Shannon and Sean, Pt. 04

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace—usually as punishment for serious crime, foreclosure when a person pledged his/her body as collateral for a loan and was then unable to pay, or in this instance voluntary self-indenture. 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 Avicia, ESS, and Joe Doe for helpful suggestions. This is pure fantasy; please don’t try this at home, even if you know some young people who would benefit from a swift kick—or more—in the butt.)

(Sean O’Brien’s perspective)

This was getting old. For the third time in about seven months, I was slave naked, collared, gagged, butt-plugged, and kneeling in an oversized poodle cage with my wrists zip-tied behind my back, after which they, along with my two ankles, had been tied to the back of the cage. My dick was once again restrained in a chastity belt, and my mouth held a canvas gag coated with some unknown slave wrangler’s cum—the traditional “joke” to humiliate a slave further (as if that were possible) by making said slave feel as if he/she had given a blow-job and then swallowed only part of some guy’s disgusting goo. My knees hurt as I knelt on a hard tray, and worst of all I had no idea how long I would be in that cage nor where I was headed—the usual situation for a slave.

The neighboring cage contained my sister, Shannon, similarly restrained. In my mind, she had it worse than I. I hated being sodomized by free men, but sometimes I got to fuck or lick free women, so life wasn’t completely bad. By contrast, my sister was a beautiful woman who was frequently used and abused by both genders of free people, and there was nothing I could do to reduce her anguish and humiliation. Fortunately, I guess, on our previous assignment as sluts a guy from our high school, Mike Lefkowicz, had discovered her quite by accident. Mike was a management intern at the resort who had at least made her feel happy and respected while he pounded her brains out. I only hoped that she hadn’t fallen so hard that she would expect an epic love affair once we regained our freedom at the end of our year’s servitude—for all I could tell, Mike had just indulged himself when offered the chance to screw the enslaved cheerleader queen of our former high school. If nothing else, our grandfather’s insistence that we self-indenture had taught us both the value of our own freedom and the importance of treating all slaves with consideration and respect. Maybe the old man wasn’t quite as crazy as we had thought . . .

*****
When our cages came off the aircraft at our destination, I heard one of the baggage handlers say that we were at Logan Airport, which meant Boston. Then, still bound, gagged, and caged like the domesticated animals we legally were, we were loaded into the back of a DHL van that took us on a wild, start-stop ride suggesting that the driver was weaving through heavy traffic. Eventually, we ended up at another loading dock, this one remarkably clean and filled, except for us, with pallets of what looked like copy paper, printer cartridges, and office supplies. We went through what I now recognized as the usual ritual for slaves being transferred to new owners: “beeps” indicating that our national slave numbers had been loaded into a new system, followed by someone cutting the zip-ties that bound us to our cages and then opening the cage doors to release us. Orders to shuffle forward to a line on the floor, then wait until new shock collars were wrapped around our necks. The only relevant part of the normal warning speech was the first two sentences: “You are at the slave kennels of Peterson Enterprises in Boston, Massachusetts, where you will be assigned a variety of service duties. Most of the time you will provide general office support, although during the next three evenings you will perform at a different location that we will explain later.”

“General office support” didn’t sound too horrible, but we soon learned that the “different location” required some of the most disgusting service of our entire year in collars. After a hasty and tasteless meal of slave kibble, my sister and I were shoved into the back seat of a car, which (even with hands cuffed) was a lot more comfortable than “poodle express” cages. That was the only consideration we received, however. The wrangler who drove us walked us into the back door of a building where we suddenly came upon a long line of perhaps 15 positions, 10 of which were filled by naked slaves, both male and female, kneeling, hands cuffed behind their backs while their collars were tied via a very short chain that held their faces close to small holes—the empty positions had light streaming through them while the ones occupied by slaves were obstructed by something as the slaves bobbed forward and back, some of them making small sucking sounds.

I had just arrived at the horrifying explanation for this bizarre display when the middle-aged woman who obviously ran the place, clothed in jeans and a tight sweater, confirmed my worst fears. “That’s right, boys and girls, this is the back end of a Glory Hole, and you get to provide warm, wet mouths to entertain our customers plus a free helping of protein to swallow from each customer.”

