Prenup 01

[Carl Bradford]

(This is the first of a projected multi-part story/stories, although only the first two segments are written. Mr. Smith and I have a rough concept of what comes next, but there will be delays. I wish to thank him for his contributions to these first two segments; he himself may publish others in this series at a later date.)

Nikki Sheldon here. Frequent readers in this forum will know that, for the past few years, I’ve been working as a slave shrink in East Texas. The population of legal slaves in the (mostly southern) United States has grown so rapidly since the 34th Amendment that my field is swamped with work. Although my mentor and partner, Harold (Hal) Walker, is now semi-retired, we have so many patients that we’ve taken two additional slave psychiatrists into our firm. (Finding qualified partners is easier said than done—as I explained in my original story, “Learning Slave Psychiatry,” a Slave Psychiatrist in most states must be an MD and Ph.D. with at least six months wearing a slave collar. Oh, well, at least my time as a sex slave gave me plenty to talk about during Freudian analysis!!)

Why do we have so many patients? Well, even if a slave is not mistreated physically, the experience of having no control over your own body is so shocking that many slaves, especially new ones, need significant help and advice to handle it, which is why I’m on retainer at several slave markets. Then there’s the entire phenomenon of FINO (Free In Name Only), a kind of personal services contract that the Texas legislature invented to regularize the number of legally free, primarily female, adults who choose to enter into a contract that requires them, for up to five years, to act AS A SLAVE in serving that individual’s significant other, often a spouse, without losing their basic identity and property. I and some of my friends get a lot of giggles, not to mention orgasms, out of playing slaves to our spouses on evening and weekends. Not that it was a new sensation in my case—heck, the first time I met my future hubby, Philip (“Paul”) Sousa, he had just purchased my butt at auction and was about to use me as a submissive at his BDSM club. ANYWAY, for once Austin (which has a lamentable tendency to practice medicine without a license) did things correctly, and required that anyone who wanted to sign a FINO contract must first be counseled by a licensed slave shrink, with said shrink then appearing on the individual’s National Slave Registry entry as guardian ad litem. At least two dozen times over the past several years, I’ve been summoned to emergency rooms where one of my FINO patients was physically or mentally wrecked. Just the possibility of such a midnight call means that I have to spread my patients out with my new partners. (By contrast, no one receives such counseling before assigning their freedom to a creditor or committing a crime that leads to legal enslavement.)

But lately, the use of FINO Prenuptial Agreements has just swamped us. Some background: with the flood of young people, often bankrupted by college or credit card debt, slaves have become much more common in the “service” industries. Young people in particular don’t regard sex with a slave as any form of adultery or infidelity because the slave is more like a smart canine (the B-word!) than an actual human being. Lots of up-and-coming young businessmen and professionals like to end a weekend round of golf with a visit to the Tenth Hole—only now, that should be called the Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Holes. Yeah, you got the image: many upscale golf courses have what amounts to a slave brothel in the clubhouse, so that by the time that the (mostly male) golfers make it home to their spouses, they’ve all discharged their libidos AND their balls into one or more nubile young slaves.

Now, for myself, that isn’t such a big deal. Since I’m already on a FINO contract with my beloved Paul, I like to spend Saturdays as his ball-girl, in both senses. First, dressed in a bikini and tennis shoes, I’m the caddy for his match, getting a lot of sun and a little exercise hauling his clubs around. It gives Paul a thrill to bet ME on the game, with the winner in his foursome getting his choice of my holes to “ball” while Paul (and sometimes the other golfers) use me as well. Nothing is off-limits so long as they use condoms. This gets everybody off, after which Paul pushes me into the shower, plugs both of my lower openings, and leads me out to his sports car with my hands cuffed and my neck (or sometimes nipples—ouch!) on a leash. Then we get round two of balling at home.

For most women, however, the idea that their young, virile husbands are railing golf slaves instead of their wives is, to put it mildly, irritating—not to mention frustrating when hubby can’t get it up for his wife. Nor are the women entirely innocent themselves—they tend to go to high-end spas that offer slave amenities such as a naked, kneeling young woman licking the patrons’ labia or an equally naked, slave masseur who gives the woman a “happy ending” after he gets her completely relaxed with a massage. Perhaps even TWO masseurs taking care of both ends simultaneously.

