Certified Penile Arousal, Pt. 02

[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 to have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Belinda for her suggestions about this character; any resemblance between Melinda and Belinda exists only in our twisted minds.)

(Melinda Moody’s perspective)

In case you didn’t read the first portion of my confession: I had been a successful if lonely, 38-year-old female certified public accountant, or CPA, when some unknown person framed me for felonious manipulation of business records (which, come to think of it, is the same crime that Mr. Trump’s former attorney went to jail for in New York.) In law-‘n-order Texas under the 35th Amendment, however, that crime meant not two years wearing clothes in prison plus probation but five years “butt nekkid” in a slave collar plus—speaking of butts—a circle star branded onto my rear end. Talk about putting something “on your permanent record!” No one in his or her right mind wants to be a slave, but this outcome was ironic because I had often fantasized about being a sex slave who would be ravished and dominated by some alpha male owner—and now through no fault of my own I got to live out my fantasy. It was as if I were REQUIRED to eat steak (OK, “tube steak” connected to a guy’s groin), ice cream, and candy all day with no fear of gaining weight; my reputation was already destroyed so I no longer needed to act like a virtuous woman with a brain. Just the sensation of being sold at auction caused me to climax! Trouble was, I had no idea who owned my ass (slave anatomy and services are described in blunt terms—don’t be surprised), still less who had framed me for the crime.

The wrangler who walked me (with his hand cupping my butt and fingers firmly up my rear crack) through the slave market had taken the opportunity to sample both my mouth and my slave cunt, but then I was shipped to a two-month course at the Pearson Pussy Ranch. Pearson’s is well known throughout Texas for training courtesans, teaching sex slaves how to entertain free people using every inch of the slave’s body, from the mouth to the anus plus friction between tits, thighs, feet (euh!) and so on. Learning to take a swollen shaft down my throat or up my back passage was challenging, to say the least, but once I had the mechanics down (including “going down” on dicks and for female users, vulva), it was actually FUN to be “forced” to have sex every day, any way my trainers demanded, without having to feel guilty about “un-ladylike” behavior. My only disappointments came when I did not get to climax from such use; the trainers wanted to keep me aroused and compliant. Any hesitation I might have felt was eliminated by weekly injections of “Horny Juice,” a mixture of female hormones that made me incredibly randy and incidentally increased my bust size from 36C to almost 36D, which (pardon my arrogance) just made me more attractive.

Now, after all this training in how to attract and satisfy a free person’s lust, the Pearson’s staff had given me a makeover in a scanty outfit and set me to perform what was in effect my graduation exam: impressing and pleasing a roomful of high rollers who had been invited to one of the ranch’s periodic “cock”tail parties, where any guest could take any of the sluts aside to test their sexual performance, free of charge. More nerve-wracking was the knowledge that among these guests might well be the unidentified person who had purchased me and sent me here for whore training.

I had already been felt up and had cheerfully given one guy a sloppy blow-job on my knees (truth time: slavery had made me addicted to cock and cum.) After a hasty trip to the restroom to rinse out my mouth and restore my makeup, I returned to circulate among the guests. My heart almost stopped when I recognized one of those guests: Kevin Corcoran, managing partner in Jameson, Corcoran, & Riggs, a well-known accounting firm in Dallas that was to some extent a competitor of my old firm. Over the years we had met and talked casually, sharing interests and a sense of humor at a number of professional conferences—in fact, two years ago, Kevin had tried to hire me away from my current employer, but I had (in retrospect foolishly) too much loyalty to accept. Up until that moment at the party, I had convinced myself that I looked and carried myself so differently as a sex slave that no one was likely to recognize the slut-formerly-known-as-Melinda-the-CPA. Yet, from the moment I re-entered the large living room, I was conscious that this funny, handsome guy (who had once been a peer but was now infinitely superior to me) was watching me. And there was little question that, if he recognized me, he would also know about the alleged crime that had put a five-year collar around my neck and a lifelong burn on my tender tush. I had believed I had outgrown any sense of embarrassment about being a slave, but the thought of how this guy must view me, a disgraced and dishonored member of his profession reduced to a collared sex toy, caused my skin to flush bright pink.

