hands behind back there forced my un-tanned breasts up and forward, my treacherous nipples erect (who knows why—nerves?) as if I were enjoying this humiliation. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Sean’s dick was more than half erect and he was blushing at the indication that he was also enjoying his helpless nudity. We’d both been through the optional Slave Studies course in high school, where we practiced slave block moves and learned about the whole process, but this was suddenly REAL and more than a little scary.

Mistress took her time installing the collars and zip-ties; she was probably silently enjoying the sight of two 18-year-old “spoiled brats,” whose antics had caused headaches for her and her boss, now reduced to collared slut-meat under her control. Eventually, however, she instructed us to “Heel” as she set off at a brisk pace (easier for her, clothed and wearing shoes, than for her barefoot and bound subjects) towards the large illuminated “Office” sign that marked the entrance to the slave market.

I guess I had better explain: since the death of our parents, killed a year ago by a drunk driver in a rainstorm, my brother and I were the sole heirs to O’Brien Enterprises, a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate that included everything from petroleum and natural gas to retail stores in 20 shopping centers; Grandfather even held a major stake in the Longhorn, where we were about to be sold!
Yeah, about that. Grandfather loved us both, but he was a self-made man who made no secret of his opinion that our deceased parents had spoiled us rotten. Mom had always laughed off and forgiven any transgressions while giving us everything we could dream of, including not only Centurion black credit cards but twin Shelby GT’s as soon as we got our driver’s licenses at age 16. While we were too careful to have serious accidents or drive drunk, each of us had run up a number of tickets for speeding and recklessness. These and other rather-minor shenanigans had led Grandfather to put his foot down: he demanded that, between high school and college, we spend the summer working at the Longhorn, but that seemed so lame that we had demurred. So grandfather upped the ante, demanding that we self-well—he would pay for college and then cut us loose, giving his stock in the company to long-suffering retainers like Mistress Belle. And we knew that Grandfather was stubborn enough to do it, too. Sigh.
*****
Grandfather was reasonable in his unreason—he reluctantly allowed us to attend our first semester of college (thus allowing me to keep my spot on the cheerleading squad) before we took a supposed “gap year” in collars. So, there we both were, seven months after high school graduation, being checked into the slave market on a Sunday afternoon in December. (The thought that our family owned the Longhorn made it even more humiliating.) In return for the one-semester delay, Grandfather had deliberately chosen the worst time of the week for us: no new slave grading or auctions would occur until Monday late morning, and in the meantime Sean and I would be just two naked “sluts” (the colloquial term for slaves) at the mercy of the weekend (and therefore probably least supervised, least professional) slave wranglers for whatever games they wanted to play. Good thing I had an IUD and had already lost my hymen. . .

At least it was warmer when we got inside the lobby, where a semi-circle of check-in stations stood, most of them unmanned at this hour on a weekend. But the humiliation of being naked, collared, bound livestock was reinforced when she led us up to the one active podium and ordered us to “Kneel, slave spread.” Normally, that position meant not only widespread thighs but also fingers interlocked behind our heads—but with our hands still bound behind our backs, all we could do was kneel with our backs very straight, which in my case meant thrusting out my D-cup boobs even more. I have always been proud of them as they attracted the attention—and often the admiration—of almost every male who saw me since age 14, including the house slaves. I had even had to strap a household slave who was so mesmerized by my breasts that he didn’t hear me give him an order. It felt very different for me to be the one wearing the collar, especially because, without a bra, my girls wobbled everywhere as I moved. In this instance I swear they didn’t stop bobbling until 10 seconds after I knelt. Not only that, but the cold weather ensured that my nipples remained at full alert.
Another small mercy was that the person behind the podium was female—I knew that lots of guys were going to look at and probably play with my “girls,” especially during the next two days, so I was glad to delay that experience for another few seconds. But this African American woman was intimidating in her own right, and not just because we were nude on our knees and she was looming over us, dressed as a slave wrangler—jeans, boots, and "Long Horn" logo T-shirt, plus an equipment belt festooned with various menacing objects including a taser, quirt, and handcuffs. The slave quirts that I had seen and used on others for years suddenly seemed much more frightening. Not that she would need these weapons with me—I was bound and besides, she was huge. Not an ounce of fat on her, but just BIG. She towered over Mistress Belle, and was probably taller than Sean even if he hadn’t been on his knees looking up, his half-erect dick hanging out where she could easily kick it. The woman—whose nametag read “Florence”—was well-muscled and her body—well, let’s just say that her chest was larger than mine, although proportionate to her form. Not surprisingly, she exuded self-confidence and control as she grinned down at us:
“Well, what do we have here? A matched pair of fresh-caught slaves?” she inquired in amused voice. Her eyes swept past my breasts and came to rest on Sean’s cock. “Lookin’ good, sweetie,” she remarked, winking and obviously staring at that prick (I assure you I had NEVER wanted to see my brother’s package—eeuuhh—but I had to admit it looked bigger than the two guys I had sucked off since turning 18.) Wordlessly, Mistress Belle handed “Florence” the notarized powers of attorney that authorized her to sell us into slavery—with minimal restrictions such as “No foreign travel”—for the next 365 days.

