The Substitute Pt. 02
Posted: Sun Sep 04, 2022 4:47 am
(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 involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory for any sexual interaction. No actual women were enslaved or debauched in the development of this story—dang it.)
(Don Murray’s viewpoint)
Those of you who have read the first part of this story, as told by my wife Gwen, may have concluded that I’m the worst husband of whom they’ve ever heard. What kind of guy allows his wife to spend all her savings to buy him a younger sex slave, plows that slave as often as he can get it up, even takes the newer model on business trips while leaving the wife alone, and finally allows his wife to become enslaved herself—only because, having spent all her money on the bimbo, she can’t afford to pay her own debts? And then this same sonofa B____ arranges it so that HE gets to add HIS OWN WIFE to his coffle of collared cunts?
OK, so I’m human. What would you or any heterosexual man do if YOUR wife bought you a girl half her age who looks suspiciously like the wife did when we first hooked up in college? A girl who is not only obligated to let you fuck her anytime, anywhere, and in any orifice, but actually seems eager and happy to get railed, if only because she’d rather entertain the old fart once or twice a day instead of being gang-banged 18 hours out of every 24 in some slave brothel?
Besides, how could I turn down such a gift from the love of my life? Think what a sacrifice it was for her—not only the enormous cost of buying Slave Angelica to give me the kind of kinky sex my wife was afraid to provide herself, but even more the emotional burden of actually ENCOURAGING her husband to use this slave whenever he wanted and as often as he could perform. That comes pretty close to the ultimate self-sacrifice a person can make for a spouse.
Moreover, the sight of a young, collared, usually-naked woman being obligated to suck and fuck her husband clearly caused my wife to be jealous. She wasn’t just jealous that I was shafting another, younger woman (who, after all, my wife had GIVEN me for just that purpose), but also jealous because it aroused my wife’s own submissive tendencies. Come on, after more than two decades together I knew that Gwen’s fantasies revolved around being a sex slave herself. Whenever she wanted to roleplay like that, I was quite happy to lock the younger slut in her cage and have slightly rough sex with my wife. I say “slightly rough” because neither she nor I was prepared to FULLY act out the master-and-slave fantasy; I had to constantly gauge how much force and roughness to use on the middle-aged (but still beautiful in my eyes) body of my wife, and I knew that she didn’t REALLY want me to ream her ass or paddle her even when, while offering herself as my “slave,” she seemed to beg me to do exactly that. How could I risk injuring or offending my wife, especially when I could always act out any really kinky or dominant scenes on the younger, more flexible substitute she had so kindly purchased for me? Even if my wife allowed me to sodomize her, she would be humiliated if she had to seek medical care for a hyper-extended anus! Think of it as a math problem: How many times can a 44-year-old dick go into a 22-year-old slut without injury to either party? A heckofalot more frequently than the same 44-year-old dick can go into a 43-year-old wife, however loving and eager that wife might be!
Without betraying any real secrets, Gwen’s best friend Kat, another non-tenured instructor at the community college, confirmed most of my thoughts about what my wife really wanted. Kat had already, quite openly, described to me (and incidentally to the family slave) how happy and slutty Gwen had been to pretend to be a naked slave in slave yoga classes. To hear her tell the story—and I had no doubt that was accurate—Gwen was so deep into her submissive fantasies that she would have willingly abased herself for the pleasure of the young stud who acted as slave wrangler for the class. (In fact, after that story I sought out the guy and gave him a $50 tip for his restraint!) But I talked to Kat on the phone several times—not for any adulterous purpose, but rather to help the woman we both loved reach happiness.
Having said all that, when it looked like Gwen’s lavish spending on my pleasure had left her unable to pay off her credit card bill, I was in a real quandary. Yes, I could have sold Angelica off to pay the debt, but that would, in effect, have been publicly insulting my wife’s loving gift; besides, I cared enough about the slave as a person that I didn’t want to turn her over to assembly-line prostitution if I could avoid it. My wife always came first in my mind, although selling Angelica would be a last resort. (And if you’re wondering about community property laws, Gwen and I had long since established trusts to ensure that greedy plaintiffs couldn’t attach the property of one spouse while claiming to be wronged by the other.)
Given my wife’s quite open desire to play slave and serve me, I finally decided to allow her to get all the filthy experience she would ever need—not to mention putting her in a situation where she would feel obligated to get over her hang-ups and make love with me in every way she had ever dreamed of. So I set up a backup plan—which some may describe as a trap—that in the event of her going into debt would make my wife my ACTUAL slave for a few years, giving us both a lifetime of dirty fantasies to recall. Of course I would treat her gently, but as an actual slave she would think she had no choice but to live out her (and my) filthiest dreams. Hell, just the thought of having the love of my life in my collar, bed, and (if she misbehaved) slave cage got me hard no matter how many times Angelica begged me to bang HER!
Of course, I was out of town on a business trip when the backup plan went into effect. Fortunately, I had not only the bank but also Kat, to keep an eye on my lovely slut—I mean, wife. I knew I would end up repaying the bank much more than the amount she owed, but who wouldn’t give up a few thousand dollars to help his wife achieve her fantasy life?)
(Gwen Murray’s viewpoint)
Whenever I fantasized about being a sex slave in Texas, my imagination thought of it as one long series of encounters where free citizens groped, fondled, bound, and fucked me—a pornographic smorgasbord of submissive sex. Turns out, most of a slave’s life, just like the average free person in the work force, consisted of hurry up and wait. Now I was waiting endlessly in a situation that was far from comfortable.
I think I’ve already told you about the actual process of my becoming enslaved for debt, which ended with my stripping, kneeling to be collared, and then having to fellate and swallow the rather large (by my limited experience) dick of the official who performed the process, Master Simmons. And unlike in my daydreams, when every guy who used me looked like my handsome husband or a young stud, Simmons was an overweight, middle-aged paper pusher. As I frantically tried to swallow the massive load he pumped into my throat, I remembered to save some of it so that, when he finally withdrew, I could stick out my tongue like a good slut to display my prize. He granted me permission to swallow it, but the taste lingered a long time.
I guess I should be thankful that the banking official who had foreclosed on my ass, Mr. Sauron, didn’t want a similar service—he was probably inhibited by the presence of the bank security guard who had cuffed me for the drive over to the Agriculture Department. Anyway, the two men promptly departed, leaving me to the “tender mercies” of Master Simmons and the female who had acted as witness to my indenture. I never did learn her name, but she made no secret of her contempt for someone like me who, as the advanced age of 43, had been dumb enough to be enslaved for debt. As soon as Master Simmons zipped up his trousers, I felt the woman clipping a disposable pet leash to my collar. She ordered me to stand and place my hands behind my back, where my wrists were secured together by what felt like a cheap plastic zip-tie. And the vindictive old b____ (excuse me, the free lady) pulled it so tight that it dug into my wrists.
Next, she led me back out of Simmons’ office and down the hallway between office worker cubicles. I had heard of this walk of shame before, when naked people got fondled and belittled by the government workers as the next stage in teaching new slaves just how lowly and helpless they were. I suddenly realized, however, that there was a worse fate than being felt up and insulted—what would it do to my self-esteem as this roomful of people found me too old and saggy to be worth teasing? Fortunately (I guess), I needn’t have worried—I felt the first pinches and butt-slaps within three steps of walking down the aisle, and by the time the woman reached the elevators, I was blushing and dripping from constant goosing, breast-mauling, and derogatory comments. Finally, something that vaguely resembled my fantasies of being a slave-as-sex-object!
As I stood dutifully next to the woman on the descending elevator, I was surprised that she suddenly showed me some compassion. “You’re doing a good job, girl; too many newly-enslaved people freak out at this stage. Just stick with it and you’ll be better in a few days.”
I was quite surprised, but dutifully replied, “Thank you, Mistress.”
Just then, the elevator opened at the lowest level in the building. She led me into the ladies’ room and released my hands so I could use the facilities and even, rather vainly, try to wash my face and spit out the taste in my mouth. After that, she re-cuffed me and led me to a loading dock, where she turned me over to a middle-aged guy in work clothes who was somewhat lacking in personal hygiene, if you know what I mean.
The woman handed him a pre-printed set of shipping instructions. After looking at the instructions, he ordered me to bend over the side of a cage, pressing my breasts painfully into the wire mesh on top. I was in shock, imagining that he was about to shaft me right in front of this woman, but instead I felt a well-lubricated flexible shaft—a butt plug, I realized—being pressed firmly up my butt.
I should have anticipated what followed but was still so disoriented that I was surprised to realize I was about to be shipped “Poodle Express”—that is, bound on my knees in a wire cage originally designed for a large dog. First, of course, I had to suffer the personal attentions of the shipping clerk. For the first time, I was actually PLEASED that I was considered too old to be prime material for molestation. He limited himself to standing behind me, pressing what felt like a large dick against my butt while he thoroughly handled by breasts, almost as if he were manipulating two bags of mashed potatoes. I could smell him behind me and was thankful that I didn’t have to suffer further intimate contact with him.
This clown tied a canvas gag into my mouth, and I discovered that yet another urban legend was true—he had apparently jerked off onto the gag, because it now added still more flavor of semen to my mouth. I was stuck with that obnoxious taste until some free person chose to remove the gag, another lesson in my lowly, helpless state.
He casually squeezed my breasts again as he “guided” me to shuffle, on my knees, backwards into an open cage. No sooner had he closed the cage door than he secured it with a cheap little padlock, the kind I could easily break or remove if I had the use of my hands. Instead, I felt him using additional zip-ties to restrain my ankles to the back corners of the cage and then to secure the zip-tie around my wrists to the back wall of the cage. I was now even more restrained than a poodle might be in the same container—naked, collared, and with my wrists and ankles secured to the cage behind me. I was literally a human poodle—or more accurately, perhaps, a poodle bitch, immobilized so that I could neither move nor speak/bark to trouble the free human being who had put me in that position.
There I sat, my knees becoming increasingly uncomfortable on the hard tray at the bottom of the cage, for half an hour. Finally, a delivery truck backed up to the loading dock and a forklift moved another caged slave along with me into the truck.
More waiting followed, as we knelt in semi-darkness while feeling the van moving to an unknown location. No one bothered to tell slaves where they were going. What was that old cliché? Oh, yeah, “Slaves have questions, but only masters have answers.”
