The Substitute Pt. 03

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory for any sexual interaction.)

(The Former Gwen Murray’s viewpoint)

My best friend and fellow professor, Katherine (Kat) Henderson, and I had visited our local, Dallas-area branch of the Ananke Academy of Female Arts a number of times for classes in slave yoga; the last time I had even stripped in the locker room, with Kat holding the key to my locker, while I pretended (to myself at least) that I was one of the naked slave sluts who took classes along with us. Now I was back at the Academy again, this time as a REAL slave wearing nothing but wrist cuffs, collar, and the leash by which Mistress Katherine led me into the building (through the back or slave door, of course!) I was obviously a new slave, wearing a leather collar was still only one day old. The white skin where I usually wore a bikini hadn’t yet tanned to match the rest of my 43-year-old body, and the painfully-throbbing Longhorn brand (denoting my new grade as a Prime—OK, Prime Minus—pleasure slave) covering my left buttock was only an hour old. I had often enjoyed the fantasy of being an enslaved pleasure slut, but this was reality. Here I was, a damn fool middle-aged woman who had let her submissive fantasies get out of hand to the point that she had to act them out in real life—for the next five years.

If you’ve read the two previous accounts of my experiences, you know how this happened. If not, well—I had always had submissive tendencies, especially when it came to my husband Don, but I was too afraid of anal sodomy to allow him to do me back there even though I knew that both of us fantasized about it (think about it: what could be a greater symbol of submission than to allow a male to penetrate your vulnerable rear passage?) Now that we were middle aged with two children (Donny Jr. and Phyllis) away at college, we both wanted some way to relight the fire in our marriage, but . . . So I did a truly dumb thing, spending most of my accumulated savings (at a time when Don’s six-figure income was heavily committed to paying mortgage and college costs) to buy him a substitute—a cute, 22-year-old debt slave named Angelica, whom I had deliberately chosen because she resembled me at the same age. Yeah, you’re wondering what I was thinking, but I really did love my husband (now ex-husband) so I wanted him to live out HIS dreams in hopes that somehow this would remove the anal issue and (eventually, if only after Angelica served out her indenture) bring us together again.

He didn’t rub my nose in it, and I could hardly blame him for using my present to the fullest, but of course I was jealous—not just jealous of wanting to be the recipient of his dick, but even more, strangely enough, jealous because Angelica seemed to be living out my own fantasies. That had brought Kat and me to the Ananke Academy and eventually to my playing slave girl there, but even that wasn’t enough to satisfy me.

My then-husband knew me very well and had no doubts as to my submissive tendencies. I have to believe that his love, rather than any devious plot, prompted him to arrange, unknown to me, so that when I couldn’t pay my credit card bill the bank foreclosed on my body and (in the crude terminology applied to such transactions in Texas) sold my slave ass to Don. (He was instantly Master Donald to me; because I was now a bond slave, we were automatically released from the more tender bonds of matrimony.) To establish a fair purchase price for the bank, my new owner promptly sent me for grading at the same slave market where I had purchased (and to my shame had branded) Angelica. Then, my former BFF (now Mistress) K atherine showed up at the market with a power of attorney and instructions to check me in for ACTUAL slave training in Ananke Academy, the same place I had once PRETENDED to be a slave. I was surrounded by a mixture of trainers, other slaves, and free women with whom I had trained before and who would undoubtedly recognize me even if they didn’t always know my name.

My spirits lifted slightly when Mistress Katherine turned me over to one of the trainers at the Academy, a large-scale but attractive brunette whose nametag read “Holly.” Although she had taught at least two of the beginner classes that I attended a few weeks before, the only overt sign of recognition she gave was to address me as “Gwen,” which was much more human than referring me by the last four digits of my SIN (7765). In keeping with that kinder, gentler approach, Mistress Holly was very concerned about protecting my seared left rump. She did, however, caution me that any attempt to leave the Academy without permission would lead to severe punishment.