Florence glanced through them, then looked hard at our temporary mistress. “I’ve seen things like this before—did these two screw up big time, or what?” Belle didn’t answer, but her face seemed to agree with the comment.
The Black wrangler fiddled around with some electronics, apparently scanning the documents into PDFs, and then returned them to Mistress Belle. She must have pushed a button to summon help, because a moment later two wranglers came through the double doors behind her. One was a Caucasian copy, almost a photographic negative, of Florence, a tall, smiling woman wearing a nametag that read “Willow”; she headed towards Sean and replaced the dog collar with a heavier one that I knew must be the battery-powered shock collar used by most slave markets—as if they needed more control over us!

I only registered that later on, because my heart was sinking through the floor when I recognized the six-foot, surprisingly-weedy looking guy behind “Florence.” Jerry had been in my high school class until a few months ago—a studious type with whom I’d had little interaction. I hadn’t insulted him so much as ignored him, focusing instead on better looking (but dumber) guys who majored in sports rather than academics. Damn! Going to a slave market 40 miles from home, I had hoped that my brother and I could get through the ordeal of processing—which was bad enough even when conducted by strangers—without meeting anyone we knew. Just my luck to fall into the hands of the class nerd! He HAD to recognize me, I thought, even naked on my knees, but he just gave a little smile while he changed out my collar and substituted leather manacles for the zip-tie. I was shaking and humiliated (not to mention aroused for some reason), and only barely registered the standard warning he was reciting:

“ . . . the collar you are wearing can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Long Horn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"
I was glad to remember (who knew that a high school class could be useful?) that slaves weren’t supposed to look at masters’ faces without specific instructions, so instead I stared at the floor, nodded my head, and loudly announced “Yes, Master” when he asked that final question. A moment later, he had ordered me to stand and then guided me through the swinging doors. I was acutely aware of his warm hand gripping my left buttock, his fingers deep inside my crack and brushing against my cringing anus. This was going to be even worse than I had thought—so why were my damn nipples still sticking out? I won’t even talk about the sudden dampness and tension between my legs at the thought of this suddenly-powerful guy being in total control of my bare, bound body.
I could hear Sean walking behind us as we all headed to the “Veterinary” station, where I got restrained on my back in a Frankenstein version of an OB/GYN’s table—there was an indentation for my bound hands, plus the dreaded stirrups (with Velcro straps attached) holding my legs up high and FAARRR apart. The guy who examined me wore a lab coat, but his nametag did not say anything about being a physician—guess that wasn’t necessary on the weekend, when sales weren’t imminent. Which didn’t stop this wannabee—probably an EMT—from fishing around inside me with the traditional cold speculum as well as his fingers. (Why did my damn birth canal get excited and self-lubricate?) At least he knew enough to recognize that I had an IUD; I had been prepared to protest (not that it would have done any good) if he tried to give me the birth control implant that slaves usually received. He did take some blood and proclaimed me free of known STDs (Duuh), which didn’t guarantee that I might not end up getting one as a slave. One more thought to terrify me.
After that came the next stage to dread—getting a slave identification number (SIN) tattooed inside my lower lip. Again, the person doing the tattooing looked very young but at least it didn’t hurt too much—a quick spray of anaesthetic, then a humming machine that felt like a thousand pinpricks, another spray of antibiotic, and I was done.
By this time I had almost—not quite—become accustomed to Jerry-the-nerd squeezing and goosing my butt, an act that even yesterday would have earned him a slap and an arrest for sexual assault. Now he was getting PAID to do something that hundreds of guys in my high school had dreamed about (I hate to sound arrogant, but Sean had told me that at least twice he’d decked guys for expressing a desire to grab my ass!) I decided that the best thing for me to do was pretend I couldn’t feel it or at least didn’t notice it—any kind of wiggle or protest was likely to get me even more fondling, not to mention increasing the chance that he recognized me. Besides, it felt kinda good to be controlled like that.