*****
Speaking of masters, I soon discovered that there was something even more humiliating than being gagged and caged like a bitch. Once we reached our (unknown) destination, the cages were again deposited on a strange loading dock. Two beeps like the sound of a grocery store checkout line indicated that someone had added us to the inventory of wherever-this-was. Then, after the cage doors were opened, I heard a voice telling us loudly and clearly to shuffle forward until we reached the yellow line on the floor in front of us, and then “DO NOT MOVE.”
Crap. At that moment, the only thing worse than being a naked, helpless slave would be a slave controlled by someone who had known me as a free, clothed individual. And I recognized the voice of the slave wrangler ordering me around—my former student Jim, who had been my guide when I came to the slave market only a few months earlier to purchase Angelica! When I taught him in community college, Jim had been one of those students had stared at my boobs in class; now he would get to see them without any clothing! I silently prayed that Jim wouldn’t recognize his prof as he droned through what was obviously a standard warning to new arrivals:
“You are at The Longhorn Slave Market in Dallas, Texas. You are here for processing, grading and in most cases sale as a pleasure slut. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"
I frantically nodded my head and tried to mumble “Yes, Master” over the horrible-tasting gag, bending over in a vain effort to conceal my face. Then I felt him remove my simple collar and strap on a much heavier one, presumably the shock collar he had warned us about, that had two sharp points digging into my neck. After that, he clipped a substantial dog leash onto my new collar, commanded “heel,” and led me, shuffling on my knees, over to a podium to which he clipped my leash, as if I wasn’t already sufficiently restrained!
I was immensely grateful when I felt him cut the gag free, but then he peeled down my front lip and scanned my 20-some-year-old slave identification number (SIN) tattoo, originally installed when I had been slave graded at age 18.
A moment later, I heard him laughing quietly, and suspected that he knew my identity. Sure enough, he gently lifted my face up to look at it, and with a smile announced “Welcome, Professor. When I was in your class, I often dreamed of having you at the Longhorn; I guess dreams really do come true! Damn—your tits are even finer than I thought!”
I felt my face flushing dark red, but the only thing I could think to say was a quiet “Thank you, Master.”
His voice took on a note of genuine kindness, as he continued to talk, all while petting my hair. “I don’t know how you became a slave, professor, but don’t worry—it’ll get better.” How would he know, I wondered? But I said nothing—being a smartass was unbecoming a slave.
He bent over and thoroughly groped me, making little comments about what “nice big boobs” I had—an updated version of the big bad wolf. My nipples stood out as stiff as erasers—the first wrangler to actually use me as a toy, and he was one of my students! At least, I reflected, I no longer had to worry about the ethics of sex with a student—the entire power ratio was reversed, with him being in charge of me rather than vice versa. And I had already noticed that the staff here were free to play with the merchandise, including me, so long as they didn’t damage the inventory or slow up the process.
Once he had explored me fully, he finally cut the tie holding my wrists behind my back and issued the one-word command “Present.” I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes when I rose and assumed the same position I had used in Simmons’ office; I’ll bet he had expected to have to explain “Present” and even move my body into it.
Jim remarked, almost talking to himself, “Two months ago I had to explain how the slave market works to her, and now she’s not only wearing a collar but appears to have practiced block positions so she knows how to obey. We get a couple like you in here every year. Don’t tell me, you’re one of those older women who gets fascinated by the idea of being a slave so she practices slave yoga and eventually ends up enslaved for real, right?”
He consulted the computer tablet where he had called up my file after scanning my SIN. “Like that rockstar who renamed himself, you’re now the ‘slave formerly known as Gwen Murray.’ Who’s your owner? ‘Donald H. Murray.’ Is that your ex-husband, babe?”
I suddenly realized that I had lost something more important than my clothes and my freedom. Master Jim had said “ex-husband” because, in most states where slavery was common, becoming indentured legally dissolved any marriage bonds, freeing the new slave to perform sex with any free person. The thought of that gave me a lump in the throat, but I managed to nod my head and reply “Yes, Master.”
“Oh, well done, Professor Slut. If you have to become a slave, might as well be owned by your ex-husband who feels some affection and restraint in dealing with you. Unless you were getting divorced and he holds a grudge?” I shook my head.
“In that case,” Master Jim continued, “You should have a kind master and probably even enjoy yourself. And he’s a lucky man, too.” Seeing the question in my eyes, he explained, “For an old woman, you’re in remarkably good shape—you must take care of yourself, and now he can have you however and whenever he wants. You still have nice, white tits and ass because you used to wear bathing suits, but a few months of slavery and they will tan to match the rest of your body—every place except under your collar, which will be lily white when you regain your freedom in . . .” (He consulted the tablet again) “three to five years, depending on what your established value will be. This could be fun for you—a vacation from all worries, all choices, all moral criticism. All you have to do is whatever your owner wants; otherwise relax and try to be happy.”
He then picked up a cumbersome device, similar to a label-maker or price scanner, and pressed it against my “lily white” skin just over my left breast. A sharp sting ensued; he told me that he had injected a GPS tracking chip that would identify me as a slave if I attempted to escape. To be honest, I had never even thought about escaping—I knew how effectively law enforcement and slave bounty hunters operated, and the thought of belonging to my husband gave me hope that this experience was survivable.
As casually as he might help a disabled person dress, the wrangler next attached two locking bands to my wrists, then secured them together behind my back. By this time, his matter-of-fact mastery had caused me to ALMOST forget the humiliation of being his nude prisoner, but I was abruptly reminded of my vulnerability when he firmly pushed the fingers of one hand into the crack of my behind, clamping down with his thumb so that his hand cupped my buttock and his middle finger pressed firmly against that fat plug in my anus. I tried to control my natural response (shrinking away from this intimate invasion), then found that his hand served a very practical purpose as he used his grip to steer me, without any verbal instructions, in whichever direction he wanted me to go.
By this time, it was late afternoon, and he explained (apparently for my benefit) that most of my processing and evaluation would have to wait until the next morning. For the moment, I was his cuffed, naked hand-puppet as we walked swiftly over to an office labelled “Veterinarian.” Now that I was livestock, any medical care would come from slave veterinarians, each of whom was an M.D. Without releasing my wrists, Master Jim directly me to sit backwards onto what looked like a gyno examination bench, only this one had an indentation to accommodate my bound arms when I leaned backwards; my wrangler and an equally-muscular young man who appeared to be the ”Slave Vet Tech” pivoted me fully onto my back as they lifted my legs into the stirrups, using Velcro to secure me with my thighs once again widespread and showing everything. I defy any woman to be calm when bound and displayed in such a manner.
The Vet Tech scanned my lower lip again and consulted his tablet. Reading without emotion or any sign of surprise at my enslavement, he announced, “405-02-7765, 43-year-old female, two births recorded, hormonal injection elected.” The actual Vet, a pleasant-looking young woman, had just finished snapping latex gloves onto her hands as she moved efficiently forward and thoroughly explored my birth canal and anus. Had I been a free woman, I might have remarked that we weren’t even dating yet, but instead I blushed in silence, nipples and clit once again erect, as two males and one female stared at and manipulated my most intimate parts without any sign of surprise or emotion. At least they didn’t make any criticism of my exposed and hairless private parts.
The doctor was surprisingly pleasant and considerate as she talked to me, eliciting the information that I had not yet reached menopause (another blush) and had regular periods with no unusual discharges. Then she tested for STDs and inserted a subcutaneous birth control rod, making me parrot back the date, 36 months hence, when it would need to have it replaced.
I was looking forward to my release from this lewd position when, instead, the veterinarian disinfected a spot on my buttock and inserted what seemed like a VERY large needle, pressing downward on a syringe that looked big enough to be used on horses or hogs—perhaps THAT was why this profession was classified as animal veterinarians? At a nod from her, the tech typed onto the tablet, announcing “25 ccs hormones injected.” Belatedly, I realized the meaning of the previous statement about “hormonal injection elected;” Someone—presumably my loving husband/owner—had directed that the new slave be injected with the hormone mixture developed in Texas to make female slaves unbearably horny!
When they finally released me from the bench, Master Jim’s hand immediately reoccupied my tushie and guided me over to an area that was as moist as my thighs—what he called the “slut wash” for slave showers. And no, that doesn’t mean he released my wrists and handed me a bar of soap. Instead, two grinning young men in rainsuits guided me to their station, a mass of hoses and brushes, where they tied my ankles wide apart (my aroused libido wondered what was it with these people spreading my legs all the time but never screwing me?) Next (apparently, since I couldn’t see behind me) they used a block and tackle to pull upwards on my wrist bonds, forcing me to bend over, parallel to the floor, to avoid dislocating my shoulders. Once I was spread out with my breasts dangling below me, these two guys (they had to be at least 18 years of age to work there) took great pleasure in soaping and washing me all over, naturally paying extra attention to those “lily white areas” once covered by my bikini. I gave a small yip of surprise when two well-soaped, gloved fingers pressed between my labia while someone else pulled out the butt plug and explored my anus in the same intimate manner. I had finally adjusted to this rude invasion when they thrust nozzles into my two lower openings, giving a brief wash to my birth canal while what seemed like gallons of warm, soapy water occupied my intestines. My abdomen gurgled ominously for several minutes before one of these cheerful fiends finally release my bonds and marched me over to a line of toilets—no walls or other privacy, just toilets in the middle of the wash bay—and pressed me down onto one as I gratefully relaxed my over-stretched sphincter, allowing a flood of soap, water, and yesterday’s supper to blast downward. If that wasn’t bad enough, my two tormenters put me back into the same contorted position and gave me another soapy enema, giggling about what a good “fuck” I was for an “old lady.” Only after I had relieved myself a second time did they hose me off, comb my damp hair out of my face, and return me, still wrist-cuffed, to the tender mercies (hah!) of my former student. Who promptly directed me to bend over again while he inserted a new plug that felt even bigger as it stretched my back passage.