Otherwise, I noticed that the instructions that my BFF gave her were almost identical to those Master Jim had received from my owner/ex-husband when I arrived in a cage at the Longhorn—my mouth was available to any free person as was my pussy (allowing for my temporary limitations due to the brand), with frequent plugs to stretch my rear passage but no other anal contact. For now, Mistress Holly freed my hands and took me to a bathroom designed for free women rather than slaves, which meant that, for the first time in almost 48 hours, I could (gingerly) sit down and use the toilet without someone staring at me. When I emerged, my new custodian offered me soap, washcloth, towel, comb, and even a deodorant stick and toothbrush, and left me (apparently alone for the first time) to give myself a sponge bath and generally make myself clean and presentable.

Some 15 or 20 minutes later, just as I finished this and was beginning to feel human again (actually subhuman because I was still a slave), Mistress Holly reappeared. Knowing what was expected, I immediately moved into the “Present” position with hands behind my neck and feet shoulder-length apart. She actually smiled at my docile response and made some vague remark to the effect that I had clearly learned my lessons at the Academy. She handed me a large zip-lock bag to put my toiletries into, then showed me to a cage that contained a single mattress with blanket and pillow. It all appeared luxurious by comparison to the Spartan accommodations at the Longhorn. Then Holly led me, with my hands still unrestrained, to a combination lunchroom and slave feeding area, where she showed me a cafeteria line and had me pick up a full meal. Again, the contrast between this, the first “human food” I’d seen in two days, and slave kibble at the Longhorn required no comment.

In deference to my fried and throbbing butt, Mistress Holly suggested I eat standing up at one of several tall tables in the corner. Then she astonished me by leaving me unsupervised, first telling me where to stack my cafeteria tray and then instructing me to return to my “room” once I finished eating.
An hour later she found me there; not wanting to kneel with my sore butt, I again assumed the “Present” position. She gave me a run-down of the rules, telling me that my “room” door would only be locked between 9 p.m. and 6 a.m.; the rest of the time I was free to move about what she called the “Kennels,” including bathroom, lunchroom and a sort of slaves’ lounge with a large TV showing a limited number of channels, either news or instructional videos on slave yoga and sexual service. She warned me to be in my room, ready to go, when she came at 7:30 the next morning, then left me with a little booklet of rules and expectations for the slave inventory. All in all, it was a remarkably permissive environment so long as I stayed on the premises.

*****

The next morning, she took me to a “Slave Vet Tech” (i.e., physician’s assistant) who changed the dressing on my brand, remarking that it was healing well, after which he gave me another fentanyl patch for pain and sent us on our way. Mistress Holly told me my schedule, which was fairly open for the next two days to allow healing. After that, though, she warned me to expect several classes every day where I would participate and eventually demonstrate exercises and sexual service.

Gradually, the pace of my “demonstrations” increased. At first, I was acutely embarrassed to be gyrating and repeating slave mantras in front of not only instructors (most of whom, I learned, were licensed and experienced slave wranglers) but especially anywhere from 5 to 20 stylish (free) professional women and wealthy matrons. Some I knew by name, while others I recognized from previous classes together.

More than a few of these women stared hard at me and then gave my sympathetic expressions and comments, which was actually MORE humiliating than if they, like Mistress Holly, simply pretended not to know me. One of them, a cute 30-something whose name was Marilyn something, couldn’t resist asking me, “Are you having fun living out your slave fantasies, Gwen?” I immediately blushed at such an open acknowledgement of my loss of freedom and status, but in a brief conversation I got the impression that Marilyn shared some of those same fantasies—she was fascinated and (judging by her nipples) turned on by the thought of becoming a collared slut, if only in the safety of her own home.

As I became more proficient at block moves, I was increasingly singled out to as a demonstrate in beginner classes, which made me even more uncomfortable when 20 to 30 free people, all clothed, stared intently at me. As I performed lewd and lascivious acts in front of my (former) peers, I felt as if they saw every flaw in my appearance—and let’s face it, most middle-aged people, however fit they may be, would die inside if everyone stared at their naked bodies. In a way, I was fortunate that the limited diet served at the Academy, when combined with my frequent exercise, caused me to slim down and tone my body far better than it had been in years if not decades.