The male wrangler who had brought us there explained that this was part of our orientation to working for Peterson Enterprises, which occasionally provided supplemental mouths for this establishment. “We have all newly-arrived slaves suck here for a few nights so they realize how well off they are when they work in our offices. If you balk at licking a prick or swallowing cum, Mistress Christine here will be happy to clamp an alligator clip onto your clit or penis—a clip that will be connected to an electric circuit so that the customer can shock you where it really hurts! Customers really love finding those circuits activated—the cock sucker makes such interesting noises when the button gets pushed!”

He paused to let that sink in, then continued: “Behave yourself, both here and in office work, and you probably won’t have to come back and suck dick here again, except perhaps during certain holidays when demand for oral services is high. Misbehave in any way and you’ll find yourself back here on your knees for a minimum of two weeks. Just remember: no matter what the executives want you to do in the office, it will be a lot more pleasant than swallowing six dicks every hour, followed by getting cum down your throat or painted all over your face. Understand, sluts?”

I was so horrified that I barely remembered to answer “Yes, Master” to his question.

That’s what we did for the next three evenings. For 90 minutes or 6 cocks, whichever came first, we had to satisfy the lowest urges of free men, some of whom had significant deficiencies in personal hygiene, if you know what I mean. Then the lady in charge, Mistress Christine, would release us temporarily, one at a time, offer a sample-sized bottle of mouthwash, and let us use the toilet and try to zone out from our horrendous reality. If business was slow, she sometimes offered me (I guess because I was reasonably good looking), the opportunity—and believe me, it was an opportunity!—to kneel and orally service HER, which was a lot more fun than sucking cocks, let me tell you. I found myself thanking the Lord that Mistress Joanne, the wrangler who trained me at the ranch, had instructed me on cunnilingus, because once Christine found out how good I was between her thighs, I became her favorite rug-muncher for the weekend. Every minute I spent between her thighs was a minute I didn’t have to struggle against the urge to retch around some wannabee stud’s puny penis. By contrast, my unfortunate sister must have swallowed two gallons of strange goo over three nights. After hours we had to mop up the mess to maintain basic sanitation.

Believe me, BOTH of us learned our lesson, and were completely, eagerly cooperative no matter how loathsome our duties seemed in the Peterson Enterprises offices.

*****
Not only that, but in the office we actually got to wear clothes of a sort—usually the kind of cheap scrubs favored by cleaning crews, augmented for my sister by the first bra she had been allowed to wear since we stripped down at the Longhorn slave market back in December. The absence of breast support had become a much BIGGER problem because the horny juice injections given to female slaves caused her already bodacious boobs to expand by most of a cup size. She later told me what a relief it was not to deal with the weight of those puppies pulling her forward all the time she was a naked or nearly-naked slave.

All that said, the office bore only a superficial resemblance to an ordinary white-collar business. Peterson Enterprises needed a sub-title, something to the effect of “Perverts Extraordinaire: dedicated to the sexual exploitation of human beings, with occasional interruptions when business breaks out between sexual liaisons.” Yet we were still expected to get through a normal load of work each day.

(Shannon O’Brien’s perspective)

We did a lot of mind-numbing gofer work in the offices. After all this time as a slave, getting felt up was no big deal, but of course the dick-heads in suits didn’t stop with just touching. This was heaven for overgrown little boys who could finally satisfy all their adolescent desires while actually getting PAID to do so, an incredible opportunity in the era of “Me Too” and wage equality. Almost every time I delivered something to an office or came back after photocopying a document, the douchebag in charge wanted a blow-job if not more. More than one of the free administrative assistants, almost all of whom were good-looking, college-educated women, privately thanked me for keeping their bosses happy, because otherwise the free women would have been harassed, which was not only repulsive but interfered with their actual duties.)