*****
After that the pace of events slowed; Master Jim told me to kneel down, wrists still bound, for my “dinner.” I thanked him sincerely when he produced a thick rubber mat to protect my “aging knees.” But of course, indentured animals don’t get to eat a fine meal in a restaurant. Two metal dog bowls—one filled with water and the other containing the infamous slave kibble, were placed on the concrete floor in front of me. I was starving after the stressful events of the day, and without hesitation pressed my face into the kibble bowl and ate as much as I could. It was just as tasteless as popular opinion claimed. I was acutely aware of how undignified and submissive I looked, like a hairless dog pigging out on its supper dish. At least the water dish helped wash excess kibble off my face when I finished.
My post-repast entertainment consisted of a chance to urinate, squatting lewdly over a “piss grill” in the floor while my grinning former student watched me struggle to discharge a thin stream downwards. Followed by the added humiliation of having him wipe me as if I were an incontinent senior citizen.
After that, I assumed or at least hoped that he would give me some place to sleep while he went home for the day. Wrong again! Instead, looking directly at my face, Master Jim suddenly became serious.
“You do realize that while you’re in a slave market, some of the wranglers will use you for sex, right?”
Double gulp. That was what I had been dreading and yet hoping for ever since I crawled out of the cage. Urban legend included innumerable stories of slaves, and sometimes free women who had only come in to be graded, being gang-banged in slave markets, especially at night. Back when I was still a free woman, I became really angry if someone repeated the chauvinistic line about “if rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.” But I was NOT free, so if it was going to happen anyway, I might as well take the opportunity to enjoy one of my fantasies brought to life. I managed to whisper,
“Master, my new owner told me to obey all orders like a good little slave. I live to serve you.”
The smile on his face was a mile wide—I had just given him permission to live out one of HIS fantasies, as well, in this case fucking his collared (former) teacher! Without saying a word, he started walking me towards the wire-mesh cages used to warehouse slaves when they weren’t needed elsewhere.
My pulse and breathing were already fairly rapid when he unexpectedly found a way to ramp up both my humiliation AND my arousal. He called out to another muscular young man, this one vaguely Hispanic, who appeared to be on his way out, walking rapidly towards the doors.
“Hey, Marco, look who I found to play with.”
The other wrangler turned around, and I suddenly recognized Marco De Leon, whom (I suddenly remembered) had spent every class in History 202 staring intently at my body and my mouth! When he turned and came over towards us, I saw recognition slowly dawning on his face as well.
Master Jim continued in a lower voice. “That’s right, this is Professor Murray, only now I call her Professor Slut. You spent all last spring telling me how much you wanted her lips wrapped around your cock—care to try that for real?”
If anything, Marco’s smile was bigger than his. “And she’s wearing a red collar, not a blue one.” (When I had visited the Longhorn the first time to purchase Angelica, Jim had explained that free women who were there solely to be graded wore blue collars, virgins (and any other slaves who were off limits) wore green collars, and pleasure slaves wore red. Apparently, Marco really DID want to use me!)
My temporary master replied, with just a hint of lust, “Yup. The notes on her inventory file say that she’s free for use except for her butt, which I’m supposed to stretch with plugs.” Now I knew I was in trouble (or was it submissive heaven?)—my ex-husband had, in effect, invited the entire staff of the Long Horn to use my mouth and cunt!
“Too bad,” Master Marco replied. “I used to dream about reaming that tight little ass—at least you got your hand on it! Oh, well, I’ll settle for a blowjob from my favorite instructor.” As he was talking, he turned to walk beside me on the other side from Jim; I felt a meaty hand slap the buttock that his partner wasn’t already fondling.
The wire mesh gate of a cage clanged shut behind us, ominously, as soon as we entered. Master Jim released my wrists and told me to assume “Slave 4s”by climbing onto one of the sleeping benches, each of which was bolted to the floor. I ended up on knees and elbows crosswise to the bench, my head on one side, where Master Marco moved, and my legs and tushie on the other. Anticipating what Master Jim was about to do, I spread my knees and felt him move in between my lower legs. This was really happening—I was about to get spit-roasted by two hunks who had once been my students but were now in full control of my naked body!
To this day, I don’t know which one was better endowed, but these two guys certainly stuffed me at both ends. Excited at the chance to fuck their MILF professor, both dicks expanded rapidly, making me almost choke on Marco. It had been decades since I’d felt such a large, useful shaft pumping between my thighs. At least, I thought, I didn’t have to take one of those huge cocks inside my butt, although Master Jim’s casual comment suggested that my new owner fully intended to invade my rear opening in the near future! That was about the last coherent thought that I had for ten or twelve minutes, as the two guys seemed to be in competition to see which one could pound farther, harder, and faster into their toy’s body. I just concentrated on ensuring that my teeth didn’t clamp down on a dick that seemed to be growing faster and longer than ever before in my life. If the idea of being double-teamed wasn’t enough to turn me on, I felt Jim bend over along my back and reach around to thoroughly mash and stimulate my bouncing boobs. I couldn’t help responding as my mouth moaned and vibrating around seven or eight inches of Hispanic sword; my bottom seemed to have a mind of its own, frantically pushing back against Jim’s invasions as if determined to help the two cocks meet in the middle, somewhere in my small intestines. Jim whispered in my ear how much he had dreamed of “making you my teacher-bitch.” I had at least three massive orgasms before first Marco and then Jim discharged their sperm deep inside my eager body.
For several long minutes the only sound was of three people trying to recover their breath; the only motion was of Master Marco softly petting my hair while his friend gently but firmly mashed my boobs while thumbing my nipples. Bliss.
When we recovered sufficiently, Jim used a rag to soak up the sweat and cum around my labia while Marco—bless him—offered me a sample bottle of mouthwash to remove the taste of cum from my mouth; he indicated a piss grate on which to spit. Then the two men—I almost said boys, but I knew they would have to be 18 to work there, and they had certainly used me as men—told me to lie down on another bench equipped with a thin pillow and a scratchy wool blanket. Reveille would sound at 5 a.m., Jim told me, at which point I should relieve myself in the piss grate, fold the blanket neatly, and wait (on my knees, thighs apart and hands behind my neck, AKA “slave spread”) for another wrangler to take charge of me.
My body was pleasantly relaxed after my (long deferred) orgasms. Despite worrying about my future as a slave, I decided that fun like that which I had just experienced would compensate for a lot of humiliation, and my mind quickly drifted off.
*****
And woke up to the sound of an irritating electronic buzzer. The faint light coming from windows near the ceiling suggested that it was, in fact, early morning and time to get up. So I followed instructions, urinating before I folded the blanket and waited, uncomfortably kneeling on the cold floor with my body fully exposed, while facing the gate/door of my cage. I don’t know whether the chain-link fencing used in the cages was a cost-saving measure or a further part of treating me as sub-human livestock. Then I giggled at the thought that, if the attendants wanted to “practice animal husbandry” on me like they had last night, being livestock wouldn’t be too bad!
Eventually, an unknown slave wrangler showed up, clipped another leash to my collar, secured my wrists, and then ordered me to “heel.” He took me to the toilets where he used a latex glove to extract that damned butt plug, which he discarded. Next he freed my wrists, which made is slightly easier to go with him watching me. Once I had washed my hands, he gave me a disposable toothbrush and comb so that I could clean up, after which he led me to a “Breakfast” that was identical to “Supper”—only again he left my hands free, so eating was far less difficult and demeaning than it had been the day before.
All good things come to an end, and before I knew it this unnamed guy turned me over to Master Jim, who immediately told me to spread my legs and try to touch my toes. You guessed it—he installed yet ANOTHER plug in my rectum, this one so large that my hips waddled while trying to accommodate it. He led me over to a well-worn wooden platform where a group of young, naked women wearing a rainbow of collar colors were gathering. Every one of them appeared far more attractive than I felt, if only because they had youthful, fresh skin and in many cases long, sexy hair. Moreover, I grumped to myself, nobody made THEM wear something the size of a flashlight shoved up their asses!
Then one of the female wranglers began directing us in block moves (the more obscene, suggestive form of slave yoga), and thanks to my classes at the Ananke Academy I found that I really COULD look like a desirable collared slut, moving smoothly and sensuously from position to position while echoing the instructor’s incredibly crude mantras (“Master, please buy me and fuck my slave brains out” was one of the more modest ones.) Sure, some of the blue-collared young blondes, who looked like barely-18-year-old cheerleaders, were sexier, but I thought I was doing pretty good. The number of eyes on me, the number of erections and adjusting of jeans on experienced wranglers seemed to be in response to my dancing. After all, these guys saw nubile young women doing this every day, but for some reason I got their attention. I could feel my nipples and clit erecting while I could both feel and sniff the fluids between my thighs; in that moment, at least, I was “slave hot” and eager to serve—in fact, the once-uncomfortable bulge up my tush made me imagine someone (preferably my own loving master) taking possession of the one place where I was still a virgin. . .
The final instruction was to “slave spread” on our knees. This meant legs apart, hands behind our necks, and mouths open, imploring the wranglers to “stuff your sausage down my throat.” Master Jim was more than willing to step in front of me and satisfy my request but showing great restraint he only pumped in and out a few times before pulling out, zipping up, and taking me away. I was so excited at the thought of being publicly face-fucked that this form of oral sex interruptus was frustrating!
He knew what he was doing, however, quickly moving me to a combination camera and computer console where he took the most pornographic images of me I could ever imagine. Perhaps I’m bragging, but when I saw them later the photos made me look like centerfold material, the kind that (at that other well-known slave market, the Big D) would have put me on the cover of their slave catalog as a “Sandy Foot Girl.” Kneeling slack-jawed with a distracted and horny expression on my face, one hand holding my labia open while the other fondled an erect nipple; bent over, looking back between my spread legs while holding my butt cheeks apart to show both my dripping pussy and my (temporarily empty, gaping) anus, and so on. Years later, when this whole experience was over, both Don and I would become so aroused looking at those photos that I would BEG to be screwed in all my openings and he would happily oblige. Not bad for a middle-aged college professor!
Anyway, Master Jim quickly uploaded those photos onto the National Slave Registry, replacing the 20-some-year old images of my younger self, and added my current information, all while having me kneel between his legs, slobbering over his prick to finish that interrupted blowjob. He continuously petted and praised me to maintain my excitement. When he had finished coating my tonsils with his discharge, he pulled me up to sit on his lap (with one hand alternately tweaking my nipples and my labia) so he could show me both the photos and the data on my registry entry:
“405-02-7765, formerly Murray, Gwen A. Owner: Murray, Donald H. telephone 469-725-8843. Date of scheduled release: NET 29 Oct YY. Grade: Choice; Category: Pleasure slut.”