My point is that young wealthy couples in particular both enjoy the benefits of sex slaves yet resent it when such slaves service their spouses, depriving the free people of some of that wedded bliss they so treasure—or at least some of the spouse’s cum. Too many divorces and unhappy marriages ensued until my friend, attorney Jing Stevens, came up with a solution: The FINO prenup. Cutting out all the lawyerese, this is an agreement that if, at any time during the first 20 years of a marriage, one spouse discovers that the other is, without permission, having slave sex, then the offending spouse agrees in advance to become the injured spouse’s FINO slave for five years; he/she can still act normally and conduct business in public, but in private his/her body belongs to the owner. Provided the spouse cooperates, no divorce would be possible. To add salt to the wound, these agreements explicitly state that the FINO slave must willingly perform any sex act specified by the other. (In many marriages, there’s some form of sex, whether oral or anal sodomy, that one person, usually the male, wants while the other doesn’t. Now of the FINO is invoked, that type of sex becomes fair game. For example, the guy who always wanted a blowjob may find himself sucking a strap-on or even an actual dick on the instructions of his wife!)

Legally, that’s easy to specify. To satisfy Texas statutes concerning FINO contracts, however, a slave shrink like me has to counsel both partners before they sign the agreement and the shrink receive a retainer to serve, if necessary, as guardian ad litem. So, what follows is the first of several examples of how the FINO pre-nup worked out in practice. This first one involves a male submitting to his wife, but that’s by no means the only outcome.

*****
(Jeanie Harrison’s viewpoint)
So there I was—for the second time in my life, a guy I really cared about was offering me a ring and a marriage. Jim Fuller was, like me, a widow(er) with kids in college, and we had common experiences and beliefs in life. At 44, he was smart, funny, empathetic, and successful, not to mention an absolute stud in bed (I’m embarrassed to say it but, after years of often-involuntary celibacy, getting regularly stuffed with his monster dick had a certain appeal.) And I really wished I could say “yes” again. Trouble was, my first hubby (who had died four years earlier) had made me leery of guys, no matter how great they might seem—most men just couldn’t seem to keep it in their pants, and the availability of young female slaves in Texas made it even more frustrating for wives who wanted true love and commitment. I sighed.

“Look, Jim—I love you, and I’d like to say yes . . .”

His face fell. “I hear a ‘but’ coming, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, there is, and I hope you’ll hear me out.” I patted the sofa right beside me, encouraging him to sit so close that our (clothed) thighs were pressed against each other. I wrapped my arm around his waist and kissed his cheek to soften the rejection. “You may have noticed that I never talk much about my first husband, Adam.”

“I had noticed, but I thought you were just being polite to avoid comparisons to him.” Jim replied, looking even more puzzled. “Look, Jeanie, I know I can never fill the void from a lost love; I have sort of the same problem with my own wife’s death. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy together, does it?”
Another sigh. “No, it doesn’t, but . . . OK: promise you won’t discuss this with other people?” He nodded. “The truth is, Adam cheated on me. Constantly. Beginning when I couldn’t ‘put out’ during the last two months of my pregnancy with Chrissy and becoming increasingly frequent as time went on. I don’t mean he was screwing the women in his office or even the mothers in the PTA, but he still deposited most of his sperm in other women’s bodies, usually the slave girls at brothels, glory holes, and the Nineteenth Hole at the club. I know, I know, most guys claim that boffing slaves isn’t really adultery, but it sure felt like that to me. If nothing else, every load he shot into a slave slut just made him less interested in intimacy with me. No wife can provide the variety you guys can find or hire any day you want it.”

“Well, I have to admit that I’ve used a few slave girls in my time, and for that matter you’ve told me about getting your pussy licked by slaves of both genders while you were at the salon. But, come on, I find you so gorgeous that I can’t imagine ever wanting to ‘dip my wick’ somewhere else.”
I smiled. “Thanks for the kind words, and I really enjoy making love with you.” I kissed his cheek and then leaned back so I could look at his face. “But that’s how you feel now, and three years after we got married, you’d probably get the itch to try some other woman out. I only know one sure-fire way to discourage that wandering eye, but it’s so extreme that I’ll understand if you can’t agree. Have you heard about the new book on marriage in a slave society?”

I could see that he was beginning to get the idea. “You mean, that lawyer who’s advocating prenuptial agreements to deter or punish infidelity?”
I nodded.

“So, let me get this straight,” he resumed. “If we got married you would expect me to sign a prenup that, if I ever stray, even with a slave, I agree in advance to become your Free In Name Only slave for five years, submitting to you whenever we’re not working?”