My brother seemed to get the same treatment, and I knew he hated sucking dick whereas I had gotten used to it and could (sometimes) enjoy a mouthful of cock so long as it was clean. Even the taste of cum didn’t bother me much after eight plus months in a collar, especially when you work in a place where the bathrooms all have bottles of mouthwash for the sluts. Fortunately for Sean, there were a significant number of females on staff, including at least two who were senior managers (to be honest, some of the male executives enjoyed staring at the bodies even of those women, although the dick-heads never dared proposition them—why risk harassment charges when they had a slave staff to service their over-active pricks?) Not all the free females were young and good looking, of course, but almost all were in far better shape than the average woman who had used my brother at the resort, so I don’t imagine it was any major task for him to get it up. In fact, given that we no longer wore chastity belts, I noticed a bulge in his scrubs and his eyes sometimes tracking the better-looking females, slave and free, in the offices of Peterson Enterprises (with the word “Peter” in the firm’s title, why was I surprised there were so many stiff peters around? It was as if some of these jerks really were brain-dead, but for some reason rigor mortis has set in on their cocks and their little brains before their joints.)

Anyway, my brother later confessed that he enjoyed fellating and fucking the female staff; he sheepishly acknowledged that while he had no desire to be sodomized, it was still much nicer to have a sweet-smelling woman rub her boobs on his back while pegging him than to have a male butt-fuck him. In other words, we had both gotten over many of our hangups about servicing other people—which still didn’t mean that we WANTED to be used casually like that, nor that we had become willingly bi-sexual.

In fact, there were unspoken limits concerning how the free people could use the slaves. Nobody cared how WE felt about being face-fucked, bent over a desk, or sodomized and left unsatisfied, but in my first month I twice heard a supervisor reprimand a junior suit for neglecting his duties while he got his jollies from the collared staff. When that happened, I pretended to be selectively deaf, although it was nice to think that I had indirectly been the instrument for a self-propelled dick-head to be punished for his thoughtless use of my body. . .

What went on after hours was often far more debasing. Based on seniority, the suits of all genders could reserve the slaves for evening use, with Fridays extending into Saturdays. The only time limitation was that we slaves must be returned to the kennels by 7:30 a.m. on weekdays and by 7 p.m. on Saturdays, giving us time for a shower on a weekday morning and a long rest on Sundays. Every Monday morning, we were all tested for sexually-transmitted diseases, which suggested that the management was well aware that their slave inventory was sometimes used for gang-bangs on Friday nights, and wanted to do contact tracing before we might spread an infection the following week. Lawyers are supposed to be amoral, but if they got VD it might cut into their billable hours (horrors!)

The female executives seemed divided into two groups: some borrowed male slaves like my brother, while others enjoyed dominant lesbian games with the female sluts like me. One such female would book several female slaves and choreograph a lesbian porn scene; after we had rehearsed it she would film us doing lesbian porn for her private enjoyment. At least I HOPED it stayed private and didn’t end up on the internet somewhere; another part of me hoped that I got to watch these scenes, as they were wildly erotic and the best lesbian sex I had all year. I still had only limited interest in lesbian sex, although it was nice to be with someone who cared about my pleasure and might even snuggle with me once we were finished.

The male dicks, especially the overgrown adolescents right out of college, tended to cooperate with each other, reserving two or more of the (usually female) slaves so that they could be shared around and double-teamed on evenings or weekends. I must admit that I usually got a thrill out of being filled by two or three dicks at once, and one memorable time I had three cocks inside me and two more than I was somehow expected to entertain with my hands. I sometimes doubted whether there was sufficient room in my bowels for two pricks, even small ones, to fit side-by-side in my soft tissues down there, but after ten-plus months of sexual servitude I couldn’t help climaxing at the sensation; my birth canal and colon both compressed so strongly that my own orgasms triggered those of my temporary masters. No sense kidding myself—I had been conditioned to be a cock-hungry slut, whore, or whatever pejorative term you cared to apply to me. I just hoped that I could regain a LITTLE control over my horniness when the collar finally came off in December. Otherwise, I might as well give up on college studies and just major in whoredom, fulfilling all the negative and unfair stereotypes concerning cheerleaders.