Once or twice a week, Mistress Katherine would appear, and after class she would ask the instructor to lend me to her for a while. At first, I tried the only means of distancing myself, assuming a standing “Present” or kneeling “Slave Spread” stance as a slave should, both of which required me to avoid meeting her eyes. But my BFF wasn’t having any of it, and usually demanded that I sit beside her on a bench (sitting became easier as my wound healed) and talk with her honestly about my fears and humiliation. She always encouraged me, reminding me that in a strange way I was “living the dream” by acting out my submissive fantasies—in fact, she remarked, I looked healthier, sexier, happier now than she had ever known me.

I soon realized that she was right. The main trouble was that I missed my (ex-) husband and had few outlets to work out the horniness that came along with fulfilling my fantasies (not to mention several injections of hormones, aka “horny juice.”) Once in a while, an instructor would use me sexually, either demanding that I work his/her genitals with my mouth or, more frequently, calling upon me to be the “demonstrator” for some sex act that the instructors couldn’t demand that their free “students” act out in front of a crowd. After two weeks of healing, I no longer had an excuse to demure when the instructors almost casually called on me—sometimes, I just had to kneel down and fellate a dildo either mounted on the wall or strapped around a (clothed) person’s waist. On other occasions, one of the few male slaves or even one of the instructors would straddle my prone body and wrap my breasts around their cocks or have me assume “Slave 4’s” on a table at the front of a room. This latter pose ensured that the entire class could stare at me while I tried to maintain my composure despite a well-endowed male rhythmically pumping in and out of my birth canal. No matter how calm and cool I tried to act, being fucked like this (polite words just don’t describe it) eventually unleashed my accumulated lust. I have no doubt that many of the students concluded I was born to the collar since I seemed to be the horniest, sluttiest little whore imaginable! I can’t disagree with them.

For a month, it seemed as if I were the Academy’s choice to demonstrate any sexual position or service—the only two things I was NOT called upon to do was be paddled (because my bottom was still recovering, although I suspected that excuse wouldn’t last much longer) and be reamed anally (because my owner had placed an embargo on using that portal except to make me wear large butt plugs several times a week). In fact, the sight of the red plastic plug between my rear cheeks served as a reminder to all the instructors not to sodomize me.

That plug did gain me a partner—Marilyn, the former peer who was curious about my life as a slave, had inquired about the red thing winking in my starfish, and Mistress Kelly told her that I was in training to please my owner (she didn’t say my ex-, but I eventually confessed the whole strange tale of my tail to both of them.) The next thing I knew, Marilyn had contracted to work with me in a special class, preparing ourselves for sodomy.

“God, you’re so brave and so lucky, Gwen,” she gushed the first time that Mistress Kelly agreed to mentor the two of us, equipped with latex gloves, various-sized plugs, and LOTS of lube. “I’ve dreamed for years about making myself a FINO, the ass-slave [she giggled at the crude term] of my husband, so I could submit to him whenever he wanted. I love the idea and I think he would too, but I’m just too nervous about the penetration.” Thereafter, Kelly gave us guided tours of each other’s rumps, pointed out the major sensory nerve ganglia and describing in great detail how to activate those nerves without (hopefully) “tearing a new one” in our rear ends. Marilyn was happy to find someone who (in her mind at least) was actually living out her fantasy, so it was impossible for me to continue feeling humiliated by my lowly positions. Every time she saw me, even in passing in the halls, she gave me a dazzling smile. In fact, Mistress Kelly told me one day, word of mouth (or should that be butt? Of course, only slave Gwen had to actually rim an anus!) from Marilyn had netted several additional inquiries about such tutoring. Other women apparently shared the same lurid dreams that had brought me into this strange situation. For the moment, however, I had become so comfortable with the reality of anal sex that this image only made me more eager to see my owner and demonstrate my love for him in the most humiliating way I could conceive.