Yet I couldn’t hide. The instructions to all “students” at Pearson’s had been explicit: if any guest at the party—“even one who may have known you previously”—displayed any interest in one of us, we were to respectfully approach that guest and offer our services—which meant any sexual or submissive act, however lewd or humiliating, that guest wanted. I took a deep breath (and even that action caused my inflated tits to rise enticingly in my low-cut clothing) and went over to where Kevin was sitting with a glass of red wine in his hand.

Bowing deeply, with my eyes focused on his feet rather than his face, I mustered the courage to ask, in my newly-trained sex kitten voice, “how may this slave serve you, Master?” I remained frozen in that position for what seemed like an eternity, conscious that my bow gave him a clear view down my cleavage, and then saw him stand up and say in his calm voice, “Come with me.” With his warm hand pressed possessively against the small of my back, Master Kevin walked me down a corridor to the nearest unoccupied room (as denoted by an open door.) A bed was waiting, but he waved me into a chair and sat down opposite me. Incongruously for a slave who had been bare-assed for the past two months, I couldn’t help but worry that he could see my bare crotch when my VERY short hem rode up to mid-thigh.

When I mustered the courage to glance at his face, he was looking intently not at my twat but at my face, and had a slight smile on his face. His first question reflected what we were both thinking: “Did you do it?”

“No, Master,” staring firmly into his eyes. No sense protesting because I still had no idea who had framed me. I felt a rush of pleasure at Kevin’s—I mean, Master Kevin’s—response. He nodded.

“I didn’t think so—that whole story stunk. Even if I believed you were capable of dishonesty—which I don’t, or I would never have tried to hire you—you’re too smart to leave the double accounts where anyone could find them.”

I had thought I was resigned to my fate, but the idea that someone like Kevin believed in my innocence caused my heart to rise. I almost missed what he was saying:

“Which is why I hired a merchant to buy you at auction—and that was before that merchant told me that Charles Hardison was bidding on you as well, and he seemed to be lusting after your body.” Hardison had been a fellow-partner in my former accounting firm, an obnoxious guy with whom I had often butted heads; the thought of being a slave at his mercy was simultaneously terrifying and loathsome.

“No offense, Melinda—do you mind if I call you that?” I tried hard not to laugh, managing to stutter, “if you own me, Master, you get to c-call me anything you want. I’m u-usually just ‘cunt’ or ‘s-slut.’”

“Yeah,” Kevin nodded, “but I respect you, even though I have to tell you to do something you probably won’t like—I’ll get to that in a moment—so the least I can do is be polite.” The idea of a free, powerful owner being polite to his slave made both of us chuckle and shake our heads.

“As I was trying to say,” he finally got control over himself. “Anyway, I’ve always thought you were pretty, but it wouldn’t do to say that about a colleague or ANY woman in a business situation. Then I saw the video of your auction, and realized that you were a total babe, sex on steroids, which made me believe that Chuck wanted you.” Any 38-year-old woman would have to be secretly pleased about being described like that, even if it were politically incorrect to have colleagues think of her in sexual terms. Kevin in particular had been careful never to express his attraction—which made my heart sad at the thought of lost opportunities, compounded by my gratitude for his believing in me and rescuing me from Hardison.

“And that was before I sent you to Pearson’s—I watched you this evening, and just gliding across the room you gave every guy in there a hard-on. This place really has changed you, hasn’t it?” He inquired.

“Yes, Master, although I think maybe it just FREED me. Free women aren’t supposed to admit they want sex, but now I’m addicted to it.” I confessed, worried that he might think less of me.

“Just so long as you enjoy yourself.” The question in his voice was clear, and I nodded agreement; To be honest, I had always longed to have men use me for frequent, dominant-submissive sex, but no woman should admit that and only a slave was supposed to enjoy it. My new owner seemed relieved at my response.

“Well, that’s good, because I’m afraid you’re going to get plenty of use.” You see,” he explained, looking very apologetic, “I couldn’t purchase you outright either in my own name or for the firm. If I did that, someone like Hardison would try to make me look guilty—or at least negligent—by association, and Jameson, Corcoran, & Riggs would get buried in investigations and innuendoes. Instead, I formed a blind trust in Delaware, named MM Enterprises, to market you and several other slaves I bought to obscure what I was doing. But to maintain the cover so that nobody finds you, MM Enterprises has to make a profit. . .”