Another nod, and I replied. “But if you wanted, I’d be willing to sign a similar agreement to become YOUR FINO if I ever had sex with someone else, even a pussy-licking slave. Think of it as an exclusivity contract.”

That brought a grin to his face. “I gotta admit, the thought of you on your knees wearing a collar and giving me a blow-job any time I wanted, is fascinating.”

“Silly,” I said, digging my elbow into his side. “I’d do that for you anyway, starting right now. I can’t get enough of your cock!” I slid to my knees between his legs, quickly freeing his impressive erection and proving my willingness. This instantly put a smile on his face, followed within three minutes by frosting MY face with white goo. I gave him one hell of a hum, along the way.

“Holy cow, I think I just died and went to heaven,” gasped Jim, filling my mouth with the rest of his yummy semen.

Doing my best pleasure slut imitation I presented him with a ball of his slimy goo, holding it out on my tongue while waiting for permission to swallow.
“Swallow, my lovely slave girl,” he commanded, grinning down at me.

I made a naughty show of it, rolling his sperm on my tongue like it was a prize before an exaggerated swallow with a smile. Staring at his cock I giggled, “Ready for some mouth to cock resuscitation?”

“Maybe later,” he laughed, pulling me onto his lap for a long discussion interrupted by passionate necking. We basically set up an honor system that neither of us would lie about having fooled around, and sealed the deal with a frantic love-making session that involved my getting more sperm in my other two holes. Viagra is great for middle-aged horn dogs of all genders!

We got married and, over the next year, extended the love-making into a marathon bout, several times a day, EVERY day; any time one of us wasn’t in the mood, the other partner would jokingly ask if we’d been getting some “strange” pussy or cock. And yes, we role-played being sex slaves to each other. Or, should I say our Mistress/slave boy playtime, since Jim seemed to gravitate to the slave boy role ever more frequently as we explored this fantasy. Jim, was a model slave, making me feel like a princess every time he wore the collar and treating me like a valued possession even when I wore it for him.

(Jim Fuller’s viewpoint)
Fast forward two years. Being married to Jeanie gave me a new lease on life. As a thoracic surgeon, I have a lot of stress, and our marriage bed became the best method for dissipating that stress. For some odd reason, I noticed feeling especially liberated by my submission whenever I role-played as the sex slave of my gorgeous, brilliant wife. Being her “master” was always a fun change of pace—what guy wouldn’t want a nekkid babe on her knees, willingly performing any sex act he wanted—but I started to REALLY anticipate the simplicity of serving as HER slave, obeying rather than deciding while pleasing my love. This was especially attractive after a long day of zero defects and contained stress in the operating room. All the bad jokes and old rock ‘n roll songs could go only so far.

It was two years before I suddenly realized this—I was happiest when I played slave boy to her, being just a bimbo toy who got regular (and sometimes Irregular!) sex in all positions without any worries or decisions. Then I didn’t know what to do about my epiphany or (whatever you want to call it). I mean, it’s hard enough (pun intended) for any person, regardless of gender, to recognize that he/she wants to submit totally to another person no matter how much love they may share. Even when I acknowledged that bizarre idea to myself, I didn’t think Jeanie, who seemed to enjoy having me ravish her several times a week, pinning her to the bed and vigorously ramming both of her lower holes, would respect me if I suddenly asked to be her FINO slave. For a while, I tried to just enjoy the rare times that she was in charge, but I finally began to contemplate that Prenup she had demanded to force the issue without actually confessing my weakness/subservience. In retrospect, it sound stupid that I surrendered my body and my freedom rather than admit that I was less than a take-charge Alpha male, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. Duhh.

*****
Subconsciously, I guess, I deliberately screwed up; somehow a photograph of a young blonde woman, naked, collared, and on her knees, lasciviously tonguing my dick while smiling up at the camera, ended up on my cell phone and SOMEHOW I let Jeanie see that photo. Then when my wife reacted, I felt truly sorry to have caused her such disappointment and pain, but at the same time my cock became harder than a steel beam—I guess I really was thinking with my other head!