Looking at that entry actually made me proud—except for my slave grade, which (pardon my arrogance) seemed a little low given how visibly aroused and mentally committed I was to slavery. With a start, I realized that I met the definition of “born to the collar” and “slave hot.”
*****
Speaking of feeling slave hot, Master Jim was in a hurry to get me re-graded while I was still literally dripping with lust. Once he had finished with the data entry (not to mention with the blowjob), he cuffed my hands, sprayed Devoxer down my throat, and began moving me towards the public display areas. On the way, he quietly explained that today, at least, I wasn’t going to be auctioned (thank heavens), but the slave market had an alternate method to establish my value. This method would determine how much my owner had to pay to reimburse the bank for the revenue it would have gotten by selling me as a repossessed female body. The slave merchants who ordinarily assigned grades to bodies on display would also (for a small additional fee) give their personal estimates of how much I would sell for at auction. The Longhorn would electronically average both the grade and the estimated price to determine my new value.
It may sound like a Duh! to observe this, but I had a very different experience between viewing slaves as a free, clothed citizen and being one of those slaves (and pseudo-slaves, those free women here only to get a grade) who were spread-eagled horizontally on metal racks, voiceless and helpless, for viewing. Quite apart from my nudity, the crowd of people who (upon proving they were aged 18 or older and paying a small fee) entered to gawk at, fondle, and taunt those being graded struck terror in my heart.
At first, I thought I was too old to be desirable, because the two racks nearest to the door were occupied by some of the magnificently-endowed, blonde-haired cheerleader types who had recently turned 18. Needless to say, all their acquaintances, especially the young men who had evidently lusted after them for years, swarmed those benches, finger-fucking the helpless young bodies while jeering and talking about how much fun it would be to screw those women senseless. By comparison, a 43-year-old woman, however turned on and willing, was boring, worthy of only a brief glance and perhaps a flick of the finger against my erect nipples.
But then a pair of slightly-older men appeared in the exhibit area; one of them suddenly focused intently on my face and began to drag his companion over. My arousal gave way to acute humiliation as I recognized Barry Warden, a lazy young man whom I had in class two years earlier—I had caught him plagiarizing on a term paper, and he obviously recognized the naked older woman on the rack as his nemesis. Talk about power reversals!
“Looky here, Bob—our favorite bitch of a history professor, conveniently laid out as a slave to play with. How ya doing, Professor Murray?” My sense of helplessness ramped up as he roughly ran his hands all over me while telling his friend exactly how he wanted to use and abuse the “old biddy” who had flunked him. Fortunately for me, Master Jim told them not to handle “the merchandise” unless they were registered to bid on me—which they weren’t. Even after he made the two thugs move on, my body was stiff, straining in vain to escape my bonds. But the wrangler, thank heavens, talked to me and fondled me enough to restore at least some of my arousal.
To my acute embarrassment, the next group of visitors including my best friend Katherine Henderson. As usual, Kat was stylishly dressed, and again the contrast between her freedom and my naked slavery was depressing. But she smiled as she stood beside me, gently toying with my body—like most women who had ever been slave graded, she knew the importance of helping me appear eager for sexual service.
Speaking softly, close to my ear, Kat remarked, “Congratulations, Gwen—you finally got where you wanted to be, a nekkid pleasure slave belonging to Don! He telephoned me to explain what happened and asked me to come check on you today.” [I felt a warm sensation of safety—my former husband and now master was looking out for me even in this Mecca of slavery.] My girlfriend plunged on: “How many women our age get to live out their fantasies? Just think of all the fun you can have servicing him, letting your slut flag fly without worrying about pretending to be a quote modest, proper lady unquote. We’ll talk later; for now, just concentrate on being the horniest little sex object anyone here ever saw, OK?” Her comments were strangely reassuring, encouraging me to enjoy the terrifying but thrilling reality of my collar. As she had suggested, if nothing else slavery was a license to indulge all my sexual urges without being restrained by “values”—society would EXPECT me to be a sex-crazed, mindless bimbo for as long as I wore a collar, and perhaps even when I regained my freedom (Popular opinion, at least among males, was “once a slut, always a slut,” and there were indeed some former slaves who craved constant sexual use.)
As soon as she departed, a crowd of older men (and a few women) carrying tablets and wearing nametags entered the room—the slave merchants had come to grade us. I almost hyperventilated, drawing deep breaths to lift and lower my boobs while I imagined Master Don using me in every kinky and submissive position one could imagine—such thoughts were rewarded by an increased pulse and renewed stickiness between my thighs. A few of the merchants used their fingers to test the stiffness of my nipples and the liquid on the edge of my labia, then made notations on their tablets. I couldn’t tell from their poker faces (or should that be “poke-her”? my horny mind wondered) whether they liked what they saw and felt, but at least they didn’t sneer or visibly reject me due to age.
Finally, everyone except the wranglers departed. Master Jim released my bonds and helped me down from the rack, handing me an opened bottle of water. His calloused hand once again goosed my bottom as we walked back to a storage cage, this one containing two younger women in red collars who appeared to also be recovering. Jim sprayed the antidote to Devox down my throat and again had me bend over and spread so he could insert what felt like a ginormous plug up my rear passage—it was uncomfortable to say the least, but no one could fault his attention to instructions, regularly stretching me in preparation for my master’s future use. Once again, that thought evoked both apprehension and anticipation.
A few minutes later, my ex-student and current dominant looked at his tablet and smiled. “I’ve got good news and bad news, Professor Slut. The good news is that you graded Prime Minus and your estimated auction value, despite your age, is thirty-four thousand dollars.” I couldn’t help feeling proud that I had graded Prime even in middle age, but waited for the other shoe to drop.
“What’s the bad news, Master?” I wondered.
“Actually, two pieces of bad news. First, as I understand the fine print, that price is now considered your sale price—which means that the Longhorn gets $3,400 for its fee and you’ll stay in a collar for five years or longer until your owner pays off the full amount to the bank; if he defaults, you might end up back here to sell the remainder of your five year indenture.” I was dismayed that Master Don would have to pay that much to get me out of a debt that was less than ten percent of the figure, but after only one day as a slave, I could think of worse fates than to be his sex toy for the next five years! Of course, there was the unspoken possibility that he might pimp me out to meet the payments . . .
But Master Jim continued talking. “The other good news/bad news is that a Prime Minus grade means you’re eligible to have that grade permanently recorded—on your butt, that is!”
I suddenly swung from pride to terror, recalling the horrible wound that slave Angelica had on her tush after I had casually had HER branded when I bought her. “Please, master, don’t brand me,” I begged.
He shook his head and almost apologized. “Sorry, Sweetheart, no can do. Your owner left explicit instructions that, in the event you were graded as Prime or Choice, he wanted you branded. Cheer up, girl—I know you’re frightened now, but later you’ll be proud of that brand. Long after the pain has faded and you regain your freedom, whenever you go to the pool or the beach, everyone who sees you will know you were one of the finest pieces of slave pussy in all of Texas! Personally, having HAD you, I’d have to agree. No sense arguing, darlin’, it’s gonna happen.”
What goes around, comes around. Years after these events, the memory still fills me with such a sense of pain and terror that I can’t bear to describe it. Most people who read this will know generally what happened, though—my body was clamped onto another rack, this time tushie up and face down, with a tray full of kitty litter positioned underneath me for when (not if) I lost control of my bodily functions. The smith tied a bite stick into my teeth to keep me from biting my tongue, while Jim did the only (humiliating) thing possible to reduce the pain—he held the rough handle of a branding iron against my clit and rubbed it there to help me get off. Just as I had one of the biggest climaxes of my life to date, my entire left buttock spasmed as the smith pressed a large, longhorn skull brand diagonally across it. I almost fainted, and remembered thinking that I had expiated my crime of allowing another woman to be branded in the same area. A moment later, a new horror struck as a further area of skin was scorched—only later did I learn that was the letter “P” for Prime, superimposed above the cattle skull as the final imprimatur of slave quality. (I was in such pain that I didn’t notice it at the time, but the smith also ran curved needles through my areolae, placing horizontal rings just behind my nipples.) I don’t think that’s what the advertisers mean when they talk about suffering as the price of beauty!
The pain receded slightly as someone sprayed first pain reliever and then liquid bandage over the afflicted area. Master Jim stuck a fentanyl patch onto my arm and offered me two ibuprofen to further moderate the pain. Then he helped me, limping and crying, back to my cage. At least he left my hands unbound for the moment, but all I could do was lean against the cage wall and moan—sitting down on my screaming rear end seemed an impossibility.
I heard someone approaching the cage and knew I was expected to kneel facing the cage door. I gingerly knelt down, being careful not to sit back so that my buttocks didn’t touch my heels, and then interlocked my hands behind my neck, which again tended to lift my boobs—including my new ring jewelry—upwards as if I were offering them to free people.
I wasn’t surprised when Master Jim appeared, but he was accompanied by my BFF, Kat (excuse me: Mistress Katherine.) Kat had me stand so she could hug me gently, then explained that my owner (!) was still out of town but had faxed a power of attorney to the Longhorn, releasing me into Mistress Katherine’s custody for further training. I was still miserable, but eager to get out of this torture palace, so I happily followed her at the end of a leash with my hands once again cuffed behind me.
I had almost adjusted to being nude and obedient inside the slave market but emerging as a leashed pet onto a sunlit parking lot crowded with free people was a sharp, unpleasant surprise. Still, I had no choice but to follow, walking across hot pavement to her (fortunately air-conditioned!) sedan. Being a compassionate person, Mistress Kat had arrived at the same solution I had used when I took custody of the newly-branded Angelica: having me lie face down across the back seat, after which she re-cuffed my wrists behind my back.
After checking to ensure that the rear door wouldn’t strike my face, my custodian gently closed the door and climbed into the front seat, starting the engine. I ventured to inquire:
“Mistress, may I ask where you are taking me?”
She giggled gently and replied: “I finally get to live out one of MY fantasies, taking you back to the Ananke Academy on a leash. Your new owner is sending you there for a few weeks to train his slut while your brand heels.”