I tried to help him out. “And because of my conviction, I can no longer function as a CPA, so I guess I will be pimped out?”

A strangled chuckle caused me to look sharply at his face. “I’m sorry, Melinda, I just had an amusing thought that you may find insulting.”
“It’s pretty hard to insult a convicted criminal slave who spends most of her time on her knees or her back as a naked sex toy, Master. Can you let me in on the joke?”

“I was just thinking that, although you’re no longer a Certified Public Accountant, your Pearson’s training has turned you into a different form of CPA—Certified Penal Arousal.” I couldn’t help giggling along with him. Yeah, it was insulting for an educated woman to be rated purely in terms of sex appeal, but at the same time the new me, proud of my appearance and eager for sex, couldn’t disagree with him.

He kept talking beyond the punch line, making my blush at his compliments. “You were always attractive in a shy kinda way, but now you’d put an erection on a ten-day old corpse. I hate to say it, but what you said earlier is correct—to make a profit, even to pay for the purchase and training of you as a slave, MM Enterprises is renting you out to SlutsRUs.” My heart sank—I had expected to be pimped out or otherwise used for sex (why else would an owner sent a new slave to Pearson’s?), but SlutsRUs was notorious for providing slaves for every possible sex role, ranging from sucking dick in a glory hole to being publicly used while hanging in a pillory to street walking in urban downtown areas. (Because slaves had no free will about agreeing to sex, they were exempted from most laws against prostitution.)

Master Kevin saw my expression. “Don’t worry. You and the rest of MM’s stable are all trained sluts, so SlutsRUs has agreed to pay a daily rate that can only be justified if they rent you out as high-class call girls, either individually or in groups to provide ‘entertainment’ for high rollers at corporate parties. In fact, when you get shipped to me after this, the first thing we’re going to do is buy you some elegant clothes to package and conceal what you are.”

I thought a moment, and then decided to go for broke. “I hope that will be the second thing we do together, not the first.” In response to his unspoken question, I replied, “The first thing we need to do, Master, is make love together—you should test the quality of my training, and I want to show gratitude to my owner for all his efforts to protect me. For starters, may I please worship that bulge in your pants?” I slid down onto my knees in front of him, looking worshipfully into his eyes—and this time it was no act. I had always found him handsome, and now I was really grateful and wanted to show him what he had paid so much to buy and train. Being enslaved really HAD dissolved a lot of my inhibitions!

*****
If you had asked me a year earlier, I would have told you, under much pressure, that the ensuing scene was appropriate for my fantasies but would never happen in reality. There I was on my knees, boldly unbuckling his belt and fishing out his (impressive) cock, which I gently kissed, licked, and finally swallowed while one hand continuously fondled his warm scrotum and balls. He looked startled and bemused, obviously trying to reconcile his experience of Melinda Moody, the uptight, middle-aged and shy professional woman, with the horny slave eagerly sucking on his dick. That dick, however, gave no doubt about his interest and enjoyment in what I offered. Eventually, he reached forward with both hands to cradle my head gently as it bobbed forwards and backwards on his shaft. I tried to prolong the experience for his increased pleasure, but after only about five minutes of fellatio he pulled forward on my head, burying his prick in my mouth and my nose in his public hair just as he let loose several blasts of hot, sticky goo down my throat. Having been well trained, I preserved some of that jism to display on my outstretched tongue. Once he nodded permission, praising my performance, I swallowed the load and then gently, thoroughly licked every inch of his shaft to ensure I got all of his seed off it and into my greedy mouth.

Let me be clear: I felt no hesitation or embarrassment about submitting to him like that, and in fact I enjoyed it. Yes, I was a little worried about the prospect of being a call girl for large numbers of strangers, but this was no stranger: he knew and respected me (at least a little), he had saved me from five years of misery serving a vengeful rival, and he was sufficiently attractive on his own to allow me to act out, yet again, my fantasy of submitting to a dominant male. A free woman was expected to be humiliated by kneeling to suck a man off, but as a slave this was not only my duty but my pleasure. You can say that Pearson’s had brain-washed me, but the truth was that fellating Master Kevin was yet another opportunity to fulfill my submissive fantasies.
I had several such opportunities a week later, after I completed Pearson’s (graduating sum-one cums loudly) and was shipped, Poodle Express, to “MM Enterprises” at a nondescript garage my owner had rented. He had even hired a slave wrangler to accept custody for me, but five minutes after I crawled naked, gagged, and bound out of my cage that wrangler turned me over to Master Kevin, who gave me some stretchy gym clothes to wear as he took me on a whirlwind tour of local shops, sort of like the movie “Pretty Woman.” When I protested all the money he was spending, Kevin tried to insist that the clothes were a business expense to equip me as a call girl. They were certainly more revealing and sexy than any I had dared wear while free, but still stylish and presentable. Of course, in between shopping I did my best to thank my owner for his kindness, offering him access to all my openings and waking him up every morning with my best blow-job technique. Even taking it up my rectum—which he definitely stretched!—was enjoyable when I was being dominated by my caring, muscular rescuer—talk about living out my dreams!