We had promised to be honest about any infidelity, so I humbly recognized my mistake and begged her to forgive me. Once she stopped yelling, she made me sit down and read me the riot act in that no-nonsense tone I had rarely heard directed at me.
“OK, you know what this means, right?” She asked, still visibly struggling to control herself. “I know you have a killer schedule, but tomorrow when you get to your office, I expect you to look hard at your appointments and block out a month or six weeks with no surgeries or consultations, starting no later than May first and preferably earlier. You keep telling me how good your new surgical resident—Alice?—is, so it’s time to let her take over while you take some time off to serve me on your knees—got it, slave boy?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And you need to consult with a slave psychologist who will sign on to be your guardian once we execute the Prenup.” Fortunately, I had met the doyenne of slave shrinks, Doctor Nikki Sheldon, when I had to operate on one of her abused charges. Even on the phone, I turned 20 shades of red when I had to confess my crazy situation to her, but her matter-of-fact approach to the situation calmed me somewhat. Nikki told me that I’d be surprised how many upscale couples were going through this lately. She gently prodded me into admitting that I had WANTED to be a FINO when I transgressed, then reassured me by describing how many marriages, included her own, had been improved when one spouse quit pretending and just self-enslaved to another!

Meanwhile I managed to clear my schedule for a 35-day period, beginning three weeks after my crime, but in the interim Jeanie gave me the cold shoulder. I had literally fucked up and she had no intention of letting me forget it. She refused to share her bed with me, a stance softened only by her recognition that I needed a good night’s sleep before scheduled surgeries. The other nights, I slept on the couch.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I awoke on the first day of my “sabbatical” to find my beautiful wife demonstrating her sword-swallowing abilities on my morning wood! At first, I thought I was dreaming a return to our newly-wed period, but soon realized that this was real. I was fully awake and fully erect in like 20 seconds, at which point she demanded that I “fuck the crap” out of her—the result was ten minutes of physical and mental bliss for both of us, me pinning her down and pumping madly into her, after which she suddenly turned cold again, telling me not to expect sex like that for the foreseeable future.

I thought I was prepared for the next step, a trip to the Longhorn Slave Market to in-process as a FINO, but it was still a shock. Seconds after she parked outside, I was nekkid in public, being led on a leash (secured to my scrotum, not my newly-installed collar!) as Mistress Jeanie implemented that damn prenup. Doctor Nikki and my new owner had already signed my voluntary enslavement, so once I signed it (handed down to me on a clip-board as I knelt at the concierge desk), the document went into effect. I remained on my knees, feeling incredibly exposed and dumb with my knees wide apart, while a towering (but stacked) Black wrangler carefully examined the documents and then notarized my contract to serve my wife as her FINO for the next five years, interrupted only by my medical responsibilities. Suddenly, that sounded like a life sentence; I couldn’t decide whether to listen to my terrified mind or my still-rigid dick! I’m accustomed to being in charge at the hospital, but now I was a naked, bound animal kneeling at the feet of my wife (which was thrilling) and this muscular Venus whose nametag read “Josephine.”

My new owner turned me over to Mistress Josephine for processing, remarking that the wrangler was free to discipline or play with me as she liked, but Jeanie would appreciate it if she avoided any damage to my hands while keeping that leash on my “junk.” She explained that my treacherous dick had gotten me into this situation, so it was only right that I be jerked around by it. The sound of that huge Black lady chuckling was terrifying even though, in retrospect, she never abused or mistreated me in any way.

I thought we were done and I would finally be allowed to stand up and move away from public display, if only to be processed inside, but first the two women who controlled me fell into a discussion about branding! Mistress Jeanie said she wanted to be sure that, in future, I kept my pants on and remembered to whom I belonged. Her idea of a reminder was to have her initials burned indelibly, 3 inches high, into the cheeks of my gluteus maximus (buttocks!) I mentally shuddered, both alarmed and aroused. Something to look forward to . . .

You’ve all read stories about the humiliations inflicted on slaves during in-processing, but no words can have the same emotional impact of first-hand experience. Mistress Josephine casually toyed with my body, and missed no opportunity to remark on how being a slave visibly excited me. When she wasn’t leading me around by my turgid cock she was steering me with her hand shoved up my butt crack, the middle finger goosing my anus while her thumb and other fingers rhythmically fondled my lower cheeks. That only served to increase the rigidity of my dick, which she pointed out, chuckling, as she toyed with it. After the fact, I realized that she was deliberately arousing me in preparation for the mandatory “pink photographs” taken of each new slave—pornographic and humiliating poses that displayed my naked, collared body with rampant prick, swollen balls, and winking anus. The experience of being photographed like that, as if I were some domestic toy being recorded after apprehension by Animal Control, pushed me almost to orgasm. After that, I was put in the stirrups of a modified OB/GYN table while a young veterinarian, whom I distinctly recalled when she had been an intern at my hospital, did her best to pretend she didn’t recognize me (I can only imagine her breathless confidences to the rest of her class that evening). I got the full treatment—blood draw to check for STDs, casual fondling, with her gloved hands gloved, of my dangling scrotum and treacherously-rigid penis, speculum stretching my anus while she probed my colon and pronounced me “virginal” down there. Josephine snickered and audibly wondered how long THAT virginal state would last. The reality that, as even a FINO slave, I might get sodomized, with some guy’s dick shoved up my ass, both alarmed and further excited me. I had consulted on a few cases where abused slaves had developed a permanent anal “gap” that even Dr. Zee’s excellent pharmaceuticals couldn’t tighten completely, so the poor slave got a colostomy bag—intellectually, I knew that my darling wife/owner would never risk permanent injury, but I didn’t want to find out how close she could come!

