An incidental paradox of my elaborate slave girl fantasy scenarios was that they involved me giving up control, while simultaneously controlling everything that happened to me. In my mind, I controlled what all my “masters” said, what they looked like, and how they responded to me. In my fantasy, everything was just right, in a Goldilocks way, never too hot or too cold.
The reality of being a slave girl at Slave Smart was brutally different. Never in a million years would I have let my cop husband’s senile old partner Bill Gannon know about my slave girl fantasies, but now here he was, and here I was, naked except for my collar, humping the edge of a roughly hewn corner or a wooden shipping palette, straining to go fast enough to generate lube, but not so fast as to give myself a sliver.
In my fantasy there was no Sniffer the police dog, a gigantic German Shepard who had apparently decided that I was a very naughty slave girl in constant need of his canine supervision. I kept up a steady pace, working my pussy up-and-down, up-and-down. The second I slowed he tensed, and when I (perish the thought) stopped, he growled, and bared his teeth. As a result, I ended up humping the rough plywood board like a mechanical piston.
UP/DOWN!
UP/DOWN!
UP/DOWN!
Good slave girl. Sniffer, my new master, was pleased.
The fact that I was forced to polish-the-pallet, rubbing myself into a frenzy, while my husband’s idiot partner Bill held Sniffer’s leash and endlessly opinioned about fucking basketball only made matters worse.
Then there was the matter of my vanishing clothing, and “limitless” training period. I had planned to go to Slave Smart for the afternoon, get graded, and go home. In my fantasy, Brian stayed with me, and my clothes were never far out of my grasp.
Now senile old Bill had “helpfully” suggested the dreaded Tag Tail Sale, and my gullible, cheapskate husband, mesmerized by the offer of a “free grading”, seemed ready to chomp down on the bait. Slave Mart’s generous offer to train me for as long necessary – an offer not even the Ivy League could match – wasn’t a bargain, but a plan to relentlessly condition me until I was salable inventory with an incurable case of slave mind, eager to serve.
It would have been bad enough for Bill to see me naked, but I was “slave naked”, collared and rubbing my pussy against the sharp edge of the board, my juices staining the cheap plywood. I wasn’t simply exposing my body to the old duffer’s twinkling eyes, I was exposing my inner slave girl, and revealing the lascivious slave slut under my starched, feminist façade.
The good news is that I knew the ABC program (Academic training, Boundaries, Conditioning, Discipline) like the back of my hand. I had used it to train the bellhops and busboys and other low-level employees under my command. The endless repetition and relentless conditioning made it an effective technique for dogs, cleaning staff, and (apparently) slave girls. This was good news in that, being smart and well educated, I understood psychology, and how the conditioning worked, so that I could counter it. The bad news is that I was pretty sure the creep that Slave Smart had hired to run their training program was my old nemesis, Harvey Weiner.
Harvey had been foisted on the Southeast region after his female boss in LA had threatened to resign unless he was transferred. A true corporate weasel, Harvey was friends with my boss, so he quickly became my problem.
Brian had thought I’d fired Harvey for not being enough of a hard-ass, but my husband was wrong, as usual. Harvey was a pretty good trainer, when he wasn’t sneaking off to fuck the customer’s slave girls or cornering some poor maid in the lobby. When the hedge fund took over, I went around my boss and presented them with a video of Harvey demanding that I blow him “or find somewhere else to work.” Harvey and my boss were fired without references, which is how I got my boss’s job.
Being fired for sexual harassment would make it pretty difficult for a man to get work most places, but Slave Smart was not most places. At Slave Smart, sexual predators were welcome, and sexual assault convictions were regarded as work experience. How sweet it would be for Harvey to have the woman who had fired him for requesting oral sex to now kneel naked before him and beg to suck his cock.
Another “piece” of good news was that Slave Mart moved a lot of pussy, and if Brian and Bill kept their yaps shut, I might be able to slip through training unnoticed. But if Harvey found out Brian and I were here, my life would quickly become slave girl hell.