It was all a lot of fun, but I kept reminding myself not to even THINK of the “L-word,”—my owner was a true gentleman, but I had no reason to expect any sentiment warmer than courtesy and compassion from him. He had told me he thought I was innocent of the crime that had put a collar on me, but I was still a slave whore rather than a peer, so there was no future for “us” except (if I were lucky) for me to be his wholly-owned bed-warmer (an honor to which I aspired passionately). I told him, honestly, that slavery had unleashed my latent desire for sex, and encouraged him to take me any way, any time he wished with the knowledge that I would enjoy every taste of cock and cum he chose to give to his property. And I really did find it thrilling, treasuring every time he rammed into me. There was no faking his attraction to me when his member was that hard!

I recall in particular one day when my Master had to work, so he challenged me to assume a seductive pose for when he came back to his apartment at the end of the day. After carefully flushing out and then lubricating my lower passages, I knelt on the floor, facing away from the door, with my face to the carpet and my hands reaching back to grasp my spread ankles. Having learned that a little clothing adds mystery, I was wearing a bright red thong that split my buttocks like floss while just barely covering my lower openings, yet could easily be pushed aside . . . which he demonstrated when he returned to his apartment. I heard the door open and close, followed by a heavy “thunk” that was probably his briefcase hitting the floor. A belt buckle jangled, a zipper purred, and I became aware of him kneeling to spread my thighs even wider. One massive thrust filled my well-lubricated birth canal, but before I could even adjust to that, his dick withdrew, he squirted some lube up my butt, and then he rammed, almost as forcefully, into my winking starfish. I’ve never been more thankful for lubricant as his shaft took complete possession of my rear end. Lord, that man knows how to screw a defenseless girl, proving conclusively that he owned all of me including my over-stretched butt. All I had to do was kneel there and enjoy it!

All good things come to an end, and after ten days of dallying I had to go to work for SlutsRUs. At least, though, I wasn’t standing on a street corner nor chained to a bed in a brothel. Instead, I dressed stylishly, usually with clothing that concealed my collar. Master Kevin, bless his heart, gave me a notarized letter authorizing me to cover it in public. Of course, I was much more exposed in the photographs that the agency posted on-line to attract customers, but even those photos largely obscured my eyes, reducing the chances that I might be recognized by former colleagues. Moreover, my owner had specified in my contract with the agency that I was not to be rented out for any functions involving accounting agencies, for obvious reasons of anonymity.

As a slave, I personally received no compensation for my services, other than all the “tips” (cock-tips, that is) and cum I could swallow. Yet, renting me wasn’t cheap, beginning at $500 for a quickie and going up steeply from there. In addition to paying my owner, Master Kevin, for my use (which in turn enabled him to pay off the loan for my purchase price and show a profit), SlutsRUs had considerable “overhead” costs before I could give “head.” Most nights, they kept me and the other girls locked up in a facility that resembled a small slave market, with showers, lockers, an exercise room, and wire mesh cages. Even with such a barebones (mostly MY bones were bare) approach, the agency had to supervise the sluts, feed them, dry clean their fancy outfits, and so on. The company took particular pains to ensure we had contraceptives and were regularly tested and if necessary treated for disease. Beyond that, a burly wrangler, suitably dressed as a businessman, had to drive me to the “John’s” location, often in an upscale hotel, and wait while I provided my services. Which meant I had a wireless microphone in my purse that broadcast to a recording device (necessary to prove abuse) in case the client became violent. Insults, bondage, and mild slaps were par for the course, and I was amazed to discover how many of these seemingly-powerful men couldn’t get it up, let alone get off, without thinking they were hurting and humiliating the girl. (Which was kinda foolish, considering how humiliated every slave had already been.) Much of this treatment was fine for me—being insulted, bound, and lightly spanked played into my own submissive tendencies and gave me so much enjoyment that the situation helped me both lubricate and act out in a manner that most customers wanted. Of course, sometimes a group of us sluts would be rented out together to act as arm charms and admiring bimbos for a business function, providing lubrication (pardon the pun) for major business negotiations or even “professional” association conferences. I actually found it a giggle to pretend to be an airhead rather than (as I had done while free) being constantly on my guard to prove my own business acumen. To be honest, some of the Johns were dumber than doornails, proud of themselves while they ran their family oil and cattle businesses into the ground! Not my problem so long as my owner and my pimps got their money. . . I almost always got off, which was my only true compensation as a slave slut.