Then one day my schedule called for me to be a demonstrator for the “oral and anal” class. I didn’t think much about that, hoping that I could satisfy my horniness by being able to lick a dick to climax. By this time, I no longer felt much shame performing naked in front of so many clothed former peers (and in this case, I noticed that my BFF Mistress Kat was in the front row, smiling enigmatically at my docile submission.) But when the instructor told me to bend over a rack with my bottom facing the students, I tried to respectfully remind her that that portal was off limits. Instead of changing the instruction, she giggled.

Just then, I heard a familiar voice from behind me—that of my ex-husband. “I’ve just modified the instructions for Gwen—she’s now available in any manner so long as her owner gets first use of her third opening.” I was so overjoyed to hear him that for the moment I didn’t really mind the idea of his taking my “third opening,” but my immediate problem was that I wanted to hug him yet still show proper respect in front of a class. So I rushed over and knelt before him, then bent over and gently kissed his shoe, an embarrassing but unmistakable mark of respect and submission that I had learned in previous block movement classes.

The instructor cleared her throat and reminded me that she had ordered me to bend over the rack and present my butt. I gave my owner’s foot one more kiss and hurried back to drape myself, with my tushie as the highest part of my body, while the instructor, still chuckling, strapped me down. Up until that moment, my mind had been so distracted by the sudden experience of Master Don that I had just reacted as the well-trained slave I had become (or maybe I was a “natural” slave?) Now, however, I realized that not only was my darling going to make love to me in the manner I had always feared yet desired, but he was going to do it while I was completely naked, fully restrained, and on display in front of 20 people—just a helpless slut being used by her owner. This man knew how to arouse every inch of me; I could feel my entire body tightening in fear and humiliation—and excitement.

Don knew me so well that he didn’t allow me to panic and fail. He moved to my left, the side exposed to the class, and bent over to whisper in my ear while gently running his fingers across my Longhorn brand. “I have always thought you were the most desirable woman in the world, Gwen, and right now, this rack, this collar, and this beautiful brand only make you look sexier. I couldn’t be prouder of you if I tried. Everyone behind me is thinking that you are in your element, and that I’m a lucky guy to own you and especially to make love with you this way. Now, it’s time for you to show us how much you’ve learned as a slave, to admit to yourself and the class that you really WANT to give your final virginity to me. Make me proud, darlin’!”

I drew a deep, shuddering breath, tried to control my panic, and nodded, turning my head to smile at the love of my life who was about (yet again) to establish his complete ownership of my body and soul.

He began by toying with my body as only a man with 20-plus years of lovemaking with me could do. His hands roamed gently yet firmly all over my body, pausing briefly to fondle and pinch my hair, breasts, thighs, buttocks, and especially my erect nipples and dripping labia. As he stood between me and the class, I could see the bulge in his pants gradually growing and hardening in the one compliment to a woman that a man can’t fake. After all these years, and despite having his own personal sex slave—a nubile woman half my age who was eager to service him in any way he chose—available 24/7 while his “old biddy” ex-wife was humiliated and warehoused as a slave, he still found my body very attractive. That thought gave me the confidence to face what was about to happen.

I realized that he had moved around to the other side, affording the class an unobstructed view of my body bent over for his use. While his right hand continued to caress my body, his left began to play with the latest plug in my rear end, moving it back and forth, round and round in a manner that ignited all my nerve endings and elicited low moans of pleasure from me.

Standing to one side, the Ananke instructor had been describing in explicit detail what he was doing to me, but now she addressed me directly: “Slave Gwen, what is the proper mantra for a slave girl to repeat when her owner shows interest in her rear passage?”

I was reminded both of my status and of the need to make this class a good demonstration, so I announced in a loud, breathy voice, “Master, I beg you to stuff your monster cock up my tight little ass. Please stretch me until I can’t walk, Master.” Everyone in the room chuckled or giggled, but Master Don just smiled and nodded his head, moving to pick up a bottle of lube and then stepping between my immobilized legs.