Now my training period had become “indefinite” and it looked like I might be facing the humiliation of a Tag Tail Sale. I felt pretty confident that I’d be able to fool the trainers; after all, I had bested Harvey, hadn’t I? If he was the best they had, soon they’d all be eating out of my hand. Regardless, it was clear that my original plan of “register and release” had gone seriously off the rails. And now idiot Bill was suggesting that Brian take my clothes and purse home with him, thus moving my last link to my status as a free woman far, far out of my reach.
Why then, was the sharp corner of the unfinished wooden pallet getting slipperier as I rubbed myself all the harder? Why were my pussy lips gripping the wood, as I gasped and grunted under Sniffer’s stern command? If the incidental paradox of my slave girl fantasy involved control, the primary paradox was that the more helpless and humiliated I became, and the more things spiraled out of control, the hotter my pussy got. By now, it was reaching the boiling point.
“Why don’t we start by getting her tatted?” Bill asked. “We can give her a quick run through, and then take it from there.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Brian replied, keeping his eyes on his partner even as Bill hooked a leash to my slave collar and yanked me to my feet. I groaned with frustration as my near orgasm came to an abrupt end. I wish I could have rubbed myself between my legs, which I gladly would have done, even with Brian and Bill and Sniffer watching, but with my hands locked to my elbows and the collar preventing intelligible speech, all I could do was grunt like the frustrated pig slut Brian had reduced me to.
I walked ahead of the group, so the males behind me, all of whom had noticeable boners, could enjoy looking at my shapely ass as I walked. Could I be blamed for adding a little extra slave girl bounce and sway to my step? As we entered the main store, the floor felt cold on my bare feet, but the air conditioning felt good, particularly as I had worked up a sweat rubbing myself raw on the unfinished wood. I hadn’t been allowed to cum, so I squeezed my thighs a bit whenever we rounded a corner.
My heart skipped a beat as we encountered our first customer, a skinny male clerk with curly hair and thick glasses who I recognized from my previous visits to the store. I had never paid him much attention, although he had given me the holiday store hours once, and he helped me find the manager once when I wanted to talk about a group rental for my hotel. I had remembered him as being extraordinarily polite, as I had identified myself as the general manager of a posh hotel at the outset, to make sure that I would get tip-top service. Of course, I had been dressed in my power suit then, and now “tip-top service” meant him leering at me as he ran his greedy eyes over my naked body, from the tips of my toes to my long, loose blonde hair.
Instinctively I jerked against my cuffs to cover myself, to no avail. The horny little clerk got a nice, long look as Bill, squeezing my ass, whispered in my ear that “you have a new admirer.” I wasn’t used to being marched around naked, at least not yet, and Bill was enjoying my embarrassment, which only made the situation hotter.
I was in front, so dirty-old-man Bill “helped” me by giving my ass a little squeeze or slap whenever he wanted me to go right or left. Once the command was given, Sniffer immediately got into the act, nudging my ass with his cold, wet nose like he was herding a little lost lamb. I was surprised that Brian didn’t object, and even more surprised that I found Bill’s groping and Sniffer’s sheepdog treatment perversely enjoyable. In slave girl mode, it was somehow hotter to be abused by someone I found both ridiculous and reprehensible.
As we passed a couple of frat boys wearing Valencia college T-shirts, I felt my nipples harden as one of the boys commented on my “nice tits.” Although I knew where we were going, I pretended to miss the turn, so that Bill would slap my ass, giving the boys a little show. As they laughed, I gave a little bimbo giggle. What a silly little slave girl I was!
Registration was surprisingly fast. It reminded me of the DMV, except instead of a driver’s license photo they took photos me squatting, photos of me spreading my butt cheeks, photos of me teasing my nipples, full frontals, rears, and sides, masturbation photos, and every demeaning pose you can imagine. The results would have earned good money on a pay-per-perversion porno site.