Each trick began with me very apprehensive, fearing that I might be recognized or seriously abused. Once I decided what kind of sex the John wanted and checked that I did not know him, I relaxed slightly and tried to ensure that both of us had the most enjoyable time possible. After that, my memory is a blur of dicks entering my various openings and guys pounding themselves into me, fucking my face, cunt, ass, or (occasionally) cleavage. Visitors from the North, where slavery was uncommon and (free female) call girls were often less accommodating than Texas slave sluts, couldn’t seem to get enough of me, especially my rectum. Thank heavens for ZeePharma, which had developed a number of medications to tighten my sphincter and repair other parts of my anatomy after excessive use!

For some reason, group sex seemed to encourage the Johns to greater dominance, as if they enjoyed not only controlling women but being seen to do so by other alpha males, the “big studs.” On one occasion, for example, a guy cuffed my hands in front of me, ordered me onto “slave 4s” on a bed, and then attached wicked little clamps to my nipples and engorged clit. Needless to say, I begged him to use me as the only means of bringing this torment to an end. He enthusiastically rammed both of my openings from behind while his hands gripped my buttocks so tightly that he left bruises all around my brand (in addition to the red marks from the clamps) by the time both of us climaxed. Being naturally submissive and slightly masochistic, I could enjoy a certain amount of discomfort and pain when I as the “helpless slave slut” found myself ruthlessly invaded and controlled—that part of my existence was thrilling!

I was railed so frequently and thoroughly that in those days I had no need to masturbate, falling into a deep sleep whenever I had an hour to myself. Once I regained my freedom my experiences as a call girl could provide me with endless material for “jilling off.” At the time, however, I occasionally found myself so bruised and uncomfortable after being “rode hard” that I sometimes had to beg Master Kevin—on the nights I got to see him—to let me simply blow him because my body was in too much pain to accommodate him otherwise. It was yet another proof of how much he respected me that he always acquiesced, and sometimes just held me gently without demanding any service at all.

*****
My life as a provider of Certified Penile Arousal continued like that for more than 18 months, to the point where I had relaxed and embraced my role as the wet dream come true that it was. Occasionally I had to submit to entitled clowns who were inconsiderate and/or lacking in personal hygiene, but I got through those bad times by telling myself this was just another test of my willing service to my owner—and being under his control seemed so right and thrilling that it made up for a LOT of distasteful experiences.

When I looked into a mirror, I found it difficult to recognize the uptight, introverted, self-doubting accountant I had once been. I’ve already told you that Pearson’s had trained me to move in an assertive manner (like a runway model) than oozed sensuality, while knowing that I could provide pleasure to almost anyone, not to mention inspiring affection and desire in my owner, gave me an inner confidence and even joy that I had always lacked as a free woman. I repeat, I wasn’t dumb enough to WANT to wear a collar, but I did enjoy the security, the sense of being valued and protected by my owner. In the distant future, I worried vaguely about what would become of me—and especially become of my relationship with Master Kevin—when my servitude came to an end (I often thought vaguely about somehow re-indenturing myself to him, but worried that he would have no use for a middle-aged broad whose only skills lay in her aging body). I had long since replaced my functional “librarian” glasses with first contacts and then laser eye surgery, courtesy of Master Kevin. Regular visits to beauty salons kept my skin and hair—the latter with blond highlights—looking their best. The Horny Juice I had been given when first enslaved had caused my boobs to expand, and the push-up bras and tight clothing provided by my owner, in conjunction with a restricted diet, made me appear significantly younger and more desirable than when I had worked at the accounting firm in Dallas. But I thought of all that as necessary adjuncts to my function as a call slut, and feared that my utility would go away as I aged.