I heard his zipper opening, followed by a “gluck, gluck” sound that presumably meant he was lubricating his shaft. More than one of the women in the class sucked in her breath, apparently imagining that shaft, which I had enjoyed so much in my other openings during 20 plus years of marriage, about to charge up a woman’s rectum. The thought of it made even me tighten up, but I reminded myself to relax and imagine that I was passing something OUT of my colon rather than taking his shaft IN. I had given the same cold-hearted advice to Angelica; now I would find out, with no margin of error, if that really worked.

In fact, the sudden entry was quite easy—whether it was due to my relaxation, or the weeks of being stretched down there, or just my owner’s loving care, he pulled the plug out and began working his lubricated dong slowly, gently, but inexorably into me. He paused for a moment after the head popped past my anus, and I felt a sense of impending occupation, as if a baseball bat was about to occupy my intestines. But I was determined and he was gentle, and in a few moments he resumed his in-a-little—out-not-quite-so-much seesawing between my cheeks. I was nervous but kept reminding myself that this was the act that both of us had fantasized about, and I couldn’t wimp out now!

I was actually surprised when I felt his zipper and belt buckle make full contact with my skin—to use a crude but accurate description, my Lord and Master was actually balls-deep inside of me. I felt two sensations simultaneously—relief that I had accommodated him, and at the same time total surrender to my man who had occupied my last opening. What a rush!

After what seemed like only a few seconds, I felt him resuming his back and forth motion, actually fucking my ass. The thought of all this pitched me over into the first of several orgasms, moaning and begging him almost incoherently to “Ram my ass, harder, please, Master, Harder!” A series of frantic thrusts ensued, him pounding into me and I (despite my bondage) attempting to push backwards as if somehow my butt could get even more of his magnificent dick inside it.

After the fourth or fifth climax—I lost count—I cried out and collapsed, still pinned to that rack and skewered by his flesh sword. He almost shouted saying “Good little slut” in my ear as I became aware of a warmth inside me, presumably his sperm. Beside us, the audience gave a smattering of applause and the instructor commended both of us for the performance. I had survived and even enjoyed anal sex, the act for which I had originally purchased a slave to serve as my substitute—only now I was the slave getting completely used by my (former) husband in the same way I had planned for Angelica. Where did that leave us, beyond two collared slaves servicing the same master in the same totally submissive manner?

Later on, my overloaded brain recognized that somewhere—whether through personal study or by practicing on Angelica—my owner/lover had learned a great deal about how to make a woman enjoy anal sex. Frequent stretching, oceans of lubricant, flattery and reassurance, all had made the once-daunting task of surrendering my ass into something I enjoyed and could be proud of. Inevitably, my overstressed muscles and membranes down there hurt after he conquered me, but it all seemed worth it not just to fulfill fantasies but to serve my lord.

*****

Once Master Don dismounted, my keeper/trainer Mistress Kelly appeared from somewhere—I guess she had been warned that today I would be stretched to the max both physically and mentally. She released the Velcro and helped me to my shaky feet, at which point the class applauded again, reminding me that I had willingly begged for and enjoyed such total domination in front of all those free people, including a grinning Mistress Kat! That thought made me so embarrassed that I only barely heard my owner’s instructions, but I gathered that he wanted me cleaned up and prepared for return to what had been my house. All that meant to me at the moment was that I would get a shower and escape this place where I was constantly available for sexual use—the thought of living with Don again gave me a warm glow that overcame a lot of my second thoughts about what had just happened.

I’ll spare you the details of after-care, except to say that once I had showered and cleaned up, Mistress Kelly took me back to the Vet Tech, who gave me a shot (in the rear end, of course) of Doctor Zee’s patented “Butt Spackle” that relieves pain and promotes healing of the anus. That reduced my discomfort considerably, so that when my keeper took me to the back door, hands again cuffed behind me and leash attached to my collar, I was actually smiling at the prospect of my immediate future.