Sean and I, along with a half-dozen other naked, nervous people, ended up on a battered wooden platform, our hands unbound so that we could practice “Block Moves,” the cruder, ruder, and lewder form of Slave Yoga, gyrating and exposing our bodies while loudly repeating suggestive come-ons (or should I say cum-ons?) such as “Master, my tight little ass can’t wait for you to ram your monster dick up it” and “I long to swallow your massive cock, Master.” I felt sorry for Sean, who was blushing at having to say the same things. The audience for this self-humiliation was a small group of slave wranglers; I couldn’t help noticing Jerry grinning like a horn dog at all those tits & asses on display, bouncing everywhere while we were required to beg for use. By the looks of the bulge in his jeans, I was probably going to have to pay for the promises my mouth was making; I guess the liquid dripping down my inner thighs was a defense mechanism to prepare my body.
So far, all the slave wranglers I had seen, even the females, were large and imposing—most of them looked good, just scary, the kind who could tie me into knots and then suffocate me with their massive thighs. Now, however, the mistress of ceremonies directing our block moves looked like a child dressed up for Halloween--a short woman with a pretty face and protruding boobs that strained her logoed shirt, wearing the jeans, weapons belt, and boots of a slave wrangler even though those around her were nearly twice her size. Her name tag read "Shirley;” over the next half hour, Mistress Shirley issued a series of commands, demanding that we follow instructions correctly and, while we're at it, shout an appropriate slave mantra as if we REALLY wanted some dickhead to shove his filthy pecker into all of our openings. If anyone made a mistake or was less than enthusiastic, Mistress Shirley wasn’t cruel but didn't hesitate to publicly shame and call that slave out, insisting that the move be repeated solo while sounding like a sex-crazed bimbo. Again, the forced enthusiasm contributed to my visible arousal; my three most sensitive nubs were protruding, and I felt a little trickle of liquid down my inner thigh. Even Sean and the one other male slave had erections; in fact, the sight of those “swinging Richards” probably contributed to my excitement. (Wash my filthy mind out for thinking about my brother like that!)
Getting us aroused made sense, because the next stage in processing was to take VERY explicit, pornographic photographs of each new slave. I knew my face looked distracted and aroused as Master Jerry insisted that I face the camera, one hand cupping a breast and the other fingering my clit; then on my knees, with my hands in the same places, and finally a rear (in both senses) shot through my widespread legs while my head was on the floor, looking back; Jerry had me hold my labia apart, showing my pink inner core glistening in the light from the camera. I’m sure my anus was also winking at him. I knew that there were serious criminal punishments for leaking official slave-grading photographs, but I suddenly got even more turned on at the idea of nerd Jerry selling those photos in our old high school! (What the heck was wrong with me, enjoying the idea of such humiliation? Clearly, Mistress Shirley had done a good job of turning me into a horny bitch.)
I was so aroused by thus treatment that I didn’t even think of refusing his next orders: he had me crawl backwards on my knees into the leg space of a computer table, after which he casually unzipped his jeans, whipped out his junk as he sat down in front of me, and calmly ordered me to “Suck my dick, slut.” Up to that day I had not been promiscuous, having only seen the equipment on three guys (not counting Sean.) But, at least from my crouching position, Master Jerry’s shaft and balls looked really big and even tasty. After just one preliminary lick, I wrapped my lips around the head of his penis. I guess that wasn’t enough for him, as he reached behind my head and pulled me firmly towards him, shoving his growing dick into my mouth. Now it REALLY felt huge, and he wouldn’t let me back off more than a few inches, either. I struggled not to gag.
Once I had settled into a rhythm, pumping the top four inches in and out while making wet sucking sounds, I heard him typing on the keyboard above my head. Belatedly, I realized that if he were entering me into the National Slave data base then he MUST know who was giving him head. A minute later, he backed up, momentarily removing his prick to look down at my face, only to remark,
“You know, everyone in the AV club was convinced that, with those dick-sucking lips always coated in red lipstick, you must give the best blow-jobs in the whole school. I’m really kinda disappointed; that performance won’t satisfy anyone who owns you. You have to get a lot better at sucking real fast. How ‘bout you try harder to make me hard, Shannon?” Now I really was blushing, but in a strange way his criticism made me determined to prove him wrong, to earn his respect if only as a fellatrix. Then he gently slapped his rampant shaft against my face a few times, teasing me until I captured his mushroom head in my mouth and tried to inhale as much of his shaft as I could.