I was correct, though, that no one recognized my slut persona as the fallen CPA Melinda Moody. One weekend, I along with half a dozen other girls were assigned to “work” a cattleman’s convention, which was usually cause for an orgy when those horny good ol’ boys got hold of us. I immediately noticed that Charles Hardison, whom I suspected was responsible for my enslavement, was among the crowd of sloshed cattlemen; I had no idea what he was doing there, but I did my best to hide my face—which meant a LOT of time sucking dick and licking slave pussy! I was working hard to bring off a guy who had drunk too much (always difficult when his senses were deadened) when I recognized Hardison’s voice, apparently sitting at the same table underneath which I was working. He was trying to impress one of the well-heeled heels at the party, bragging about his ability to manipulate accounts:

“Hell, Jack,” he said in a somewhat-inebriated voice. “If you do it right, you can not only make it look like your business is operating at a loss, but you can even plant a suggestion that your competitors are hiding THEIR profits. Two years ago, we created a phony set of accounts for Consolidated Cattle . . .” and then he proceeded to describe precisely the accounts that had led me to a collar and a branded butt! I was so startled by the brazen nature of his bragging that I accidentally used my teeth on the guy I was blowing—but fortunately for me he was on the edge of an orgasm, and that little nip set him off. Thank heavens he was so drunk he was “feeling no pain,” as he happily coated my throat with cum and even murmured a polite “Good job, slut,” as I licked off his dick and balls. Wonder what he thought about those teeth marks the next morning. . .

Three hours later, being driven back to the kennels, I was still stewing about the son of a female dog who had admitted rigging the accounting and cost me everything, including my ass! Then I remembered the wireless microphone in my purse, and wondered whether it had picked up Chuck’s incredible confession. It took a lot of sweet-talking and a super blowjob, but I persuaded my wrangler, Master Hugh, that my owner would want to hear that conversation out of concern for my safety (I didn’t tell him what it was really about, natch—nobody wanted to disclose that they were bugging the Johns even for safety reasons.)

*****
“My attorney confirmed what I already thought,” Master Kevin told me as I knelt before him in Present position, thighs apart and hands interlocked behind my head, presenting my breasts for his inspection and use. “The recording is inadmissible in court, because it was made without the consent of everyone present, so we can’t prove that you were framed.” My heart sank.

“However,” he continued, “the attorney did think that the District Attorney would be interested in the facts of the case. The DA has initiated an investigation into Hardison’s activities. If I had to guess, I would suspect that someone will try to entice Hardison into repeating his trick.”

“Meanwhile, I’m still a slave slut for you,” I said, smiling up at him.

“I’m glad you reminded me,” He smirked, unbuckling his belt, “suck cock, slave.” One of my favorite commands!

“I live to serve you, Master,” I announced with a smile before inhaling his half-erect dick and reaching to fondle his balls. I love my job!

Who was it who said, “Time sure flies when you’re having fun?” In my case, it should have been “when you’re giving head,” although, as I’ve already told you, being a slave slut was often a wet dream come true for me. Three and a half years into my five year enslavement, I had almost-but-not-quite forgotten about Hardison when my Master told me that I had earned enough money to pay off the loan he had taken out to buy me as well as the cost of training and dressing me.

“Jeez, Master,” I teased, “renting sex slaves out to SlutsRUs is such a good investment that you should advise your clients to sink their cocks—I mean, their money—into similar deals.”

“Yeah, but where am I going to find more twats as talented as yours, babe?” He replied, grinning. “As I was saying before the lewd interruption: I’ll still have to rent you out to the agency a few times a year—holidays, football playoffs, and similar peak demand times—so that I can list you as an asset [he wiggled his eyebrows] for MM Enterprises and make the minimum social security contributions on your behalf, but the rest of the time I get to keep you for myself.” The way he said that gave me a warm feeling that he cared about me, but I felt compelled to protest that I would be lonely, not to mention terminally horny, waiting around his apartment all day.