For the moment, I attempted to endure the humiliation and take some pleasure and comfort where I could find them. In the process I became a fairly good actress. In the office, I tried to appear blank and emotionless, avoiding any feeling or sign of humiliation that might encourage the dick-heads to target me when they wanted to enjoy subjugating a woman. Once I was singled out for use, I would smile like a mindless bimbo, giggle happily when penetrated, and work hard to bring them off as quickly and painlessly as possible. And I learned how to bring on my own orgasm almost whenever desired, usually by remembering all the happiness I felt when a genuinely-considerate master—Mike Lefkowicz—made love to me. I admit it—I had (and still have) it bad for that guy, who had known me in high school and could have made my life hell at the casino, but instead he treated me as a precious human being while still pounding my brains out to our mutual satisfaction!

Imagine my elation when, one Friday night when three junior executives had checked me and two other girls out for the evening, I arrived at the designated hotel suite to find that Master Mike was part of the party! Acting disinterested went out the window in an instant as my face was split by the widest possible grin—one of the other girls later told me that I suddenly appeared to be as eager to get it on as the clowns who had reserved us for the evening. I had no idea what magic had brought him to that Boston hotel room, but I was overjoyed and incredibly aroused to see him. (My grandfather’s executive assistant, Belle Bergen, later told me that Mike had the audacity to make an appointment with grandfather and ask permission to propose to me once my year in a collar was finished. Belle was so impressed that she privately told Mike where to find me, after which he had befriended several of the young morons who worked at Peterson and maneuvered himself into an invitation to a slave bang weekend. But Mike himself never told me or anyone else that he knew me, just winked at me to play along with his game.)

Anyway, there he was, and without bragging he somehow convinced these walking erections that his experience working with slaves at the Casino made him an expert on motivating them. He began with the obvious, but often overlooked, point that treating slaves with even a modicum of consideration would get much more aroused and cooperative slave girls. Of course, he “randomly” chose me as his demonstration subject—or I guess “object” would be more accurate than “subject,” considering how little autonomy slaves had. We pretended not to know each other, but he proceeded to enact the perfect conduct for a new slave owner—he asked my name and thereafter used it exclusively, complimenting me on my beauty and praising my obedience and performance. After the fact, the other two girls described his act as a model of how they wish they were treated at all times; they told me that the clowns who had checked me out for the night appeared astonished at how responsive the unusually withdrawn, distracted blonde slave became. He asked about my previous service, pretended surprise that I had worked at the same casino where he was an intern, and thereafter described to his audience how my previous training would make me more responsive—the pony girl who wanted approval, the casino slave who would respond to specific instructions, and so on. He politely ordered me into different poses, then fondled me intimately. At one point, he had me sit on the edge of a table in front of him, then interlock my fingers behind my head and lean back, displaying most of my erogenous zones to his touches (including the touch of his hands massaging my nipples while wrapping my tits around his dick) and compliments. I didn’t need any acting skills to be overjoyed and orgasmic when he spent one minute tonguing my labia—which was about 40 seconds more male-on-female cunnilingus than I had received in my previous six weeks of servitude at Peterson’s!
By that time, I was so happy to see the love of my life and to be handled by a guy who actually cared that I went off into multiple orgasms, after which I fulfilled my previous promise to Master Mike that I would willingly humiliate myself for him—I began repeating slave mantras, begging him to “Ram your huge cock into any of my openings, Master; use me, make me your property, your slut” etc., etc. He had me turn over so that I was bent over the table, facing away from him, at which point I reached back with both hands to spread my butt cheeks apart and offer him his choice of whatever he wanted from my body—and he didn’t hesitate to ream me fore and aft. To this day I still blush when I recall how servile I was that day—which doesn’t prevent me from acting the same way any time he wants me!

My performance was the appetizer for a full-on orgy that night, to the point where I lost track of which dick(s) used me in which openings. Although I focused on Mike, I still tried to support his claim to be a sort of “slave whisperer,” pretending to be eager for any sexual use. At least, after giving my love a very sloppy blow-job in the shower, I got to spend the night in his arms, where he whispered praises to be as if I were a pet who had performed her tricks well—which is a more polite way of saying that I was his prize bitch! At least I left him with no doubt about the “depth” of my willingness to serve him any time and in any orifice . . .