For the next three minutes I licked, slobbered, kissed, and swallowed every inch of his tool while staring soulfully up at him. I knew I was succeeding when his hands reached back behind my head and he vigorously face-fucked me a dozen times. I had trouble breathing as he pounded in and out, but in a perverse way I was proud when he suddenly erupted, firing what felt like several mouthfuls down my throat. I managed to catch the last of it as he pulled back, so I pushed his spew into one cheek while I slowly licked every inch of that shaft clean, then leaned back slightly and, with a smile on my face, stuck out my tongue to show him the goo, proof of my first slave suck.
“That’s a good cock-sucking bitch; I knew you could do it! In fact, my dick looks so much better in your mouth than a silver spoon ever did.” He remarked, nodding for me to swallow as he patted my head. (Only then did I realize how much I had enjoyed this experience—damn, I must really BE a slut, I thought as my face get even redder.)
*****
(Sean’s perspective)
I had dreaded being a slave but figured it would be much worse for my sister, being a naked babe in a slave market; when I saw who was taking charge of her, I was sure of it. I thought she might die from the humiliation. But I found out the situation was no cakewalk for me, either. I mean, how would you like to be nekkid and bound, with your dick swinging around like you ENJOYED being a sex object? And that was even before I registered how emasculating it was to be pushed around by that incredibly stacked and imposing Amazonian wrangler, Mistress Willow. Dark red hair, tight clothing over a voluptuous body, usually smiling, and in total control of me. Given our size differential, it felt almost as if I were a 10-year-old being managed by an exceptionally large (and sexy) babysitter.
Which didn’t make the processing any easier. The vet tech decided he had to check me for hernias (probing down there while telling me to cough) and then feel my prostrate—from the inside. He used rubber gloves and a LOT of lube to feel inside me, then followed up with an uncomfortably large rubber butt plug, telling me I would thank him for it the first time I got reamed. NOT something to look forward to.
Nor was it any fun to prance around on the worn-out wooden platform with one other guy plus Shannon and four other females. OK, OK—I couldn’t help enjoying the sight of those young, healthy unclothed women shaking their bodies (I was in the back row with my dick very erect), but not while I also had to flaunt everything I had in front of Mistress Willow while shouting these disgusting come-ons as if I wanted one of the male wranglers to shove his prick into me. Yeech; if some guy pushed his dick into my mouth I’d either bite it off or barf all over him.
What actually happened was almost as bad as homosexual sodomy. Mistress Willow removed that damn butt plug, but only so she could photograph me posing, still buck naked, in various revealing poses. She particularly enjoyed having me kneel with my head on the floor, face looking back past my dangling scrotum and dick at the camera. My schlong was still erect and she’d put so much lube up my butt that I’m sure my anus, which still felt stretched around the plug, gleamed in the photograph.
Out of the corner of my eye, I had seen that dweeb Jerry putting Shannon through similar gyrations; I really felt sorry for her when he ordered her to suck his cock. Then I found out that Mistress Willow intended something almost as bad. After returning that butt plug up my wazoo and rebinding my wrists behind me, the economy-sized sexpot had me kneel under her work table in the same position as Shannon, and then she strapped a black dildo around her blue jean-covered waist. Damn thing must have been a foot long and 3 inches in circumference (I found myself trying to calculate the volume of that pecker—GAAA, is this what I studied geometry for??) I had never taken anything like that—other than a jumbo hotdog—in my mouth, so when I began to cautiously lick it she grabbed the back of my head and pushed slowly but firmly into my mouth. That monster must have been half-way down my throat by the time my nose encountered her belt-buckle. I will say that she took the trouble to ensure I could breathe, moving my head back and forth until I established a regular breathing pattern.
Her voice was almost sympathetic when she inquired, “Not so easy to be on the receiving end of a penis, is it, boy? Try to remember that when you get free and you want some woman to make you happy. I know you hate this right now, but I’m really doing you a favor. Cute boy like you? Odds are sometime over the next . . .” [she paused to consult the paperwork she was entering into the data base] “the next 12 months, lots of guys will want to test out your swallowing capacity. I know you’re thinking about biting their dicks off, but they’ll probably put a ring gag on you so you can’t clamp down. Besides, you do know the punishment for a slave attacking a free person, don’t you? At the very least, you’ll be chemically castrated, and perhaps the court will just cut that pretty dick off you. Which would be a waste of a nice lookin’ rod that women would love to play with. So, some free advice: learn to suck some idiot’s cock without arguing so you can keep your own. OK, sweetie?”
(Reduced to its most basic, that idea really hit home. Here I was on my knees, trying to accommodate this huge rubber intruder, and the lady spells out that I could expect to such REAL dicks many times over the next year. I was committed to slavery, and the idea was both intimidating and revolting.)
Then she went back to entering the data and uploading the photos she had taken, making comments about what a “fine ass you have there, boy” as she did so. When the ordeal was over, she withdrew the rubber invader, used a wet nap to wipe it off, and stored it in a pouch on her belt, as if she might have to face-fuck (or worse) some other slave later today. Hell, she probably did!
The next stop was the showers, or more properly speaking the “slut wash”—instead of allowing slaves to wash themselves off, the Longhorn immobilized them—ankles restrained several feet apart, wrists, bound together behind the back, being pulled skyward to force each slave to bend forward, parallel to the ground, with breasts and genitals dangling below. Then a pair of rain-suited employees, generally 18-year-olds of the opposite gender of the slave, fondled and soaped each helpless “animal” for five minutes, taking time to brush teeth but also penetrate openings and fondle male genitalia. (The chance to play with naked bodies of the opposite sex meant that these young people usually worked for minimum wage. To be honest, my only objection was that these young women didn’t CONTINUE playing with me long enough for me to orgasm!) Instead, the process was like an R-rated version of a dog washing. And THEN a warm water enema went into the large intestine, got left there for several uncomfortable minutes of gurgling, after which the “slut wash attendants” SLOWLY removed the bonds and walked the individual, who was squirming to hold butt cheeks together, over to one of several toilets where they had to unload, noisily and in full view of everyone. After which the entire process was repeated before the bedraggled slave was finally returned to his or her keeper.
After that, having to eat with bound hands, kneeling on concrete to put our faces into dog bowls of slave chow and water, was positively benign. Next, it was time to relieve myself, although it was difficult to urinate while a smiling, massively-titted female wrangler held my dick and pointed it at the pee grate on the floor. Next, our two keepers marched us to separate cages, equipped with cots and wool blankets, to spend the night. Mistress Willow released my hands and gave me instructions for the next morning; she did demand that I kneel down and kiss her boot, but that was a minor indignity, almost a routine gesture, after what I’d been through that afternoon.
Actually, I got off lightly and had as much sleep as was possible in such uncomfortable conditions. Much later, I learned that my sister had been bent over the back of a chair, ankles and wrists restrained to the chair legs, while two wranglers spit-roasted her. She pretended to be embarrassed about the experience, but the gleam in her eye told me that she had enjoyed having all that dick in her at once!
*****
(Shannon’s Perspective)
I had finally fallen into a dreamless sleep when a raucous buzzer brought me back to unpleasant reality. The lights came on and my first view was of the wire mesh cage in which I was secured; if that didn’t remind me of my new enslavement, once I began moving I was aware of an overall stiffness and slight stickiness—probably from all the stiffies that had been stuffed inside me the night before! That thought brought a slight smile to my face. Yeah, I know that no self-respecting woman should enjoy being used by a couple of strange guys, but at least they had taken pity on me, roughly manipulating my nipples and clit to ensure I got some enjoyment out of it. As I’ve said before, all slaves are addressed as “slut,” probably to remind them that they have no say about how free people use them, but I guess I qualified as a slut under the more traditional, pejorative classification of a promiscuous, horny female. That was NOT what I expected to feel after my first—what, 16 hours of slavery? In that time, I had sucked more cock, some of it less than clean, than in my preceding life as a free woman. Still, if I got that many orgasms every day, I might survive my year in a collar.