“Oh.” So I was going from a free woman who pretended to be a slave to an actual slave in the same school. Great. I couldn’t wait to find out what further humiliation and pain awaited.
(To be continued)
(Don Murray’s viewpoint)
Those of you who have read the first part of this story, as told by my wife Gwen, may have concluded that I’m the worst husband of whom they’ve ever heard. What kind of guy allows his wife to spend all her savings to buy him a younger sex slave, plows that slave as often as he can get it up, even takes the newer model on business trips while leaving the wife alone, and finally allows his wife to become enslaved herself—only because, having spent all her money on the bimbo, she can’t afford to pay her own debts? And then this same sonofa B____ arranges it so that HE gets to add HIS OWN WIFE to his coffle of collared cunts?
OK, so I’m human. What would you or any heterosexual man do if YOUR wife bought you a girl half her age who looks suspiciously like the wife did when we first hooked up in college? A girl who is not only obligated to let you fuck her anytime, anywhere, and in any orifice, but actually seems eager and happy to get railed, if only because she’d rather entertain the old fart once or twice a day instead of being gang-banged 18 hours out of every 24 in some slave brothel?
Besides, how could I turn down such a gift from the love of my life? Think what a sacrifice it was for her—not only the enormous cost of buying Slave Angelica to give me the kind of kinky sex my wife was afraid to provide herself, but even more the emotional burden of actually ENCOURAGING her husband to use this slave whenever he wanted and as often as he could perform. That comes pretty close to the ultimate self-sacrifice a person can make for a spouse.
Moreover, the sight of a young, collared, usually-naked woman being obligated to suck and fuck her husband clearly caused my wife to be jealous. She wasn’t just jealous that I was shafting another, younger woman (who, after all, my wife had GIVEN me for just that purpose), but also jealous because it aroused my wife’s own submissive tendencies. Come on, after more than two decades together I knew that Gwen’s fantasies revolved around being a sex slave herself. Whenever she wanted to roleplay like that, I was quite happy to lock the younger slut in her cage and have slightly rough sex with my wife. I say “slightly rough” because neither she nor I was prepared to FULLY act out the master-and-slave fantasy; I had to constantly gauge how much force and roughness to use on the middle-aged (but still beautiful in my eyes) body of my wife, and I knew that she didn’t REALLY want me to ream her ass or paddle her even when, while offering herself as my “slave,” she seemed to beg me to do exactly that. How could I risk injuring or offending my wife, especially when I could always act out any really kinky or dominant scenes on the younger, more flexible substitute she had so kindly purchased for me? Even if my wife allowed me to sodomize her, she would be humiliated if she had to seek medical care for a hyper-extended anus! Think of it as a math problem: How many times can a 44-year-old dick go into a 22-year-old slut without injury to either party? A heckofalot more frequently than the same 44-year-old dick can go into a 43-year-old wife, however loving and eager that wife might be!
Without betraying any real secrets, Gwen’s best friend Kat, another non-tenured instructor at the community college, confirmed most of my thoughts about what my wife really wanted. Kat had already, quite openly, described to me (and incidentally to the family slave) how happy and slutty Gwen had been to pretend to be a naked slave in slave yoga classes. To hear her tell the story—and I had no doubt that was accurate—Gwen was so deep into her submissive fantasies that she would have willingly abased herself for the pleasure of the young stud who acted as slave wrangler for the class. (In fact, after that story I sought out the guy and gave him a $50 tip for his restraint!) But I talked to Kat on the phone several times—not for any adulterous purpose, but rather to help the woman we both loved reach happiness.
Having said all that, when it looked like Gwen’s lavish spending on my pleasure had left her unable to pay off her credit card bill, I was in a real quandary. Yes, I could have sold Angelica off to pay the debt, but that would, in effect, have been publicly insulting my wife’s loving gift; besides, I cared enough about the slave as a person that I didn’t want to turn her over to assembly-line prostitution if I could avoid it. My wife always came first in my mind, although selling Angelica would be a last resort. (And if you’re wondering about community property laws, Gwen and I had long since established trusts to ensure that greedy plaintiffs couldn’t attach the property of one spouse while claiming to be wronged by the other.)
Given my wife’s quite open desire to play slave and serve me, I finally decided to allow her to get all the filthy experience she would ever need—not to mention putting her in a situation where she would feel obligated to get over her hang-ups and make love with me in every way she had ever dreamed of. So I set up a backup plan—which some may describe as a trap—that in the event of her going into debt would make my wife my ACTUAL slave for a few years, giving us both a lifetime of dirty fantasies to recall. Of course I would treat her gently, but as an actual slave she would think she had no choice but to live out her (and my) filthiest dreams. Hell, just the thought of having the love of my life in my collar, bed, and (if she misbehaved) slave cage got me hard no matter how many times Angelica begged me to bang HER!
Of course, I was out of town on a business trip when the backup plan went into effect. Fortunately, I had not only the bank but also Kat, to keep an eye on my lovely slut—I mean, wife. I knew I would end up repaying the bank much more than the amount she owed, but who wouldn’t give up a few thousand dollars to help his wife achieve her fantasy life?)
(Gwen Murray’s viewpoint)
Whenever I fantasized about being a sex slave in Texas, my imagination thought of it as one long series of encounters where free citizens groped, fondled, bound, and fucked me—a pornographic smorgasbord of submissive sex. Turns out, most of a slave’s life, just like the average free person in the work force, consisted of hurry up and wait. Now I was waiting endlessly in a situation that was far from comfortable.
I think I’ve already told you about the actual process of my becoming enslaved for debt, which ended with my stripping, kneeling to be collared, and then having to fellate and swallow the rather large (by my limited experience) dick of the official who performed the process, Master Simmons. And unlike in my daydreams, when every guy who used me looked like my handsome husband or a young stud, Simmons was an overweight, middle-aged paper pusher. As I frantically tried to swallow the massive load he pumped into my throat, I remembered to save some of it so that, when he finally withdrew, I could stick out my tongue like a good slut to display my prize. He granted me permission to swallow it, but the taste lingered a long time.
I guess I should be thankful that the banking official who had foreclosed on my ass, Mr. Sauron, didn’t want a similar service—he was probably inhibited by the presence of the bank security guard who had cuffed me for the drive over to the Agriculture Department. Anyway, the two men promptly departed, leaving me to the “tender mercies” of Master Simmons and the female who had acted as witness to my indenture. I never did learn her name, but she made no secret of her contempt for someone like me who, as the advanced age of 43, had been dumb enough to be enslaved for debt. As soon as Master Simmons zipped up his trousers, I felt the woman clipping a disposable pet leash to my collar. She ordered me to stand and place my hands behind my back, where my wrists were secured together by what felt like a cheap plastic zip-tie. And the vindictive old b____ (excuse me, the free lady) pulled it so tight that it dug into my wrists.
Next, she led me back out of Simmons’ office and down the hallway between office worker cubicles. I had heard of this walk of shame before, when naked people got fondled and belittled by the government workers as the next stage in teaching new slaves just how lowly and helpless they were. I suddenly realized, however, that there was a worse fate than being felt up and insulted—what would it do to my self-esteem as this roomful of people found me too old and saggy to be worth teasing? Fortunately (I guess), I needn’t have worried—I felt the first pinches and butt-slaps within three steps of walking down the aisle, and by the time the woman reached the elevators, I was blushing and dripping from constant goosing, breast-mauling, and derogatory comments. Finally, something that vaguely resembled my fantasies of being a slave-as-sex-object!
As I stood dutifully next to the woman on the descending elevator, I was surprised that she suddenly showed me some compassion. “You’re doing a good job, girl; too many newly-enslaved people freak out at this stage. Just stick with it and you’ll be better in a few days.”
I was quite surprised, but dutifully replied, “Thank you, Mistress.”
Just then, the elevator opened at the lowest level in the building. She led me into the ladies’ room and released my hands so I could use the facilities and even, rather vainly, try to wash my face and spit out the taste in my mouth. After that, she re-cuffed me and led me to a loading dock, where she turned me over to a middle-aged guy in work clothes who was somewhat lacking in personal hygiene, if you know what I mean.
The woman handed him a pre-printed set of shipping instructions. After looking at the instructions, he ordered me to bend over the side of a cage, pressing my breasts painfully into the wire mesh on top. I was in shock, imagining that he was about to shaft me right in front of this woman, but instead I felt a well-lubricated flexible shaft—a butt plug, I realized—being pressed firmly up my butt.
I should have anticipated what followed but was still so disoriented that I was surprised to realize I was about to be shipped “Poodle Express”—that is, bound on my knees in a wire cage originally designed for a large dog. First, of course, I had to suffer the personal attentions of the shipping clerk. For the first time, I was actually PLEASED that I was considered too old to be prime material for molestation. He limited himself to standing behind me, pressing what felt like a large dick against my butt while he thoroughly handled by breasts, almost as if he were manipulating two bags of mashed potatoes. I could smell him behind me and was thankful that I didn’t have to suffer further intimate contact with him.
This clown tied a canvas gag into my mouth, and I discovered that yet another urban legend was true—he had apparently jerked off onto the gag, because it now added still more flavor of semen to my mouth. I was stuck with that obnoxious taste until some free person chose to remove the gag, another lesson in my lowly, helpless state.
He casually squeezed my breasts again as he “guided” me to shuffle, on my knees, backwards into an open cage. No sooner had he closed the cage door than he secured it with a cheap little padlock, the kind I could easily break or remove if I had the use of my hands. Instead, I felt him using additional zip-ties to restrain my ankles to the back corners of the cage and then to secure the zip-tie around my wrists to the back wall of the cage. I was now even more restrained than a poodle might be in the same container—naked, collared, and with my wrists and ankles secured to the cage behind me. I was literally a human poodle—or more accurately, perhaps, a poodle bitch, immobilized so that I could neither move nor speak/bark to trouble the free human being who had put me in that position.
There I sat, my knees becoming increasingly uncomfortable on the hard tray at the bottom of the cage, for half an hour. Finally, a delivery truck backed up to the loading dock and a forklift moved another caged slave along with me into the truck.
More waiting followed, as we knelt in semi-darkness while feeling the van moving to an unknown location. No one bothered to tell slaves where they were going. What was that old cliché? Oh, yeah, “Slaves have questions, but only masters have answers.”