The junior suits spread the word about how I had performed that night, which had mixed results. On the one hand, every free male at Peterson’s suddenly began to treat the collared help with much greater consideration and a modicum of respect—we were still free targets for sexual use both inside and out of office hours, but overall slave treatment improved notably. Nobody really cared about us, but they suddenly recalled the old adage about getting more flies with honey than vinegar. On the other hand, however, I became known as a volcano of submissive sex, booked out for every weekend and most evenings where, to conceal my love for Mike, I had to re-enact my slutty surrender several times a week. I learned to simply pretend that whichever micro-dick was using me was actually Mike, or at least that Mike had ordered me to entertain him. I have no doubt that the count of how many times a prick went into my body during that year grew to more than 300, perhaps 500.

*****
Finally, the anniversary of our self-indenture approached. After a final flurry of fervent fellatio and frantic fucking (with us being the suckers and fuckees) Sean and I were once again reduced to naked, gagged, and bound pieces of slut meat, kneeling uncomfortably in poodle cages on a cargo plane bound for Texas. Although our servitude was virtually over, two wranglers maintained total control over our nude bodies as they fondled and frog-marched us into an office of the Texas Agriculture Department, where our grandfather awaited us. It was already creepy to have to appear nude and bound in front of my grandfather, but then this whole thing was his pervert idea. To my disgust, though, he was accompanied by his executive assistant, Belle Bergen—you might think it was fitting for the year to end with the same witness who had checked us into the slave market, but my brother and I really didn’t need for her to witness our naked humiliation yet again, especially because both of us felt beaten down and passive after a year of complete subservience. [She later told us that both of them were shocked in the change in our demeanor.] At least she had brought along clothing for us. Besides, I suspect that without the presence of such well-dressed and influential witnesses, the Ag. Dept. flunky would probably have demanded—at my expense—the blow-job commonly given by each female at the start and end of her servitude to the official who certified the beginning and end of enslavements. Once again, slavery had taught us to be thankful for small favors.

I quickly had reason to be grateful for Belle’s presence, too. Grandfather, who was in a mellow mood (and just possibly chagrined, although he would never admit it!) because of how we had surrendered to his demands, told us to ask Belle for “anything within reason” for Christmas. I think both of the older folk were surprised by the altruistic nature of our requests, both of which reflected what we had learned in the past year. Sean asked for a 6-figure donation to Texas Freedom Foundation, the organization that helped former slaves to re-integrate into society as free people; he even volunteered some of his time over the Christmas holidays to work there. I had a much narrower request: I wanted a kind-hearted Puerto Rican slave named Angel (I had memorized her identification number) to be located, purchased, freed, and helped out after she had actually bet (and lost) her ass, covering for me and being beaten at the Casino hotel in Virginia when I had been so deeply in love with Mike that I neglected my own duties as a slave maid cleaning rooms.

Belle promised to get right on it (and five days later delivered a freed and clothed Angel to me, where I found her a job and tried to befriend her. When she dropped us off back at our family home, however, Belle stared hard at me and remarked,

“You really surprised me, girl. I thought for sure that you would ask me for this,” as she handed me a file card with Mike’s phone number, address, and e-mail. Then she drove away, leaving my brother and me to try to establish a new, more humane relationship with our house slaves. They had all heard that we had experienced life in a collar, but of course they had to pretend to know nothing.

I needed time before I tried to reconnect with Mike, of course. Like a prisoner suddenly released into society, I had to regain my own sense of initiative, to learn again how to make simple decisions such as what to wear, what and when to eat, where to drive my car, and so on. My brother sheepishly admitted that he was experiencing some of the same passivity. I had to force myself to schedule a beauty salon appointment and then to make trivial decisions such as what clothes to wear to it and what color I wanted my nails to be painted. In addition, there were details to arrange such as scheduling classes and paying tuition for the spring semester that would begin in mid-January.