But now I needed to get going so the wranglers didn’t have an excuse to punish me. I quickly re-folded the blanket and laid it at the end of my bolted-down cot, and then knelt in the “slave spread” position, this time with my hands behind my head as well as my knees apart, facing the padlocked cage entrance to show everything that a free woman is taught to conceal. I had already noticed that the other girl in “my” cage—a black-haired, rather plump young thing who had appeared horrified when I got shafted last night—had gone through the same drill.
We had to wait, our bladders straining, for some undetermined time before a bored-looking wrangler arrived to secure our wrists and walk us to the slave toilets—no dividers or other privacy, so it was kinda hard to relieve myself with the male wrangler watching. I blushed even more when he used toilet paper to dry me afterwards.

Toilet, kibble and water for “breakfast,” and then preparation for exhibition and slave grading. The handlers put a bunch of us on a practice platform and drilled us again on block positions and slave mantras, flaunting naked bodies in the chilly air conditioned air; the “Master” of ceremonies didn’t seem as skilled as Mistress Shirley had been the night before. This experience was not only humiliating in itself but also a memory of my lewd display for a group of wranglers the previous afternoon. The block positions achieved their purpose, arousing all of us slaves again before we were graded to help us get the best possible scores.

Before I knew it, someone had sprayed Devoxer down my throat, depriving me of speech before restraining me on my back on a cold metal table that was then cranked open, leaving me spread-eagled in all my nudity, open for display. Quite apart from the sensation of helpless exposure, I was really worried that “Master” Jerry would have told our entire class to come see their favorite wet-dream ex-cheerleader “whore” spread “open for business” at the Longhorn. (Admission to the grading was available to anyone who could prove being 18 years old and could cough up a dollar for the entrance fee.) Given what he could have done, I felt almost grateful that, apparently, Jerry had only told two of his chums, the nerd couple Betsy Shuler and Terry Hastings. Terry was as silent as the Devoxer had forced me to be, staring wide-eyed at my “famous” tits and face, not to mention my heretofore carefully-concealed cunt. Two night ago I had shaved my bikini area clean, making me feel even more exposed. The bulge in Jerry’s jeans told me he enjoyed the view of me both nude and helpless. (If you’re wondering why I used such crude terms, remember that I’m writing this after an entire year in which I learned to think of myself as a bimbo sex slave. No sense worrying about euphemisms.)

Betsy, bless her heart, was much kinder. After the first look of shock when she saw my body on display, she resolutely focused only on my face, walking up very close to me to almost whisper, “I think you’re very brave, Shannon. In your place, I’d probably faint from the horror of this situation. Keep it up, girl!” After that encouragement, I was almost GLAD that the three biggest nerds in our high school class had witnessed my debasement at the Long Horn.
I was still feeling reassured and happy, smiling quietly, when the slave wranglers swept out the peanut gallery of just-turned-18s and dirty old men, making room for serious, middle-aged men and women each carrying a tablet—the actual slave merchants whose average assessment would constitute my slave grade, followed later that day by those same merchants bidding to literally “own my ass.” These people had seen so much slave dick and pussy that, apparently, they no longer reacted or felt attracted to it. Instead, each one silently looked us over and made notes on his or her tablets. A few peeled back my lips to check my teeth, as if I were a horse for sale—that image made me shudder at the thought of becoming a bound pony girl! Otherwise, almost the only touching was to slide a finger between my labia, apparently checking for arousal. I couldn’t see why they would need to check, considering that I was still half-terrified, sporting erect nipples on heaving breasts while my clit stood at attention in the center of a tiny puddle.