*****
Speaking of masters, I soon discovered that there was something even more humiliating than being gagged and caged like a bitch. Once we reached our (unknown) destination, the cages were again deposited on a strange loading dock. Two beeps like the sound of a grocery store checkout line indicated that someone had added us to the inventory of wherever-this-was. Then, after the cage doors were opened, I heard a voice telling us loudly and clearly to shuffle forward until we reached the yellow line on the floor in front of us, and then “DO NOT MOVE.”
Crap. At that moment, the only thing worse than being a naked, helpless slave would be a slave controlled by someone who had known me as a free, clothed individual. And I recognized the voice of the slave wrangler ordering me around—my former student Jim, who had been my guide when I came to the slave market only a few months earlier to purchase Angelica! When I taught him in community college, Jim had been one of those students had stared at my boobs in class; now he would get to see them without any clothing! I silently prayed that Jim wouldn’t recognize his prof as he droned through what was obviously a standard warning to new arrivals:
“You are at The Longhorn Slave Market in Dallas, Texas. You are here for processing, grading and in most cases sale as a pleasure slut. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"
I frantically nodded my head and tried to mumble “Yes, Master” over the horrible-tasting gag, bending over in a vain effort to conceal my face. Then I felt him remove my simple collar and strap on a much heavier one, presumably the shock collar he had warned us about, that had two sharp points digging into my neck. After that, he clipped a substantial dog leash onto my new collar, commanded “heel,” and led me, shuffling on my knees, over to a podium to which he clipped my leash, as if I wasn’t already sufficiently restrained!
I was immensely grateful when I felt him cut the gag free, but then he peeled down my front lip and scanned my 20-some-year-old slave identification number (SIN) tattoo, originally installed when I had been slave graded at age 18.
A moment later, I heard him laughing quietly, and suspected that he knew my identity. Sure enough, he gently lifted my face up to look at it, and with a smile announced “Welcome, Professor. When I was in your class, I often dreamed of having you at the Longhorn; I guess dreams really do come true! Damn—your tits are even finer than I thought!”
I felt my face flushing dark red, but the only thing I could think to say was a quiet “Thank you, Master.”
His voice took on a note of genuine kindness, as he continued to talk, all while petting my hair. “I don’t know how you became a slave, professor, but don’t worry—it’ll get better.” How would he know, I wondered? But I said nothing—being a smartass was unbecoming a slave.
He bent over and thoroughly groped me, making little comments about what “nice big boobs” I had—an updated version of the big bad wolf. My nipples stood out as stiff as erasers—the first wrangler to actually use me as a toy, and he was one of my students! At least, I reflected, I no longer had to worry about the ethics of sex with a student—the entire power ratio was reversed, with him being in charge of me rather than vice versa. And I had already noticed that the staff here were free to play with the merchandise, including me, so long as they didn’t damage the inventory or slow up the process.
Once he had explored me fully, he finally cut the tie holding my wrists behind my back and issued the one-word command “Present.” I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes when I rose and assumed the same position I had used in Simmons’ office; I’ll bet he had expected to have to explain “Present” and even move my body into it.
Jim remarked, almost talking to himself, “Two months ago I had to explain how the slave market works to her, and now she’s not only wearing a collar but appears to have practiced block positions so she knows how to obey. We get a couple like you in here every year. Don’t tell me, you’re one of those older women who gets fascinated by the idea of being a slave so she practices slave yoga and eventually ends up enslaved for real, right?”
He consulted the computer tablet where he had called up my file after scanning my SIN. “Like that rockstar who renamed himself, you’re now the ‘slave formerly known as Gwen Murray.’ Who’s your owner? ‘Donald H. Murray.’ Is that your ex-husband, babe?”
I suddenly realized that I had lost something more important than my clothes and my freedom. Master Jim had said “ex-husband” because, in most states where slavery was common, becoming indentured legally dissolved any marriage bonds, freeing the new slave to perform sex with any free person. The thought of that gave me a lump in the throat, but I managed to nod my head and reply “Yes, Master.”
“Oh, well done, Professor Slut. If you have to become a slave, might as well be owned by your ex-husband who feels some affection and restraint in dealing with you. Unless you were getting divorced and he holds a grudge?” I shook my head.
“In that case,” Master Jim continued, “You should have a kind master and probably even enjoy yourself. And he’s a lucky man, too.” Seeing the question in my eyes, he explained, “For an old woman, you’re in remarkably good shape—you must take care of yourself, and now he can have you however and whenever he wants. You still have nice, white tits and ass because you used to wear bathing suits, but a few months of slavery and they will tan to match the rest of your body—every place except under your collar, which will be lily white when you regain your freedom in . . .” (He consulted the tablet again) “three to five years, depending on what your established value will be. This could be fun for you—a vacation from all worries, all choices, all moral criticism. All you have to do is whatever your owner wants; otherwise relax and try to be happy.”
He then picked up a cumbersome device, similar to a label-maker or price scanner, and pressed it against my “lily white” skin just over my left breast. A sharp sting ensued; he told me that he had injected a GPS tracking chip that would identify me as a slave if I attempted to escape. To be honest, I had never even thought about escaping—I knew how effectively law enforcement and slave bounty hunters operated, and the thought of belonging to my husband gave me hope that this experience was survivable.
As casually as he might help a disabled person dress, the wrangler next attached two locking bands to my wrists, then secured them together behind my back. By this time, his matter-of-fact mastery had caused me to ALMOST forget the humiliation of being his nude prisoner, but I was abruptly reminded of my vulnerability when he firmly pushed the fingers of one hand into the crack of my behind, clamping down with his thumb so that his hand cupped my buttock and his middle finger pressed firmly against that fat plug in my anus. I tried to control my natural response (shrinking away from this intimate invasion), then found that his hand served a very practical purpose as he used his grip to steer me, without any verbal instructions, in whichever direction he wanted me to go.
By this time, it was late afternoon, and he explained (apparently for my benefit) that most of my processing and evaluation would have to wait until the next morning. For the moment, I was his cuffed, naked hand-puppet as we walked swiftly over to an office labelled “Veterinarian.” Now that I was livestock, any medical care would come from slave veterinarians, each of whom was an M.D. Without releasing my wrists, Master Jim directly me to sit backwards onto what looked like a gyno examination bench, only this one had an indentation to accommodate my bound arms when I leaned backwards; my wrangler and an equally-muscular young man who appeared to be the ”Slave Vet Tech” pivoted me fully onto my back as they lifted my legs into the stirrups, using Velcro to secure me with my thighs once again widespread and showing everything. I defy any woman to be calm when bound and displayed in such a manner.
The Vet Tech scanned my lower lip again and consulted his tablet. Reading without emotion or any sign of surprise at my enslavement, he announced, “405-02-7765, 43-year-old female, two births recorded, hormonal injection elected.” The actual Vet, a pleasant-looking young woman, had just finished snapping latex gloves onto her hands as she moved efficiently forward and thoroughly explored my birth canal and anus. Had I been a free woman, I might have remarked that we weren’t even dating yet, but instead I blushed in silence, nipples and clit once again erect, as two males and one female stared at and manipulated my most intimate parts without any sign of surprise or emotion. At least they didn’t make any criticism of my exposed and hairless private parts.
The doctor was surprisingly pleasant and considerate as she talked to me, eliciting the information that I had not yet reached menopause (another blush) and had regular periods with no unusual discharges. Then she tested for STDs and inserted a subcutaneous birth control rod, making me parrot back the date, 36 months hence, when it would need to have it replaced.
I was looking forward to my release from this lewd position when, instead, the veterinarian disinfected a spot on my buttock and inserted what seemed like a VERY large needle, pressing downward on a syringe that looked big enough to be used on horses or hogs—perhaps THAT was why this profession was classified as animal veterinarians? At a nod from her, the tech typed onto the tablet, announcing “25 ccs hormones injected.” Belatedly, I realized the meaning of the previous statement about “hormonal injection elected;” Someone—presumably my loving husband/owner—had directed that the new slave be injected with the hormone mixture developed in Texas to make female slaves unbearably horny!
When they finally released me from the bench, Master Jim’s hand immediately reoccupied my tushie and guided me over to an area that was as moist as my thighs—what he called the “slut wash” for slave showers. And no, that doesn’t mean he released my wrists and handed me a bar of soap. Instead, two grinning young men in rainsuits guided me to their station, a mass of hoses and brushes, where they tied my ankles wide apart (my aroused libido wondered what was it with these people spreading my legs all the time but never screwing me?) Next (apparently, since I couldn’t see behind me) they used a block and tackle to pull upwards on my wrist bonds, forcing me to bend over, parallel to the floor, to avoid dislocating my shoulders. Once I was spread out with my breasts dangling below me, these two guys (they had to be at least 18 years of age to work there) took great pleasure in soaping and washing me all over, naturally paying extra attention to those “lily white areas” once covered by my bikini. I gave a small yip of surprise when two well-soaped, gloved fingers pressed between my labia while someone else pulled out the butt plug and explored my anus in the same intimate manner. I had finally adjusted to this rude invasion when they thrust nozzles into my two lower openings, giving a brief wash to my birth canal while what seemed like gallons of warm, soapy water occupied my intestines. My abdomen gurgled ominously for several minutes before one of these cheerful fiends finally release my bonds and marched me over to a line of toilets—no walls or other privacy, just toilets in the middle of the wash bay—and pressed me down onto one as I gratefully relaxed my over-stretched sphincter, allowing a flood of soap, water, and yesterday’s supper to blast downward. If that wasn’t bad enough, my two tormenters put me back into the same contorted position and gave me another soapy enema, giggling about what a good “fuck” I was for an “old lady.” Only after I had relieved myself a second time did they hose me off, comb my damp hair out of my face, and return me, still wrist-cuffed, to the tender mercies (hah!) of my former student. Who promptly directed me to bend over again while he inserted a new plug that felt even bigger as it stretched my back passage.
*****
After that the pace of events slowed; Master Jim told me to kneel down, wrists still bound, for my “dinner.” I thanked him sincerely when he produced a thick rubber mat to protect my “aging knees.” But of course, indentured animals don’t get to eat a fine meal in a restaurant. Two metal dog bowls—one filled with water and the other containing the infamous slave kibble, were placed on the concrete floor in front of me. I was starving after the stressful events of the day, and without hesitation pressed my face into the kibble bowl and ate as much as I could. It was just as tasteless as popular opinion claimed. I was acutely aware of how undignified and submissive I looked, like a hairless dog pigging out on its supper dish. At least the water dish helped wash excess kibble off my face when I finished.