“There is an alternative,” he remarked, and waited for me to ask what he had in mind. “What I’d like to do is make you my personal assistant at work—when you’re not servicing me quote personally unquote, you can quality review the work of our junior accountants for me. I doubt that anyone in my firm would remember or recognize you, but if it makes you feel safer, I’ll hide you when someone from your old firm comes to visit.”

It sounded risky, but I really missed my former profession. “Don’t tell me,” I grinned. “I can hide under your desk to blow you whenever someone visits, right?”

“My thoughts exactly, slut. Not to mention bending you OVER my desk when we work late!”

Despite my bravado, I was quite nervous about going to work in my Master’s agency. We made no secret of my collar, but he insisted that no one could use me without his permission; I was in effect an Extraordinary Talent, enslaved but wearing clothing and reporting only to one man. Even when I went to work checking the accounts of others, my Master presented the results of my research so that no one would connect me with being an accountant in a collar.

If I had to be a slave, this seemed like the best of all possible outcomes. I got to work for someone who respected and liked me while still giving me the dominant sexual use I had come to crave. No matter how many times I woke him up with a blow-job [now there’s a new meaning for “woke”!] or gave him a nooner (he usually chose to ram both of my openings while I was bent over his desk), my master always found the energy to rail me at night and then cuddle while we slept. Otherwise, his admin assistants became friendly once they had adjusted to my strange situation—in face, the most senior of these people told me that I was the first and only woman, slave or free, that had aroused any interest in Kevin since his wife died of cancer eight years previously (I’m afraid I was too noisy while servicing him for our relationship to remain a secret). The rest of the time, I was happy to use my brain as well as my body, immersed in reviewing accounts and finding more than one glaring error—which I referred to my owner.

One day a news story broke that made the “Mister-Corcoran-keeps-that-thin-older-slave-around-to-fuck-her-twice-a-day” seem like small change: Charles Hardison was arrested after a sting operation that encouraged him to rig the books in a manner that closely mirrored what had gotten me enslaved! My loving master asked whether I wanted MM Enterprises to purchase the clown when he was in turn collared, but I really didn’t see the point—I never wanted to see him again, and besides, I wouldn’t wish slavery on my worst enemy even though he might deserve it.

Can’t say I felt much remorse when I heard that Chuck had been assigned to work on a highway crew (aka chain gang), a job that had the reputation of daily hard labor in the Texas sun followed by nightly “hard” work on his knees, getting sodomized by the lonely corrections guards who watched over the convicts . . . (There was a sequel: a year later, Master Kevin drove to El Paso for a meeting, and took me with him, partly so I could “entertain” one of his customers, but mostly so that we could have time together. The whole trip was a LOT of fun; construction on I-20 slowed traffic to a crawl, but that just gave me more time to play: behind the heavily-tinted windows of his car, I stripped naked in the right-hand passenger seat, flashing and teasing him. He retaliated by pulling over and hog-tying me with my head in his lap, so I could blow him for a long and excruciating (for him!) time. At one point, however, he pushed me upright and demanded that I look at the flagman we were passing. You guessed it—there stood the louse-formerly-known-as-Chuck. He was heavily tanned, in part because all he had on was a collar, orange vest, work boots, and a very tiny, transparent plastic chastity jock strap. His face was a mask of misery. Fascinated, I looked at his back after we passed him at five miles an hour; I swear his tanned butt was covered by red marks.)

The clock on my own five-year sentence continued to tick down inexorably, while I worried what I would do to support myself as a free woman—not to mention how I would live without the submissive sex I had come to regard as “normal!”

*****
Then one day about six months before my release date, I showed Master Kevin’s personal attorney, Bill Bailey, into his office, only to be called, five or six minutes later, back to that office myself. I tried to follow the normal protocol when other people were present, standing respectfully rather than kneeling next to my owner’s chair, but he insisted that I take a seat next to the lawyer.

“I’ve got some good news and some better news, Melinda.” Kevin began—he always addressed me respectfully when others were present, even though (when we were alone together) I was thrilled to be addressed in a loving voice as “slut,” “whore,” “sweet cheeks,” “cocksucker,” and the like!

For the same reasons of courtesy, I had to remind myself not to call him “Master” when I replied. “You know me, sir—what’s the worse news?”