Or I WAS smiling, until Master Don arrived. Because he was accompanied by Angelica who was fully clothed while I was naked and she wore a wicked little smirk at the role reversal as she picked up the handle on my leash. Now the slave I had bought as a toy for my husband was dressed in most respects like a free woman while she got to walk her former mistress—naked, collared, and bound—across the parking lot in full view of dozens of free women. And, when we reached Don’s car, she had me kneel in back while she, a free woman to most appearances except for a modest collar, closed me in and climbed into the front seat. The front seat was reserved for wives and girlfriends; sluts rode in back. I was slightly reassured when Don reached into the back seat to pet my head briefly, promising that he would take care of me “as soon as we get home.”

When we arrived at what had once been my home (thank the Goddess the kids weren’t home to see me like this), he drove into the garage and pushed the remote control to lower the door, so at least I avoided the ignominy of my former slave parading me naked in front of the neighbors. Once we got into the house, my owner sat down on the sofa and ordered me to kneel in front of him. Ordinarily, I would have been happy to submit to him in hopes of future intimacy, but this time it still troubled me to kneel as a slave in front of Angelica. My loving master took care of that, though. Looking directly at the younger woman, he remarked,

“Strip, slut. I’ve already told you not to wear clothes inside the house.”

Reminded of her status, Angelica’s face fell and she hastily removed her clothing, folded it into a pile and, at a gesture, knelt beside me. Without explanation, Don left us both there and went into the nearby bathroom, returning a few minutes later with his erect dick [was he taking Viagra or what?] dripping; apparently he had cleaned it off after penetrating my butt. He sank down onto the sofa again, with both of us kneeling just in front of him.

“Let’s get one thing perfectly clear—you are both slaves, and you’re both to remain naked inside the house except for certain circumstances. For example, whenever the kids are home from college, I expect Gwen to be fully clothed without a collar. And while they’re home I expect YOU, slut,” he said, looking fiercely at Angelica, “to address her as ‘Mistress’ and obey instructions. If you EVER even hint about her enslavement to our kids or her friends, I will whip your cute little ass until it’s redder than sunset and then lend you to my college fraternity for use as the house bitch for the rest of the school year. Understand me?”

“Yes, Master,” replied a crestfallen Angelica. My heart soared at the idea that our owner wouldn’t shame me in front of the kids. Amazing how little it takes to make a slave happy.

“Most of the time,” he continued mildly, “You are both slaves who will clean and cook and generally make yourselves useful around here or anywhere else I take you. If there’s any argument, the one at fault will end up out in the garage cage, hog-tied and without a blanket, got it?”

“Yes, Master,” we chorused.

“No wearing clothes or sitting on the furniture without permission. Meanwhile, I expect the two of you to keep me happy. You can start right now. Gwen, give me the sluttiest blow-job you can imagine; Angelica, lick and suck my balls while she does that. Questions?”

There were none, of course. We both fell to work slobbering all over him—Angelica may have been ruled by fear, but I was so overjoyed to fulfill my fantasy, on my knees while eagerly swallowing my former husband, that I even forgot about the dull pain in my behind caused by the same massive shaft I was so eagerly swallowing. Regardless of our motivation, the idea of two naked wenches servicing him orally excited Master Don so much that (despite having reamed me earlier in the day) he blasted another load into my mouth in what seemed like three minutes flat. He had always had a copious flow, especially for a man of his age, so I almost gagged. Still, I managed to retain enough of his cum in my mouth to display it on the tip of my tongue, at which point he graciously allowed me to swallow, then told me to go brush my mouth and use mouthwash as well. As I hurried out of the room, I heard him telling the younger slave to lick his dick clean (afterwards, the two of us joked about getting public hairs between our teeth).

*****

For the next several days, we did our best to please him and cooperate about housework; the house had never been so clean before, and we even tidied the bedrooms of the kids absent at college. He put in long hours at work, but at home he was quite affectionate and flattering to both of us. In between sex bouts, we all enjoyed watching TV while sitting on the couch, two naked slave girls cuddling on each side of their owner.