My post-repast entertainment consisted of a chance to urinate, squatting lewdly over a “piss grill” in the floor while my grinning former student watched me struggle to discharge a thin stream downwards. Followed by the added humiliation of having him wipe me as if I were an incontinent senior citizen.
After that, I assumed or at least hoped that he would give me some place to sleep while he went home for the day. Wrong again! Instead, looking directly at my face, Master Jim suddenly became serious.
“You do realize that while you’re in a slave market, some of the wranglers will use you for sex, right?”
Double gulp. That was what I had been dreading and yet hoping for ever since I crawled out of the cage. Urban legend included innumerable stories of slaves, and sometimes free women who had only come in to be graded, being gang-banged in slave markets, especially at night. Back when I was still a free woman, I became really angry if someone repeated the chauvinistic line about “if rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.” But I was NOT free, so if it was going to happen anyway, I might as well take the opportunity to enjoy one of my fantasies brought to life. I managed to whisper,
“Master, my new owner told me to obey all orders like a good little slave. I live to serve you.”
The smile on his face was a mile wide—I had just given him permission to live out one of HIS fantasies, as well, in this case fucking his collared (former) teacher! Without saying a word, he started walking me towards the wire-mesh cages used to warehouse slaves when they weren’t needed elsewhere.
My pulse and breathing were already fairly rapid when he unexpectedly found a way to ramp up both my humiliation AND my arousal. He called out to another muscular young man, this one vaguely Hispanic, who appeared to be on his way out, walking rapidly towards the doors.
“Hey, Marco, look who I found to play with.”
The other wrangler turned around, and I suddenly recognized Marco De Leon, whom (I suddenly remembered) had spent every class in History 202 staring intently at my body and my mouth! When he turned and came over towards us, I saw recognition slowly dawning on his face as well.
Master Jim continued in a lower voice. “That’s right, this is Professor Murray, only now I call her Professor Slut. You spent all last spring telling me how much you wanted her lips wrapped around your cock—care to try that for real?”
If anything, Marco’s smile was bigger than his. “And she’s wearing a red collar, not a blue one.” (When I had visited the Longhorn the first time to purchase Angelica, Jim had explained that free women who were there solely to be graded wore blue collars, virgins (and any other slaves who were off limits) wore green collars, and pleasure slaves wore red. Apparently, Marco really DID want to use me!)
My temporary master replied, with just a hint of lust, “Yup. The notes on her inventory file say that she’s free for use except for her butt, which I’m supposed to stretch with plugs.” Now I knew I was in trouble (or was it submissive heaven?)—my ex-husband had, in effect, invited the entire staff of the Long Horn to use my mouth and cunt!
“Too bad,” Master Marco replied. “I used to dream about reaming that tight little ass—at least you got your hand on it! Oh, well, I’ll settle for a blowjob from my favorite instructor.” As he was talking, he turned to walk beside me on the other side from Jim; I felt a meaty hand slap the buttock that his partner wasn’t already fondling.
The wire mesh gate of a cage clanged shut behind us, ominously, as soon as we entered. Master Jim released my wrists and told me to assume “Slave 4s”by climbing onto one of the sleeping benches, each of which was bolted to the floor. I ended up on knees and elbows crosswise to the bench, my head on one side, where Master Marco moved, and my legs and tushie on the other. Anticipating what Master Jim was about to do, I spread my knees and felt him move in between my lower legs. This was really happening—I was about to get spit-roasted by two hunks who had once been my students but were now in full control of my naked body!
To this day, I don’t know which one was better endowed, but these two guys certainly stuffed me at both ends. Excited at the chance to fuck their MILF professor, both dicks expanded rapidly, making me almost choke on Marco. It had been decades since I’d felt such a large, useful shaft pumping between my thighs. At least, I thought, I didn’t have to take one of those huge cocks inside my butt, although Master Jim’s casual comment suggested that my new owner fully intended to invade my rear opening in the near future! That was about the last coherent thought that I had for ten or twelve minutes, as the two guys seemed to be in competition to see which one could pound farther, harder, and faster into their toy’s body. I just concentrated on ensuring that my teeth didn’t clamp down on a dick that seemed to be growing faster and longer than ever before in my life. If the idea of being double-teamed wasn’t enough to turn me on, I felt Jim bend over along my back and reach around to thoroughly mash and stimulate my bouncing boobs. I couldn’t help responding as my mouth moaned and vibrating around seven or eight inches of Hispanic sword; my bottom seemed to have a mind of its own, frantically pushing back against Jim’s invasions as if determined to help the two cocks meet in the middle, somewhere in my small intestines. Jim whispered in my ear how much he had dreamed of “making you my teacher-bitch.” I had at least three massive orgasms before first Marco and then Jim discharged their sperm deep inside my eager body.
For several long minutes the only sound was of three people trying to recover their breath; the only motion was of Master Marco softly petting my hair while his friend gently but firmly mashed my boobs while thumbing my nipples. Bliss.
When we recovered sufficiently, Jim used a rag to soak up the sweat and cum around my labia while Marco—bless him—offered me a sample bottle of mouthwash to remove the taste of cum from my mouth; he indicated a piss grate on which to spit. Then the two men—I almost said boys, but I knew they would have to be 18 to work there, and they had certainly used me as men—told me to lie down on another bench equipped with a thin pillow and a scratchy wool blanket. Reveille would sound at 5 a.m., Jim told me, at which point I should relieve myself in the piss grate, fold the blanket neatly, and wait (on my knees, thighs apart and hands behind my neck, AKA “slave spread”) for another wrangler to take charge of me.
My body was pleasantly relaxed after my (long deferred) orgasms. Despite worrying about my future as a slave, I decided that fun like that which I had just experienced would compensate for a lot of humiliation, and my mind quickly drifted off.
*****
And woke up to the sound of an irritating electronic buzzer. The faint light coming from windows near the ceiling suggested that it was, in fact, early morning and time to get up. So I followed instructions, urinating before I folded the blanket and waited, uncomfortably kneeling on the cold floor with my body fully exposed, while facing the gate/door of my cage. I don’t know whether the chain-link fencing used in the cages was a cost-saving measure or a further part of treating me as sub-human livestock. Then I giggled at the thought that, if the attendants wanted to “practice animal husbandry” on me like they had last night, being livestock wouldn’t be too bad!
Eventually, an unknown slave wrangler showed up, clipped another leash to my collar, secured my wrists, and then ordered me to “heel.” He took me to the toilets where he used a latex glove to extract that damned butt plug, which he discarded. Next he freed my wrists, which made is slightly easier to go with him watching me. Once I had washed my hands, he gave me a disposable toothbrush and comb so that I could clean up, after which he led me to a “Breakfast” that was identical to “Supper”—only again he left my hands free, so eating was far less difficult and demeaning than it had been the day before.
All good things come to an end, and before I knew it this unnamed guy turned me over to Master Jim, who immediately told me to spread my legs and try to touch my toes. You guessed it—he installed yet ANOTHER plug in my rectum, this one so large that my hips waddled while trying to accommodate it. He led me over to a well-worn wooden platform where a group of young, naked women wearing a rainbow of collar colors were gathering. Every one of them appeared far more attractive than I felt, if only because they had youthful, fresh skin and in many cases long, sexy hair. Moreover, I grumped to myself, nobody made THEM wear something the size of a flashlight shoved up their asses!
Then one of the female wranglers began directing us in block moves (the more obscene, suggestive form of slave yoga), and thanks to my classes at the Ananke Academy I found that I really COULD look like a desirable collared slut, moving smoothly and sensuously from position to position while echoing the instructor’s incredibly crude mantras (“Master, please buy me and fuck my slave brains out” was one of the more modest ones.) Sure, some of the blue-collared young blondes, who looked like barely-18-year-old cheerleaders, were sexier, but I thought I was doing pretty good. The number of eyes on me, the number of erections and adjusting of jeans on experienced wranglers seemed to be in response to my dancing. After all, these guys saw nubile young women doing this every day, but for some reason I got their attention. I could feel my nipples and clit erecting while I could both feel and sniff the fluids between my thighs; in that moment, at least, I was “slave hot” and eager to serve—in fact, the once-uncomfortable bulge up my tush made me imagine someone (preferably my own loving master) taking possession of the one place where I was still a virgin. . .
The final instruction was to “slave spread” on our knees. This meant legs apart, hands behind our necks, and mouths open, imploring the wranglers to “stuff your sausage down my throat.” Master Jim was more than willing to step in front of me and satisfy my request but showing great restraint he only pumped in and out a few times before pulling out, zipping up, and taking me away. I was so excited at the thought of being publicly face-fucked that this form of oral sex interruptus was frustrating!
He knew what he was doing, however, quickly moving me to a combination camera and computer console where he took the most pornographic images of me I could ever imagine. Perhaps I’m bragging, but when I saw them later the photos made me look like centerfold material, the kind that (at that other well-known slave market, the Big D) would have put me on the cover of their slave catalog as a “Sandy Foot Girl.” Kneeling slack-jawed with a distracted and horny expression on my face, one hand holding my labia open while the other fondled an erect nipple; bent over, looking back between my spread legs while holding my butt cheeks apart to show both my dripping pussy and my (temporarily empty, gaping) anus, and so on. Years later, when this whole experience was over, both Don and I would become so aroused looking at those photos that I would BEG to be screwed in all my openings and he would happily oblige. Not bad for a middle-aged college professor!
Anyway, Master Jim quickly uploaded those photos onto the National Slave Registry, replacing the 20-some-year old images of my younger self, and added my current information, all while having me kneel between his legs, slobbering over his prick to finish that interrupted blowjob. He continuously petted and praised me to maintain my excitement. When he had finished coating my tonsils with his discharge, he pulled me up to sit on his lap (with one hand alternately tweaking my nipples and my labia) so he could show me both the photos and the data on my registry entry:
“405-02-7765, formerly Murray, Gwen A. Owner: Murray, Donald H. telephone 469-725-8843. Date of scheduled release: NET 29 Oct YY. Grade: Choice; Category: Pleasure slut.”