Then my exposure was over, thank heavens; an anonymous (if handsy) wrangler released me from the rack, clipped my wrists together, and marched me off to another of the many wire cages. There, he sprayed the antidote for Devox down my throat, casually groped my breasts and labia, and released me. Just before he locked the cage door, he looked at his tablet. For the first time, he was almost human, telling me that I had graded as Choice Plus and that I needed to maintain my arousal so I would do well when I came up for auction.
He was right, of course—Choice Plus was a fairly good grade, but if I wanted to earn a high price at auction—and therefore PROBABLY better treatment as a slave—I needed to keep fondling myself so that I was close to boiling when I ended up on the auction block. But masturbating started to irritate my sensitive skin—horrible as it may be to admit, I almost wanted to be back on display to keep me turned on. I also wished that I knew how Sean was doing. I didn’t realize that both of my wishes were about to come true in the most bizarre manner possible! At least I avoided the auction block for now . . .
*****
(Interlude, Shift Manager’s Office)
After years of boredom and aggravation on the afternoon-evening shift, Harold Wallace had finally gotten his big break, becoming the shift operations manager for the 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift, when everything was happening. He wanted things to go smoothly, but didn’t have a clue how to improve sales in the Longhorn’s gift shop. He blamed Becky, the scatter-brained woman who ran the shop—as far as he was concerned, she was an affirmative action hire, in this case NOT because of her racial background, but rather because she was an ex-slave, one of the homeless and clueless people whom Jesse Foster, the VP for Operations, had hired on for six months while they transitioned back to freedom. About the only thing Becky could do without screwing up too badly was work in the shop, but by process of attrition she was the most experienced employee there, so now Harold was pressuring her to find a way to increase traffic and sales.
Well, he reflected, even a broken clock is right twice a day—she actually came up with an idea while looking aimlessly through the photo log of the current slave inventory.
"Well, well, well, lookie here—a brother & sister, both graded Choice." Becky cooed. "I bet you two think you know each other pretty well, huh? How about you get to know each other a little better?"

She turned to Harold. "Any problem if I put these two in the robo training collars, and have them 69 each other on the rotating display in front of the registers?"

"It's your department, Becky," Harold said, not looking up from his inventory tablet. "I don't care if you have Santa butt-fucking his elves while Rudolf licks their boobs, so long as you get your numbers up."

(For the benefit of those readers not up on the latest in slave training technology: the so-called “robo collar” could be attached to the top of an existing slave market shock collar, where it did two things: First, it had strong magnets that, while fluctuating in power every few seconds, pulled the wearer towards metal plates in a tight set of webbing around another person’s thighs and genitals. Secondly, the collar attachment both held the slave’s mouth open (like a dental dam or ring gag) AND would tense and relax in the same rhythm as the magnetic fields changed. The result? A slave wearing such a collar attachment, when ordered to fellate another person wearing the webbing, would find himself/herself rhythmically moving head and mouth back and forth, unable to break contact with the receiver’s genitals while being forced into wide-open mouth. Any resistance led to audible warnings as the shock circuits engaged. One attachment even allowed the wrangler to automatically dribble water into the mouth so that the mouth remained hydrated and sensuous.)

(One more point, a spoiler alert: what Becky planned might be considered incest if it happened between two free people. Slaves, however, have no freedom of choice concerning whom they have sex with, regardless of their preferences about race or gender, nor are they allowed to refuse because of being married or genetically related.)

Giggling to herself, Becky wrote out an e-mail to Jerry and Willow, the two day-shift wranglers who, among other duties, were responsible for shepherding the O’Brien twins through their processing. Jerry just smiled at the thought of the high-and-mighty cheerleader queen bitch being humiliated in such a manner; he wouldn’t have treated her like that on his own, but couldn’t help enjoying the prospect of it happening to her. Willow felt sorry for the girl and guy, but that sympathy was soon replaced by a rosy daydream in which the redheaded wrangler and her husband, Jack, got to play the starring roles . . .
*****
Despite the perversity of it, Shannon's tongue felt magnificent, and her mouth encased him like a velvet glove. "If she wasn't my sister..." Sean thought. Catching himself, he realized that she WAS his sister, and he actually enjoyed licking her pussy while her warm tongue caressed his cock. They lay bound together, mouths to crotches, on a slowly rotating platform where six aisles of the Longhorn Gift Shop met in sort of a roundabout. And every few rotations, an automatic whip laced across his bare buttocks or the soles of her feet. The public address system, which had been playing cheesy Christmas songs, suddenly interrupted “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.”

"Would you like to buy your sweetheart an early Christmas present?" the recorded voice intoned. "How about a brother and sister slave couple? Now available at the Longhorn Slave Market."

"Wow, do you think you and your sister could do that, honey? For Christmas? Or how about me and your sister?" a husband asked his wife.

"In your dreams, Donald."

Sean was about to cum when a shock from the tiny collar encircling his penis jolted him back to the reality that he was here to please others, not to be pleased. Shannon felt it as well and gave out a little cry as the buzz from his control device shocked her mouth, too.

"Flip," the voice in Sean's ear commanded. But Sean didn't want to flip, as he knew he'd be putting Shannon's shapely ass—and he couldn’t help admiring it from this angle—up in position for the whip. Gritting his teeth, he decided to hold on.

Crack! Crack!

"Just do it, Sean," Shannon said, popping his dick out of her mouth to speak. "I'll be all right. They just want to us to switch positions for variety, and make sure the folks watching get to see... everything they want to. AAAAH!"

A crack across the soles of her bare feet and a computerized voice in her ear informed her that her brother's dick was NOT to leave her mouth.