At my owner’s behest, Mistress Josephine devoxed me and spread me out on a bondage display frame with other slaves, even though (under the terms of the FINO) I wasn’t for sale. I spent that hour silently praying that none of the gawking spectators who filed through the display would recognize me. Fortunately, most of them seemed to focus on the young adults of both sexes who, having recently turned age 18, were on display to obtain slave gradings, either as collateral for a loan or as bragging rights for how hot their bodies were. I empathized with the helpless young women (and especially the young men!) who were fondled and jeered by their peers, and felt guilty that their abasement served to distract attention from the old codger (me) lying near them. Still, after the full-time merchants came through to actually grade the helpless bodies, I couldn’t help being pleased that my old but still furiously aroused body graded out as Choice Minus.

Mistress Josephine once again led me, hands cuffed behind me, on a cock leash, this time to one of the innumerable wire cages, where she sprayed the antidote for devox down my throat and left me with a water bottle to recover my voice.

Half an hour later, I heard the sound of several people approaching my cage. Following the rules explained by the massive female wrangler, I assumed the correct position for a slave to greet free people—kneeling, thighs wide apart, fingers interlocked behind my neck, eyes downcast looking at the floor just inside the wire gate to my cage. I couldn’t help reflecting at “how the mighty had fallen;” yesterday, I had been a respected surgeon in charge of a large team of nurses, physicians, and students, master of pretty much everything I could see. This afternoon, I was a collared, naked slave kneeling in submission to any free person. And my treacherous dick was still half turgid.

A pair of large black combat boots, presumably belonging to Josephine, appeared in my view as the cage gate opened. Next to those boots were a pair of shapely legs in high heels—legs that I immediately recognized as belonging to my wife. At last, the queen whom I wanted to serve, the real reason I had put myself in this excruciating situation, had deigned to visit her lowly subject.

(Jeanie Harrison’s viewpoint)
The sight of my kneeling husband so humbled and miserable almost made me give up on the whole idea. Almost. Then, I decided that if I stopped now it might still lead to divorce, whereas going through with the plan should improve our marriage immeasurably. Besides, I knew enough about Jim to suspect that he really WANTED to be my collared sex toy. But first, I had to ensure that he would be deterred forever from accepting another slave girl blow job, so I hardened my heart.

“Enjoying your collar, slut?” I asked him in a condescending, almost sneering tone.

Jim gulped at the reality of his situation, although I noticed that his half-erect dick suddenly regained some turgidity. “No, Mistress,” he said, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“That’s odd,” I replied, “Because your cock seems very happy about it. Anyway, you have one more step to in-processing today, after which you’ll spend a few days here at the market to recover before you go off for training. But this last step should ensure you think twice before straying again.” The nervous look on his face said he already deeply regretted his escapade.

“Since you’re my property for the next five years,” I continued, “I’m sure you agree that I have the right to label my horny animal in case someone finds you running around loose, correct?” He nodded, visibly alarmed. “At some point I’ll loan you out to my friends, but I don’t want the Slave Patrol wondering who you belong to. So, Josephine here is going to take you down to get my initials branded onto your slutty ass. That way, anyone who fucks you will have to notice you’re already my property, hmm?”

Now he was REALLY alarmed. My voice turned honey sweet. “Of course, I want to minimize my little bitch’s suffering, so I’ve paid extra for local anesthesia PLUS, just for you, I’ve rented one of the female slaves that belong to the market. She’ll take care of that naughty erection of yours while you’re waiting on the rack. The endorphins should further reduce the pain when you get your ‘two ass-burns’ instead of aspirin, but I also want you to remember just how you got into this mess, OK?”