Looking at that entry actually made me proud—except for my slave grade, which (pardon my arrogance) seemed a little low given how visibly aroused and mentally committed I was to slavery. With a start, I realized that I met the definition of “born to the collar” and “slave hot.”
*****
Speaking of feeling slave hot, Master Jim was in a hurry to get me re-graded while I was still literally dripping with lust. Once he had finished with the data entry (not to mention with the blowjob), he cuffed my hands, sprayed Devoxer down my throat, and began moving me towards the public display areas. On the way, he quietly explained that today, at least, I wasn’t going to be auctioned (thank heavens), but the slave market had an alternate method to establish my value. This method would determine how much my owner had to pay to reimburse the bank for the revenue it would have gotten by selling me as a repossessed female body. The slave merchants who ordinarily assigned grades to bodies on display would also (for a small additional fee) give their personal estimates of how much I would sell for at auction. The Longhorn would electronically average both the grade and the estimated price to determine my new value.
It may sound like a Duh! to observe this, but I had a very different experience between viewing slaves as a free, clothed citizen and being one of those slaves (and pseudo-slaves, those free women here only to get a grade) who were spread-eagled horizontally on metal racks, voiceless and helpless, for viewing. Quite apart from my nudity, the crowd of people who (upon proving they were aged 18 or older and paying a small fee) entered to gawk at, fondle, and taunt those being graded struck terror in my heart.
At first, I thought I was too old to be desirable, because the two racks nearest to the door were occupied by some of the magnificently-endowed, blonde-haired cheerleader types who had recently turned 18. Needless to say, all their acquaintances, especially the young men who had evidently lusted after them for years, swarmed those benches, finger-fucking the helpless young bodies while jeering and talking about how much fun it would be to screw those women senseless. By comparison, a 43-year-old woman, however turned on and willing, was boring, worthy of only a brief glance and perhaps a flick of the finger against my erect nipples.
But then a pair of slightly-older men appeared in the exhibit area; one of them suddenly focused intently on my face and began to drag his companion over. My arousal gave way to acute humiliation as I recognized Barry Warden, a lazy young man whom I had in class two years earlier—I had caught him plagiarizing on a term paper, and he obviously recognized the naked older woman on the rack as his nemesis. Talk about power reversals!
“Looky here, Bob—our favorite bitch of a history professor, conveniently laid out as a slave to play with. How ya doing, Professor Murray?” My sense of helplessness ramped up as he roughly ran his hands all over me while telling his friend exactly how he wanted to use and abuse the “old biddy” who had flunked him. Fortunately for me, Master Jim told them not to handle “the merchandise” unless they were registered to bid on me—which they weren’t. Even after he made the two thugs move on, my body was stiff, straining in vain to escape my bonds. But the wrangler, thank heavens, talked to me and fondled me enough to restore at least some of my arousal.
To my acute embarrassment, the next group of visitors including my best friend Katherine Henderson. As usual, Kat was stylishly dressed, and again the contrast between her freedom and my naked slavery was depressing. But she smiled as she stood beside me, gently toying with my body—like most women who had ever been slave graded, she knew the importance of helping me appear eager for sexual service.
Speaking softly, close to my ear, Kat remarked, “Congratulations, Gwen—you finally got where you wanted to be, a nekkid pleasure slave belonging to Don! He telephoned me to explain what happened and asked me to come check on you today.” [I felt a warm sensation of safety—my former husband and now master was looking out for me even in this Mecca of slavery.] My girlfriend plunged on: “How many women our age get to live out their fantasies? Just think of all the fun you can have servicing him, letting your slut flag fly without worrying about pretending to be a quote modest, proper lady unquote. We’ll talk later; for now, just concentrate on being the horniest little sex object anyone here ever saw, OK?” Her comments were strangely reassuring, encouraging me to enjoy the terrifying but thrilling reality of my collar. As she had suggested, if nothing else slavery was a license to indulge all my sexual urges without being restrained by “values”—society would EXPECT me to be a sex-crazed, mindless bimbo for as long as I wore a collar, and perhaps even when I regained my freedom (Popular opinion, at least among males, was “once a slut, always a slut,” and there were indeed some former slaves who craved constant sexual use.)
As soon as she departed, a crowd of older men (and a few women) carrying tablets and wearing nametags entered the room—the slave merchants had come to grade us. I almost hyperventilated, drawing deep breaths to lift and lower my boobs while I imagined Master Don using me in every kinky and submissive position one could imagine—such thoughts were rewarded by an increased pulse and renewed stickiness between my thighs. A few of the merchants used their fingers to test the stiffness of my nipples and the liquid on the edge of my labia, then made notations on their tablets. I couldn’t tell from their poker faces (or should that be “poke-her”? my horny mind wondered) whether they liked what they saw and felt, but at least they didn’t sneer or visibly reject me due to age.
Finally, everyone except the wranglers departed. Master Jim released my bonds and helped me down from the rack, handing me an opened bottle of water. His calloused hand once again goosed my bottom as we walked back to a storage cage, this one containing two younger women in red collars who appeared to also be recovering. Jim sprayed the antidote to Devox down my throat and again had me bend over and spread so he could insert what felt like a ginormous plug up my rear passage—it was uncomfortable to say the least, but no one could fault his attention to instructions, regularly stretching me in preparation for my master’s future use. Once again, that thought evoked both apprehension and anticipation.
A few minutes later, my ex-student and current dominant looked at his tablet and smiled. “I’ve got good news and bad news, Professor Slut. The good news is that you graded Prime Minus and your estimated auction value, despite your age, is thirty-four thousand dollars.” I couldn’t help feeling proud that I had graded Prime even in middle age, but waited for the other shoe to drop.
“What’s the bad news, Master?” I wondered.
“Actually, two pieces of bad news. First, as I understand the fine print, that price is now considered your sale price—which means that the Longhorn gets $3,400 for its fee and you’ll stay in a collar for five years or longer until your owner pays off the full amount to the bank; if he defaults, you might end up back here to sell the remainder of your five year indenture.” I was dismayed that Master Don would have to pay that much to get me out of a debt that was less than ten percent of the figure, but after only one day as a slave, I could think of worse fates than to be his sex toy for the next five years! Of course, there was the unspoken possibility that he might pimp me out to meet the payments . . .
But Master Jim continued talking. “The other good news/bad news is that a Prime Minus grade means you’re eligible to have that grade permanently recorded—on your butt, that is!”
I suddenly swung from pride to terror, recalling the horrible wound that slave Angelica had on her tush after I had casually had HER branded when I bought her. “Please, master, don’t brand me,” I begged.
He shook his head and almost apologized. “Sorry, Sweetheart, no can do. Your owner left explicit instructions that, in the event you were graded as Prime or Choice, he wanted you branded. Cheer up, girl—I know you’re frightened now, but later you’ll be proud of that brand. Long after the pain has faded and you regain your freedom, whenever you go to the pool or the beach, everyone who sees you will know you were one of the finest pieces of slave pussy in all of Texas! Personally, having HAD you, I’d have to agree. No sense arguing, darlin’, it’s gonna happen.”
What goes around, comes around. Years after these events, the memory still fills me with such a sense of pain and terror that I can’t bear to describe it. Most people who read this will know generally what happened, though—my body was clamped onto another rack, this time tushie up and face down, with a tray full of kitty litter positioned underneath me for when (not if) I lost control of my bodily functions. The smith tied a bite stick into my teeth to keep me from biting my tongue, while Jim did the only (humiliating) thing possible to reduce the pain—he held the rough handle of a branding iron against my clit and rubbed it there to help me get off. Just as I had one of the biggest climaxes of my life to date, my entire left buttock spasmed as the smith pressed a large, longhorn skull brand diagonally across it. I almost fainted, and remembered thinking that I had expiated my crime of allowing another woman to be branded in the same area. A moment later, a new horror struck as a further area of skin was scorched—only later did I learn that was the letter “P” for Prime, superimposed above the cattle skull as the final imprimatur of slave quality. (I was in such pain that I didn’t notice it at the time, but the smith also ran curved needles through my areolae, placing horizontal rings just behind my nipples.) I don’t think that’s what the advertisers mean when they talk about suffering as the price of beauty!
The pain receded slightly as someone sprayed first pain reliever and then liquid bandage over the afflicted area. Master Jim stuck a fentanyl patch onto my arm and offered me two ibuprofen to further moderate the pain. Then he helped me, limping and crying, back to my cage. At least he left my hands unbound for the moment, but all I could do was lean against the cage wall and moan—sitting down on my screaming rear end seemed an impossibility.
I heard someone approaching the cage and knew I was expected to kneel facing the cage door. I gingerly knelt down, being careful not to sit back so that my buttocks didn’t touch my heels, and then interlocked my hands behind my neck, which again tended to lift my boobs—including my new ring jewelry—upwards as if I were offering them to free people.
I wasn’t surprised when Master Jim appeared, but he was accompanied by my BFF, Kat (excuse me: Mistress Katherine.) Kat had me stand so she could hug me gently, then explained that my owner (!) was still out of town but had faxed a power of attorney to the Longhorn, releasing me into Mistress Katherine’s custody for further training. I was still miserable, but eager to get out of this torture palace, so I happily followed her at the end of a leash with my hands once again cuffed behind me.
I had almost adjusted to being nude and obedient inside the slave market but emerging as a leashed pet onto a sunlit parking lot crowded with free people was a sharp, unpleasant surprise. Still, I had no choice but to follow, walking across hot pavement to her (fortunately air-conditioned!) sedan. Being a compassionate person, Mistress Kat had arrived at the same solution I had used when I took custody of the newly-branded Angelica: having me lie face down across the back seat, after which she re-cuffed my wrists behind my back.
After checking to ensure that the rear door wouldn’t strike my face, my custodian gently closed the door and climbed into the front seat, starting the engine. I ventured to inquire:
“Mistress, may I ask where you are taking me?”
She giggled gently and replied: “I finally get to live out one of MY fantasies, taking you back to the Ananke Academy on a leash. Your new owner is sending you there for a few weeks to train his slut while your brand heels.”
“Oh.” So I was going from a free woman who pretended to be a slave to an actual slave in the same school. Great. I couldn’t wait to find out what further humiliation and pain awaited.
(To be continued)