Not that she needed much reminding—she had only spoken because she felt sorry for him, trying to be the big man accepting suffering to protect her. No, she didn’t like being whipped—not really—but she was so damn excited that even the pain contributed to her endorphin high. For 20-plus hours now, she hadn’t been Shannon O’Brien, rich cheerleader—she’d been a slave naked object, getting felt up and manipulated and just plain used by everyone she met. Even the high school nerds were now her superiors. Embarrassment [she noticed the sound of “bare ass” in the middle of that word], stimulation, subjugation, had all brought her to a boil. She knew she shouldn’t be intimate with her brother, and the back of her mind asked how the hell she would ever look him in the eye when they regained their freedom? The FRONT of her mind was too busy enjoying the dual sensations of a warm tongue bathing her clit and labia at the same time she had a warm, firm dick to lick—the fact that it swelled as she stimulated it gave her a sense of sexual control over the guy even though she had no real control at all.

As she slowly turned, Shannon caught the occasional glimpse of a brown-skinned girl about her age wearing what Shannon always referred to as "a rag around her head." It took Shannon several dizzying turns before she recognized the girl as "Brownie", which was a play on whatever her actual, unpronounceable name was. Shannon never thought enough of Brownie to bother to tease her, as she hardly seemed worth the effort. Her conservative clothes made her enough of an outcast, and Shannon and her friends were content that the girl did not try to act like she was better than she was.

Shannon had heard the girl had gotten into MIT, which didn't surprise her, as she was in all the nerdy, brainiac geek classes. As she turned, she watched Brownie scoop a small bag of popcorn out of the popcorn machine and sit down at the bench, seemingly content to watch quietly as two of the school's whitest & most privileged, arrogant elite performed like sex monkeys for her viewing pleasure. Brownie munched her popcorn while Sean munched Shannon’s rug.

Sean had heard from one of his friends that the girl watching from the bench had a crush on her, so when he saw her in the hall he always flashed her his most winning smile, just to see her die a little under the glow of his handsome athleticism. Much to his embarrassment, this girl he had teased but would never, ever date was staring intently at his erection as his sister licked and sucked him. CRACK! The girl on the bench giggled every time the whip cracked against his squirming ass, and Sean wasn't sure that his pride didn't hurt more than the red welt that had just been laid upon his exposed backside.

They both climaxed—not simultaneously, but within 30 seconds of each other. Shannon had to swallow rapidly to avoid drowning in spunk, and at the same time she flooded the face of her partner-whom-she-tried-not-to-identify. They both kept swirling their tongues around even when their bodies went rigid.

And then they both heard a smattering of applause. With his head buried between his sister’s muscular thighs, Sean couldn’t really see, but Shannon suddenly became aware that they had an audience of about 15 adults, all grinning and some of them looking envious. By this time, she thought she had lost the ability to blush, but she was wrong—she went beet red, and periodic announcements reminded everyone that she had just sucked off her own brother. In public! In fact, between the warm feelings in her groin and the flush on her face, her brain almost ran out of oxygen.

Fortunately for their sanity, a few moments later the rotating platform coasted to a stop and their grinning wranglers untied them, cuffed their hands again, and marched them away. Jerry-the-nerd was fully aware that the king and queen of the school, the golden child brother and sister, had just done a 69 on each other and cum in public; Shannon couldn’t even meet his eyes as he guided her out of the gift shop with his hand firmly on her ass.

“Good idea, Becky,” said Harold, absent-mindedly squeezing her butt when he looked at register receipts for the third-highest sales day in the Longhorn’s history. Being mentally still deep in bimbo slut territory, Becky giggled happily while she wondered which sluts she should put on display tomorrow.

*****

The twins were so sticky from their efforts that Jerry and Willow ran them back through the Slut Wash again, with the two strung up opposite each other while the attendants gleefully fondled, penetrated, and flushed out their bodies. While the guys still enjoyed grabbing Shannon’s boobs and goosing her magnificent butt, their victims were almost “fucked out,” too tired from prolonged teasing and climaxing to react. Or perhaps they were just too humiliated to enjoy sexual attention any longer.

Shannon was so tired and subdued that, when she heard a pair of wrangler boots approaching her cage, she almost forgot to react, barely assuming “slave spread” in time to pose, submissively, for Master Jerry (he could never be Jerry-the-nerd again; today would always give him psychological supremacy whenever they met, even after she regained her freedom and her clothing.)

“I’ve got some good news, better news, and bad news, Shannon,” Jerry said with a straight face. All she could do was murmur “Yes, Master,” which thrilled him even more than all the opportunities he’d been given to feel her up. So he took pity on the broken cheerleader queen.

“OK, let me tell you: First, you don’t have to go on the auction block. Your little performance in the gift shop produced a spirited informal bidding contest, and the two of you sold for a new high price for one-year slaves, $62,000.”

“Thank God!” she muttered, unable to take another exhibition today. “I mean, thank you, Master.” Damn, that word sounded good to him when it came off her once-conceited but now cock-sucking lips, lips that had sucked HIM yesterday and her own brother today. Who says there’s no karma?

“Second, even though your new owner is entitled to have both your butts branded today, she’s decided not to. Doesn’t mean you won’t get branded sometime this year, just not today.”