Pointing at my collar, Brian restored my voice, ignoring Bill’s advice to keep me mute. I begged Bill to let me clean up before the photos, as baking in the sun, being marched around naked, and humping a pile of wood while a dog had barked at me had left me a hot, sweaty mess. Bill said “I prefer her as a hot, stinky, sweaty slave girl,” so Brian shrugged off my pleas, refusing to even give me a brush for my hair. Thanks, asshole.
After I had finished spreading my butt cheeks wide enough for a field goal, Bill left. He took Sniffer with him, but not before he let that damn dog dig his nose in one more time, and raise a paw to identify me as “100% slave pussy”, much to Bill’s amusement. I didn’t know if Bill or Sniffer was the bigger asshole, and decided that as they were partners, with roughly the same cranial capacity, it was a tie.
I had imagined getting my Slave Identification Number to be some sort of elaborate ceremony, but with the numbers being issued to authorized slave dealers through at the Florida Department of Ag website, getting my enslavement number was alarmingly easy. The tattoo was another matter, and Blanche, an evil, troll like grandmother with blue hair and tiny fingers, enjoyed the job of etching my SIN number into my upper lip way too much.
“Hello, sweetie. My name is Blanche, and I’m going to be your tattoo artist for today. Oh, look at you, all slave naked! Aren’t you the sweetest thing? Look at those boobies. And that tight little lockbox. How darling! What a cute little slave girl you make. Bless your heart!”
“Okay, I’m going to lock your head in these stocks, dear. With your arms locked behind you all nice and snug, it makes it all that much easier. Okay, now these two clips are going to hold your upper lip out of my way. That’s right, don’t be ashamed to drool, dear, it’s all part of the process. I know how pretty young girls like to chatter, so I’m going to clip that little wagging tongue of yours, too, dear. There? Isn’t that nice?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll have you tatted in a jiffy! It’s much faster when we don’t use anesthesia. Cheaper, too. Don’t want to waste money on skanky Pleasure Sluts, do we? Of course, we don’t! But I won’t lie to you. It’s gonna hurt. A lot. So, I’m going to turn these screws on your head a bit tighter? Oh, too tight? That’s too bad, isn’t it? Slave girls have to get used to getting screwed, ha-ha. See what I did there?”
“Don’t try to talk, sweetie, with your lip up it’s just gibberish. A little blonde bimbo like you wouldn’t have anything interesting to say, anyway. Let me guess: you’re trying to say that you’re not really a slave girl and this is all a mistake. Bless your heart. All the slave girls say that, at least at first, but whether you are or aren’t, the tattoo I’m going to give you is an important first step.”
“See this little toy gun of mine, sweetie? It’s a magic carpet, and it’s going to take you to a whole new world. Once I stencil your number in you’ll be registered with the Florida Department of Agriculture as livestock, chattel, an animal that can be bought and sold. Isn’t that exciting? I think it is. I love registering girls like you. So young, so pretty, so free and full of life. Just a few minutes with Blanche will change that forever.”
“I know your type. I see girls like you every day on the street, in your belly shirts and short-shorts, with your long legs and blonde hair. Flirting, prick teasing, using your looks to wrap everyone around your finger. Swanning around, cutting in front of me in line at the store, hogging everyone’s attention. Well, those days are over, sweetie, once Blanche gets you registered. It’s issued by Florida, but your number is good in all 50 states, and around the world. They put it on your passport, too, so the border agents and hotel clerks and such will check it against your lip, and people will know what a slut you are, everywhere you go. In some countries just having one of these is enough to put a girl on the block. Isn’t that exciting? I think it is.”
The nastiest of her tone reminded me of my mother-in-law, Margaret, who when she was drunk referred to me a “tight kangaroo pouch” and noted that “they sent whores to Australia, to get rid of them, but one of their daughters came back, and stole my son from me.” For Bill, humiliating me was simply part of the fun of fucking me, but it was women like Agnes and my tattoo lady who truly despised me.