Gradually, mundane activities like this began to restore my independence, and just before Christmas I nerved myself to call “Master” Mike and get him to agree to meet for coffee.

The sight of him smiling at me was a huge thrill, and gradually we began to have an almost-normal if superficial conversation. I was nerving myself—once the cheerleader queen and now a diffident, bashful wreck, to ask him whether we could go out together sometime. Before I could get to the sticking point, however, an equally-nervous Mike suddenly began apologizing for taking advantage of me so shamelessly while I was a slave. When I burst out laughing, he appeared devastated and ready to bolt out of the coffee shop.

“No, No, Mas—I mean, Mike.” I sputtered, grabbing his arm. “I found it funny that you were apologizing for using me when dozens, hell hundreds of guys did the same thing. When I self-indentured, I knew I had to endure such treatment. But you made it so much better—you were both kind and a fantastic lover who made me dream of submitting to you again. For the past five months, all I’ve dreamed about is regaining my freedom so that I could find you and surrender myself to you. Don’t get me wrong—I NEVER want to be enslaved EVER again, but the one big exception is that I want to be YOUR slut any way and any time you will have me.”

I didn’t know whether I wanted to strip and kneel before him or just fall into his arms—we compromised on the latter, necking shamelessly in the middle of that shop. With almost no coherent discussion, we abandoned our coffees and rushed out of the shop, checking into a (fortunately nearby) motel. Once alone together in a room, he paused to pin me against the door for a long, long kiss, after which we frantically disrobed and ended up in the bed, clinched tightly together.

And there it all came to a halt! I had subconsciously assumed that, just as in our previous copulations, he would tell me what to do and how he wanted me to serve for him. Now, I realized that, despite my declaration of subservience to him, Mike was too polite, too real (and just maybe too much in love?) to treat the free woman and former schoolmate Shannon the way he had casually, if considerately, used the collared slut I had been when last we fucked.
Frustrated and fearful that I might lose the love of my life, I gritted my teeth and “topped from below.” I slid out of his arms, reached into my purse, and brought out the training collar and handcuffs that I had carried with me in the ill-considered hope that he might dominate me thoroughly. I had never imagined wanting to collar myself of my own free will, but now I buckled the hateful thing on, placed the cuffs conveniently next to him, and knelt down in full slave spread. Without any conscious thought, I offered myself to him in a manner that, in slave Texas, might be used as evidence to enslave me for life:

“Please, Master, ram your huge cock into me in any way that will give you pleasure.”

He lay in bed, obviously startled, but then the old gleam of dominance appeared in his eyes. He grabbed the cuffs, swung up to a sitting position that put his rampant shaft a few inches from my nose, and calmly commanded, “wrists.”

Like the well-trained slut I had become, I automatically presented my wrists, side by side in front of me. He promptly cuffed them and told me to park my now-helpless wrists behind my neck, which of course caused my already-aroused breasts to rise up, nipples fully erect.

“Nice tits, babe,” Mike remarked in a friendly tone as he hefted and squeezed them, thumbing my nipples for a moment before he let me go again. Then he resumed the commanding tone that had so aroused me when he first used me at the casino: “suck dick, slut.” I was happy to oblige, pausing only briefly to lick the head before lunging forward, knees still apart and hands cuffed, swallowing as much of his tasty penis as I could.
For the next five minutes, I eagerly impaled my mouth and throat on that warm, solid shaft. I knew I was no longer a slave, but this position felt so right, so much fun that I would willingly have abandoned my treasured freedom to continue it indefinitely. For his part, Mike murmured little endearments and encouragements as he first stroked my head and eventually held it still as he slowly, powerfully guided me up and down his aroused member. This intimacy was what I had been missing since our last tryst in Boston. Bliss.