Now his already-terrified face took on a look of absolute humiliation and fear. I couldn’t help it—I had to give him SOME comfort. So I patted his head, making soothing noises as he leaned against my leg like a grateful pet. I felt a little dampness from both my own sense of power and a few tears leaking out of his eyes. I swear, if Josephine hadn’t been looming over him, he probably would have tried to hump my leg like the randy dog he had become.
With a final admonition to “be a good boy, now,” I left the cage and went to wait in the buyers’ lounge. After the fact, I would look at the deluxe video of his branding (cost me $40!), but I cared too much about him to want to be in “the room where it happened” just then.

*****
(Jim Fuller’s viewpoint)
I had thought I had sunk as low as I could, but watching my ripe, gorgeous former wife and new owner swing her fine hips out of that cage, leaving me behind after warning me of my fate, was devastating. Someone once observed that the only thing worse than experiencing injury, pain and/or humiliation is knowing about it ahead of time and having to wait while anticipating the disaster to come. That was certainly true in my case, anyway. Fortunately for me, Mistress Josephine wasted no time in re-cuffing and re-leashing me, then leading my naked, chilly body down a corridor of cages towards me fate, the branding room.

The heat and smell struck me well before we passed through the doorway, a door decorated with a 9-inch wide burned-in imprint of the Longhorn logo: An outline bull’s head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. As an adult Texan, especially one in the medical professions, I had seen numerous slaves, mostly women, with the same pattern burned into their shapely, lily-white (or black or tan) asses, usually at an angle to fit the whole thing onto one buttock. For the first time, the reality of what those slaves had experienced struck home. I decided to be thankful for small mercies that I was “only” getting three initials as a brand rather than that monster bull’s skull on my tender flesh.

Inside the spacious branding room, a gas-fueled, fan-driven forge flooded the room with heat, light, and especially light. There were two complicated frames of gleaming metal, clearly intended to restrain slaves for branding in any desired position. Plus two grinning men dressed as wranglers but with leather aprons; one was in his 40s with a full beard, the other a brown-haired guy in his late 20s or maybe early 30s.

One rack already held a pretty and VERY busty blonde, aged perhaps 25, whose face displayed the same terror I felt. For some reason, she seemed to be asking herself “How did I let myself get put into this situation,” a sentiment with which I could certainly empathize! She was strapped down in a bent-over position, head low, legs low and spread wide, with her shapely butt at the highest point on her body or the frame. When she lifted her head, I saw that her teeth were clenched around a large wooden dowel, held firmly in her mouth by a strap around the back of her head. In seconds, I was secured in a similar position (including the wooden gag, which I found had deep indentations in it from the teeth of previous users), after which someone mercilessly rammed into my winking starfish with a lubricated rod that felt huge (or “uuge,” if you’re a MAGA fan). Next, the younger smith, presumably the assistant, pushed two large trays filled with kitty litter underneath our immobilized bodies. Hers was centrally positioned to catch any emissions, solid or liquid, from her groin or anus, whereas mine for some reason was offset two feet to my right side. The reason for this was obvious when a cute, Asiatic girl-woman, no more than five feet tall with shoulder-length black bangs, complete with collar but no restraints, was ordered to crawl underneath me. She grinned at me sympathetically, obviously relieved to learn that I rather than she was about to become so much seared meat. She immediately began fondling, licking, and sucking on my dick, which may have wilted somewhat at the terrifying sight of the forge but now responded to her frantic hoovering. Occasionally she paused to envelop my dangling balls in her warm, moist mouth, swishing them around like I was so much mouthwash.

I was distracted and almost lost my erection when the woman next to me emitted an incredibly loud scream, barely muffled by the dowel in her mouth. Her entire body convulsed, attempting in vain to escape, and I heard a drizzle as, presumably, she lost control of her urine. That reminded me that we were both here not to have sex but to be branded like livestock, and I began shaking. I heard the older smith say to her,