“I’m sorry to tell you that the state Court of Criminal Appeals has rejected a petition to give you a new trial—Hardison never admitted framing you, and the circumstances aren’t close enough to convince the judges that you were a victim. However, the Agriculture Department has petitioned the governor to release you early because of the questionable circumstances—tomorrow, I’m taking you to the Agriculture Department to formally free you.”

“Thank you for everything, Mister Bailey,” I said to the attorney, although I couldn’t help thinking that I’d just as soon remain in my master’s collar as long as I could. But then he responded:

“The even better news is that the state Board of Public Accountancy applied civil rather than criminal standards to the matter, and decided that the circumstances are ambiguous. Which means that it will permit you to work under the close supervision of a CPA for five years, and if all goes well the Board will restore your license.”

I hadn’t realized how much the loss of my profession, even more than the loss of my freedom, bothered me, but now I barely restrained myself from hugging him, instead pumping his hand. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Turning back to look at my Master, I asked, hopefully, “Do you know any CPAs who might be willing to let me work under them?” I accompanied the question with my tongue licking a circle around my smirking lips, a gesture that my former self would never have dared even think about.

He almost choked about the double entendre, but allowed as how he MIGHT be willing to do that. And as soon as the attorney departed, I found myself on my knees, blouse pulled apart so he could fondle my tits while my mouth eagerly serviced him. After several minutes of mutual pleasure, I asked his pardon and sat back for a moment.

“Trouble is, Master, I’m gonna miss being your cock-sucking slave—once I’m free, the equal opportunity police will go crazy if you continue to use me like this.”

“Got you covered, slut.” He replied with a grin, and then handed me a check and an inch-thick legal document. “This is a cashier’s check for a thousand bucks, with the ‘Pay to the order of’ line left blank. I want you to use it to hire the best divorce lawyer you can find to review this document, which Bill drew up for us.”

“What is it, Master?” I asked.

“Jeeze, I knew that slave mind had set into your brain, but I would think that even you can read this,” pointing to the heading that read “Pre-Nuptual Agreement between” and our two names. I froze, not daring to hope.

“It’s really simple, sweetheart. You promise that, two days after our marriage, you will self-indenture yourself to me for a five-year period, renewable by mutual agreement. During that time, you continue to be my slave except that you’ll wear a wedding ring and have a license with my last name. If I die while you’re in my collar, you’re automatically freed and inherit my estate; if you want to quit at the end of a five-year indenture, I’ll pay you $100,000 for each time period you served. Or, we can be divorced or continue being married—your choice.”

The entire time he was talking, I had been in a daze, probably because his hands were rhythmically mashing my boobs and teasing my nipples. But I managed to wake up sufficiently to lunge upward, kissing him wetly.

“Thank you, Master.”

“OK, but will you marry me, slut?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, kissing him again.

When we finally broke for air, he replied, in a teasing tone, “Glad that’s settled. Now, back to work, cocksucker; you need to practice ‘working under’ me if you’re going to recover your license.”

My response was garbled because of the dick in mouth, “Yeeth, Masser.”
(The End)

[JustBob]

Good story. I love a happy ending. It was interesting how you used indenture instead of FINO to extend. What is the difference?

[Carl Bradford]

Too many of my stories are ending with the use of a FINO, a personal services contract that requires the individual to act AS IF she/he were a slave serving the other person in the contract. There is a real function for such a contract when two people truly enjoy a BDSM relationship, making it a contractual agreement instead of just "pretending" to be slave (which, in the Joe Doe Verse, might get you actually enslaved for misrepresenting yourself and possibly prostitution). As specified in the contract, the FINO slave retains freedom during certain circumstances or times, such as when working or attending school. But I think I have overworked the FINO as an ending for a BDSM couple.
On the other hand, indenture would be actually making yourself into a slave voluntarily--no role playing, no escape unless (as in this case) the owner agrees in advance to free the slave under certain circumstances. This is for SERIOUS submissives, especially when, as in this case, the submissive has experienced genuine slavery and knows what she's getting into--right down to the traditional oral "tip" to the agr official.

[Belinda]

Dearest Carl,

What a wonderful 70th birthday present for me. It was as if all my lifelong fantasies had come true.

Your truly,

Belinda

[Carl Bradford]

Your open embrace of the best possible outcome for dominant-submissive relationships, for power exchange in sex, made you the muse for this story. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Carl