Having given Mike control, I shouldn’t have been surprised when, rather than unloading down my throat, he abruptly pulled out, removed the cuffs, and demanded that I assume the “slave 4’s” position on his bed. Missing no chance to dominate me, he required that, just as I had while enslaved, I press my face into the bedspread (how appropriate a term, since I was definitely “spreading” everything I had) and then reach back with my hands to pull open my cheeks and offer both openings for him. I was already so wet that I felt no discomfort, only a thrill, when he rammed himself between my labia, going “balls deep” in only two rapid thrusts. “Master” Mike didn’t stop there, however; after no more than ten fantastic in-and-out occupations of my birth canal, he pulled out and I heard him opening a condom wrapper. The next sensation I felt was the intrusion of a well-lubricated, rubber-wrapped prick through my anus. After a year of slave buggery, I was well prepared to accommodate his large intruder, so I quickly urged him on until he was fully-seated inside my butt. In my first coupling since regaining my freedom, I had now permitted or rather begged my lover to give me a three-way in under six minutes!

Once he was convinced that I could handle it, Mike began reaming my back passage, harder and harder, faster and faster, deeper and deeper until his pelvis felt as if it were hammering into my butt. At the same time, he bent over my back so that his fingers could firmly diddle my nipples and clit. I remember thinking, once again, about what a fantastic lover he was. I think we came very close to the holy grail of fornication, with both of us climaxing within a few seconds of each other. And then we collapsed onto the bed, panting heavily, his hands still stroking my “naughty bits” while my thrilled rectum remained fully impaled on an intruder that felt as if it were two feet long and six inches in circumference. I was definitely going to waddle and move very gingerly for the next several days.

And then I felt Mike gently kissing my neck. “Well, after that I can see only one resolution, darling. I know you’re headed back to college, as am I, but sometime in the future, when we can synchronize our lives, will you marry me?”

That question was a dream come true, but I had to think for a moment. “I’d love to marry you, but on one condition—will you agree to a FINO contract so that, at least in private, you will continue to be my master?”

He withdrew from me, sliding to one side and embracing me so that we could kiss properly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Babe; I’ve become addicted to controlling that cute slut, Shannon and using all her openings.”
Ordinarily, that would be the final word of a love story, but a sudden thought made me laugh so hard that it broke up our kiss. Mike was puzzled and slightly offended, asking why I was laughing.

“I was just imagining what would happen if we had kids, and one day they asked me—as children often do—to tell them how you had proposed.” Barely able to speak through my laughter, I continued, “imagine telling them that you met me as a slave and then proposed to me while I was wearing a collar and your dick was stuffed up my ass!”

He joined me in the laugh. “But,” he protested, “I had to marry you because I always admired that ass!”

*****
(Epilogue, six months later)

Once again, I was slave naked, wrists zip-tied behind me as I was led on a collar and leash into the Longhorn slave market. If you had asked me any time last year, I would have told you this would NEVER happen again. This time, though, the free person controlling me was my fiancé, and I could tell by the bulge in his jeans that he was as aroused as was I. Marriage was still three years in the future, but we couldn’t wait. We had just inked a 5-year Free In Name Only contract that obligated me, in return for a monthly fee of $1.00, to act as his slave except when school or other specified obligations took precedence. As his first act as my FINO master, Mike insisted that I go through the slave market process again, including putting me on display for slave grading. (I had been graded Choice when I self-indentured myself, but I suspected that, after my year’s service as a sex slave as well as the incredible arousal I felt whenever I served my fiancé/master, I might well grade out as Prime minus.)

“By the way, slut,” he said with a grin just before we entered the market lobby, “If you grade out as Choice or higher this time, I’m going to exercise my prerogative as your master by having the Longhorn brand burned into your cute ass to make sure that everyone on the cheerleading squad knows that I own your butt!”

I don’t know which will be worse, the pain of the branding or the crap I’ll get from my brother about self-enslaving again. Oh, well, I’ll just retaliate by teasing him that all the co-eds I know are raving about his incredible skills at cunnilingus, and where exactly did he learn them?

The thing I do to keep my Lord and Master happy . . . On the other hand, that Longhorn brand will look good when I’m cheerleading next fall.
(The end)

[Jim927]

Another great story, Carl. Thanks for posting and sharing it with us.
Jim

[jeepster]

Great chapter in this saga! Good job Carl!

[DoubleNick]

my first series on this site - OMG, OMG, OMG. SO excited to get into others in this genre.