“That’s even better, Master,” Shannon said and even smiled, realizing how much she had been dreading getting the “ass burn plus aspirin” that was the usual fate of Prime- and Choice-rated slaves. “So, what’s the bad news, please?”

The gangling wrangler bent over and firmly squeezed her left breast, flicking the semi-erect nipple with his thumb. “The bad news is that both of you get your nipples pierced. I expect you to be brave and obedient, slut.”

Her heart sank, but nipple rings were still better than a huge branding iron searing her tushy. At least she hoped they would hurt less and heal more quickly. For the past 18 years, she had lived in part off the profits of this market; now, she realized, she had finally contributed to its bottom line by putting her bottom (and the rest of her body) on that line. Knowing how much the market contributed to her lavish lifestyle, Shannon had always been a full-throated (ironic, huh?) supporter of slavery, and had argued that it was not only a necessary component in building a great civilization, but a benevolent institution that operated for the benefit of inferiors too stupid to properly care for themselves.

"If the girls had any brains or self-respect,” she had said more than once, “they wouldn't be collared, naked, and on their knees sucking some stranger's dick. Better they learn to swallow, then make the job creators like me and my parents swallow a bunch of taxes supporting them."

Well, THAT had come back to bite, or rather choke, her, she thought wryly. Sigh. No sense arguing when you’re a slave. “Yes, Master,” she replied docilely, really making Jerry’s day.

An hour later, two visibly pierced, ringed, and pained twins, hands again zip-tied behind them and regular dog collars replacing their shock devices, arrived at the shipping section near the loading dock. A close observer might have noticed a dribble of white stuff coming off the left end of Shannon’s full lips, while Sean had a more generalized sheen of sticky wetness around his mouth and nose. Both Jerry and Willow, who were still escorting the new slaves, had pleased expressions on their faces.

In a rare moment of empathy, José the shipping clerk decided that these two teenagers had suffered enough for one day without him extracting the usual “service fee” by using their cuffed bodies. Which didn’t mean they got away completely free. While José prepared their shipping papers, the 18-year-old twins were bent (gently, to avoid jarring their nipple rings) over the respective shipping cages. Then both of them got large, lubricated plugs thrust through their winking starfish, with a whispered explanation that they needed to stretch back there because they would soon have bulbous ponytails in the same places. That was the first time Shannon and Sean knew they were going to become ponies. Oh, joy.

Two minutes later, both of them had straddled the nearest pee grate to relieve themselves. Then, with a canvas gag in his/her mouth, each had crawled backwards into a wire dog cage where zip-ties secured their ankles to the back corners of the cage and their bound wrists to the center rear of their cage. They knelt uncomfortably on the hard trays at the bottom of their cages, praying that they wouldn’t have to urinate before they reached their unknown destinations.

Five minutes after that, a forklift deposited their cages into the back of a panel van; twin electronic beeps indicated that the two helpless sluts had left the Longhorn’s inventory, but their future was uncertain. Well, though Sean, Grandfather did want them to experience reality.

*****
(Interlude, Vice President’s Office)

Mr. O’Brien’s left eyebrow rose when Jesse Foster managed to tell him that his grandchildren had been on public display 69ing each other. This discussion occurred five minutes after the two men watched, on security cameras, as the twin poodle cages had been loaded into a panel van and driven away. Jesse had done his best to protect them while they were at the Long Horn—his wife had overseen the block training and kept an eye on the two as they were processed, but there was only so much he could do without making them stand out suspiciously from the other sluts. So he had to allow their display in the gift shop, where at least their faces were obscured by each other’s bodies.

There was a long silence after Jesse finished his story, visibly embarrassed. Then the older man broke the silence: “Well, I did ask you not to show them any special treatment, just ensure they were treated like any other slaves. So I can’t fault you for that. Besides, I suspect it would have cost me more to purchase them off the regular auction block than from that impromptu sale in the gift shop.”

“So, what do you want the two of them to do at the Spinning Wheel?”

“I hope that Lois Spaulding will ride them hard and put them up wet,” the older man said with a bark of laughter. “And if the Spinning Wheel doesn’t knock them down a few pegs, I may have to try something else to bring them down to earth.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Mr. O’Brien,” Jesse tried to be reassuring. “You can see for yourself that we’ve already given them a new outlook on life.”

“Yeah; I hope it sticks.”

(To be continued)

[Jim927]

This story is off to a great start, Carl. As you have demonstrated in the past, you have a real talent for writing and we are lucky that you share it with us. I can’t wait for the next chapters.
Jim

[jeepster]

Interesting! Following their year long "adventure" should be a good read! Amazing how many "old" characters you brought into this chapter!

[Carl Bradford]

FYI, I have written two more parts to this tale of tail, but the finale may be delayed a month because of travel. Apology in advance.

[Jim927]

Carl, your stories have never disappointed so I don’t mind waiting and in the overall scope of things a month or so is nothing. My frustration is always with the authors who get us sucked into a multiparty, sometimes long multiparty story and then don’t finish it. I know life has a tendency to interfere so I try not to judge but for us readers, it can be pretty frustrating.
Thanks for contributing your stories here and for the work you do helping other authors,
Jim

[Belinda]

Carl another wonderfully story. You are just such an amazing author.

Belinda