“Owww! Is right. It does hurt, doesn’t it? It’s supposed to hurt. I know just how to do it to make it hurt more. I want you to remember me, sweetie, even if I don’t remember you. I’ve tatted thousands of sweet, innocent spoiled young girls, and turned them into hot Pleasure Sluts. Of course, I can’t take all that credit. That little hot box between your legs is the real culprit, all wet and hot and stinky. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
“Oooh, you ARE wet. I’ll tell you what, honey. I’ll rub your little button while I carve your number into your lip. That will make it more fun for you, not that I care about that. More importantly, it’ll make it more fun for me, because I know in your little, tiny, bleached blonde brain you’ll associate being a registered slave girl with the pleasure of my little finger rubbing your trigger.”
“Ohh, that’s right. Groan and scream at the same time. Look, I got the FL done, which shows you’re registered in Florida, the sunshine state. Isn’t that nice? Now let me double check the next number, because we want to get it right, don’t we, dear? After all, what we’re doing here is forever, isn’t it? It’s going to be on all your official documents from now on, from your driver’s license to your job applications to your death certificate. So everyone will know about you being registered, and all those nasty photos they took of your hot, stinky pussy. Isn’t that special? I think it is.”
“I love putting stuck-up little princesses like you in their place. You probably passed me on the street a hundred times and never even bothered to look at me, didn’t you? Bless your heart! I was just some frumpy old lady, hardly important enough for a pretty girl like you to take any notice of.”
“Oh, look at that. Those numbers are turning out quite nicely, all big and bold and impossible to miss. Better that way, for traffic stops and TSA checks, and trips to the dentist. Florida state law requires dentists to check SINS for runaways, and outstanding traffic tickets, and any sort of unpaid fines, did you know that, dear? You can thank our Governor for that innovation. Just think, one minute you’re having your teeth cleaned, and an hour later they find an unpaid library fine and you’re naked on the auction block. Things can turn around so fast for a pretty thing like you. All because of Blanche and her little magic gun, ha-ha.”
“Yes, I know it hurts, but don’t be such a big baby about it. Are those tears, little slave girl? Aw, isn’t that too bad! Little Margot is crying, because she’s getting registered like a common slave girl. Don’t you know, no one cares when slave girls cry? Now this next digit is a 5, and I’m going to make it nice and big, so it’s really going to hurt. That’s right, don’t be afraid to scream. It makes it all the more fun for me.”
“What a set of tear ducts you have. Really, child, if this makes you cry, I simply don’t know what will become of you on the block. You’ll probably piss yourself and get sold to some drunken oaf who’ll whip that pretty bottom of yours just for fun, not that I’d blame him. That huge ass of yours was just made to be whipped.”
“Oh, are you going to come, slave girl? Are you going to squirt all over your grandmother’s wrinkled old hand? Hold on, I need to do the last number. Let’s make sure this one really burns, shall we? I don’t want you to forget about me, ever. That’s it, don’t be afraid to cry. Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, little slave girl.”
When she was done, Blanche held up a mirror, so she could show me my SIN number permanently etched into my upper lip. The lettering was blocky and HUGE, and caused fresh tears. I spotted Brian smiling over my shoulder, observing my ordeal with little sympathy. “You’re the one who wanted to play slave girl,” he reminded me.
“He’s right,” Grandma said, tweaking me between the legs. “What a juicy little slut you are! You’re a natural for the collar. I see your type every day. The more it hurts, the more you like it.” The hell of it was, the old biddy was right—this helpless feeling was exciting!
When she was done, the sadistic old bitch squirted disinfectant right onto my lip, which would have burned the crap out of me even if she hadn’t carved my lip into a billboard for my SIN. But the real burn were her words about me being a natural for the collar, because I was starting to wonder if she wasn’t right. It began to feel natural, even with the prongs digging into my neck.
When you think things can’t get any worse, you’re wrong. Although I couldn’t see him with my head locked in the stocks, I could smell his cheap, smarmy cologne, and I’d recognize his unctuous, phony, ingratiating voice anywhere.
“Hi, are you Brian Thornton? I’m Harvey Weiner. Damn glad to meet you, my friend!”