“There you go, 6627. Congratulations: a perfect Longhorn brand for a perfect ass.” He strode rapidly to the forge, thrust his used branding iron into the center of the fire, and returned, holding another iron, to stand behind her. “Just one more thing, darlin’.” Another scream, presumably when he added the “P” for Prime. “Now your husband and his friends will know without question that he owns one of the finest pieces of ass in all of Texas, a Prime-rated rump roast. Once it heals, you’ll have to shop for the tiniest g-string available, so that everyone can see the proof on your little behind when you go to the pool. My assistant has sprayed you with pain killer and liquid bandage; once you catch your breath, he’ll take you back to the vet for some after-care.”
I could hear more than I could see, of course, and was immediately distracted by renewed oral attention on my dick. Once the tiny Asiatic cock-sucker had me fully aroused, her look of rapturous delight at swallowing my sausage disappeared, and she slowed WAY down with her fellating while her eyes seemed focused to one side, as if waiting for a signal. I felt a tiny prick in first the left and then the right buttock, and decided that someone really knew how to give an injection, in this case (I hoped) anesthetic. Then the almond-eyed cutie resumed her maximum suction while her tongue licked around my shaft, and before I even knew it I was climaxing into her mouth. I would have preferred that she keep on licking dick, but instead she abruptly pulled her mouth away, allowing half of my discharge to spray on the floor while she hastily pulled the kitty litter tray under me while rolling outside my view. I caught a flash of a Longhorn bull brand (with a “C” above it for Choice) that stretched half way down her left leg. That reminded me of why I was here. Uh—Oh; Showtime!

That thought had just crossed my sex-intoxicated brain when I suddenly felt two, separate, very sharp burning sensations right on the fleshiest part of my left buttock. I screamed like a little girl, and was barely aware of the smith walking away from the rack and then returning, at which point a third burn, presumably an “H” for my wife’s last name, blossomed on my OTHER butt cheek! (Looking in the mirror later, I confirmed my suspicion. My ass was permanently marked with the initials “JCH” to denote that I was now the property of my wife/mistress. Talk about making me her bitch!)
I almost passed out from the shock, and recovered to the sensation of cooling pain killer and liquid bandage being sprayed all over the new wounds. A pair of black fingers snapped in front of my eyes to get my attention, and then I heard Mistress Josephine’s throaty, amused voice talking in my ear. “Your mistress asked me to tell you that you got branded this way, right after a blow-job from a slave cutie, because she wants you to associate having sex with a slave with intense pain, so we don’t have to go through this again. Got it, darlin’?”

I groaned around my gag, “Yes, Mistress.” Traumatic learning: No way in hell I wanted to EVER risk pain like that again!

The cherry on top of my conversion? I found out that the branding rack could be manipulated to turn me onto my back. There, the cute slave girl used her hands to arouse me, but then carefully disinfected the glans at the head of my cock. When I felt the assistant smith sprayed my dickhead with a numbing agent, I knew what was coming even though I didn’t want to believe it! Once again, I screamed around my gag as the smith used a curved, sanitized needle to penetrate that glans and install a small gold ring; a similar ring was installed into my lower groin (much less painful but still no fun). I knew what that meant—my Mistress had given me a reverse Prince Albert—somewhere I had read that rings in those precise locations could stimulate the lady’s G-spot and, if she were very lucky, her clitoris as the guy pumped in and out, but that was only when she unlocked the two rings from each other!

*****
The next three days were a haze of discomfort and ignominy for me, eating slave kibble and doing mild exercise (mostly slave block positions) to stretch the injured skin. Twice each day, I went to the Longhorn staff veterinarian to have my wounds examined and bandages changed, after which I got a few pain killers (after the first day, just ibuprofen) to swallow. By now, the young female vet (who by Texas law had to have an MD because slave anatomy was, after all, still human) had lost any awe or deference to me in my former incarnation; she casually referred to me as “Doctor Slave” and (having looked me up on the national slave registry) asked me, seriously, how I enjoyed being a FINO. But she wasn’t cruel about the situation, nor did she hint at any blackmail or payback; she was both amused by the role reversal and interested in my take on the now-infamous FINO prenup, saying that she intended to demand the same agreement from her fiancé, Dr. Josh Birmingham, whom I had also taught. Having no more status to lose in her eyes, I did confess to her that acting as a submissive was a great relief from the stress of decision-making that every physician experiences. That put a thoughtful expression on her face, as if she imagined herself playing slave for Josh.

Nights were particularly challenging for me. It goes without saying that I didn’t sleep on my back! Beyond that, however, the airconditioned market building was so chilly that I needed warmth to sleep, but the single wool blanket provided on each slave bunk was scratchy. I contemplated my fate for the upcoming month during long periods of sleeplessness and occasionally wondered how my resident was coping with emergency surgeries.

Three days after my branding, the vet said I was starting to heal. That afternoon, I again heard someone approaching my cage, where I had been waiting in boredom. Assuming the kneeling position, which was now much less painful than it had been previously, I was soon visited by an unknown (to me) wrangler accompanied by my darling wife, Jeanie—I mean, Mistress Jeanie! I know that I perked up at the sight of her, and she seemed equally happy. She asked the wrangler to return in 20 minutes, as she wanted to talk to me.

No sooner did his footsteps echo in the distance than she seated herself on my bench, spread her legs, and motioned for me to shuffle over between her thighs and “get to work.”

“Aah.” She said, sounding very relieved as began lapping her. “I’ve really missed getting regular slave cunnilingus since we got married, Babe.” OK, confession time: although I knew HOW to give cunnilingus (studying anatomy has to have a few side benefits), the “free” me had only used his tongue on his second wife a few times in our marriage, when I realized that she was desperate for some attention down there. It just wasn’t my thing, and I found it very uncomfortable. Now, however, I was becoming programmed to service any free woman, and I felt honored to give pleasure to my wife/owner. I went to work doing my best to get her off as I listened to her monologue about how much she had missed me and how she was looking forward to having me available to “kiss my cunt” whenever she wanted. My still-healing dick was painfully erect.

Then she turned her attention to what would happen next, telling me that she was shipping me off to get further training in cunnilingus, fellatio (I almost bit her clit at that point!) and (unspecified) other skills of a submissive male slave. And the best place to get such training was at the Cougar Club, the notorious club house and slave market for dominant females controlling (read emasculating) male slaves.

I paused for a moment at the mention of that club, which had a vague but undeniable reputation as a group of “ball busting Dykes” who enjoyed subjugating males, sometimes even turning them into sissy slaves. I shuddered at that, but reflected that I had wanted to submit to women, or at least one woman whom I adored. Besides, it wasn’t as if I had any choice in the matter. For all intents and purposes, I had made myself into a slave, at least for any “free” (ha!) time I might have for the next five years.

(To be continued)

[jessmartin]

I'm glad to be able to enjoy one of your new stories, I've been following you for a long time in LITEROTICA, and your stories have given me many ideas for the stories I publish in that page.
'The Girl in the Window' and 'Breeding the Pony Girl', are two of my favorite stories.

[Carl Bradford]

Thanks for the kind words. In all honesty, much of "The Girl in the Window" came from the evil mind of Joe Doe, who recently e-mailed me that he's still too busy to publish at the moment!
As I noted at the start of this episode, "Prenup" is a collaboration with the equally-talented Mr. Smith. I have one more segment ready to post, but after that there may be delays before he or I produce further.

[Mr. Smith]

I guess these guys never play a traditional back nine at these golf courses, instead playing the non-traditional 10th, 11th and 12 holes known as going around the world playing the pleasure sluts mouth, pussy and backdoor and then dragging themselves home for ESPN and a few beers.

The primary prenup term we are using is for spouses to not to have unauthorized sex with slaves without a hall pass if that is even permitted per the contract. This is likely to see more men collared so we could use some suggestions on things that could get some women collared. Maybe weight gain, running up a credit card debt, or maintaining employment. We're open to suggestions.

Could we create a postnuptual agreement that would be put into place to "save" the marriage?

[Belinda]

Dearest Carl,

Another wonderful story. As a professional woman with submissive fantasies I still found it a wonderful piece of work. You did get me on one new word I had to look up. "Doyenne" My master's degree in accounting did not help me here.

Warmest regards,

Belinda

[Belinda]

Oh, and yes would love to see a chapter on a wife's failure. Mr. Smith brings up some great reasons a wife could end up in FINO.

[Mr. Smith]

Belinda,

How about a girls night out where one of the women obtains some black market Horny Juice to experiment with. None of these women have ever experienced it, or admit to using it, so they all get a shot and then some of them find themselves in compromising situations that could lead them to violate a prenup, at least for the ones that have them. In Civil Penalty Gortmundy introduced HJ that can be painted or rubbed onto a woman's more sensitive regions just so, "[A]fter she was secured, I took my little paintbrush and painted a solution of it on her nipples and the lips of her nether regions. Then, I gave it a little time to sink in, as it were. She really is a most sensitive thing, and that made her doubly so. Her reactions were really quite, um... energetic."

Soooo, let's say some of them received a double dosing with a direct application as it were and found themselves .....

I am diligently working on my first Prenup entry having sent five pages of the start to Carl for his review. Who knows, I might have something soon.

Best,

Smith

[Belinda]

Mr. Smith,

Oh my black market horny juice. What a wonderful concept. Could easily turn into an addiction and we all know the "cure" or I should resulting action of said addiction. Makes me shiver to think of the ramifications.

Warmly,
Belinda