The first night, I was overjoyed to sleep in his arms while Angelica was banished (with a blanket, that time) to the garage cage. True to his threats, any indication of arguing or sullenness ended with the offender’s well-spanked butt being hogtied in the cage while the other enjoyed the luxury of sleeping with our man. Most of the time, though, all three of us lay together in the California king bed. As a rule, whomever he chose to fuck at night was designated to be his oral alarm clock, licking him to life the next morning. After that, he would put one of us on hands and knees, having her lick the other to orgasm while he screwed the first one doggy style. Whenever he chose to use ME, I felt a profound sense of thankfulness and submission, luxuriating in his confident occupation of whichever opening he preferred.

Once a week, one of us had to accompany him, wearing only a minimal slave shift (to avoid shocking children) for grocery shopping. Needless to say, the slave got to push the shopping cart while he casually fondled her; when we returned to the car, he insisted that it was only appropriate for the slave to move all the bags into the trunk while he sat in the driver’s seat with the door open to avoid heat buildup inside. I was not surprised when, after I closed the trunk, he had me strip off the shift and kneel on the warm pavement right next to the driver’s seat. You guessed it, my master demanded a sloppy blow job with only the open car door shielding me from public review! At least he had driven me to a store 20 miles away where no one recognized me. Still, the sense of being a collared slave pushing a grocery cart among a group of free women, followed by kneeling in public to service my master, was utterly humiliating, reminding me of how I had thoughtlessly degraded Angelica.

One evening, Master Don insisted I answer the doorbell while slave naked. I dreaded the thought of encountering someone I knew but was overjoyed when my BFF Kat appeared and even hugged me briefly. Of course, after that I had to kneel exposing everything (the position sometimes called “Slave Spread”) while she talked with my ex-husband. Eventually it emerged that he wanted her to take charge of me for a week while he took another business trip with my (expletive deleted) younger rival—yet another example of the payback I suffered for buying that girl to please him. I felt a moment of jealousy at the thought of Angelica getting all his sexual attention, but that was almost forgotten when he told me to dress in my normal clothing and pack a small bag. He even removed my usual collar and gave me a notarized statement that authorized me to appear in public “disguised” as a free citizen. I was so grateful for that gift, even though I was now clothed, without thinking I knelt down and again kissed his feet; Kat made some laughing comment about how well-behaved I had become! If that wasn’t sufficiently disturbing, my owner’s final words were an off-hand comment, urging my temporary custodian to “make sure that cock-crazy slut gets enough love-making to keep her happy.”

Turns out my owner had asked Mistress Kat to work on my appearance and performance so I might accompany him on future trips. That meant a new hairstyle, including covering the grey with blond highlights in my brown hair, as well as a manicure. Then she took me shopping, claiming that I had lost so much weight that my “dowdy old clothes” no longer fit properly. Instead, though, she chose revealing outfits more appropriate for someone Angelica’s age than for a middle-aged former housewife—push-up bras, low necklines, high skirt hems, and so on. What I tried gently to demur about this, she put my fears into words with a remark to the effect that I needed to compete with a slut half my age, especially if I wanted to accompany Don on future business trips. In fact, she confided, his company provided a special clothing allowance to ensure that his “administrative assistant” was sufficiently attractive to entertain high-dollar customers. That reminded me of what was at stake, and I joined in a search for styles that stopped just short of making me look like a streetwalker!

Mistress Kat didn’t stop with just making me LOOK slutty; twice she took me out to clubs trolling for cocks, each time bringing back a likely-looking pair of guys to her apartment. The first time, with much trepidation, I entertained a 30-some man, the proverbial travelling salesman, who claimed to be very attracted to my new, thinner body. He even described me as a MILF. Leaving aside the wranglers and Ananke Academy folks who had casually used me, he was the first guy I had sex with OTHER than my husband in more than 20 years. I told myself not to hesitate, but instead to act like Gwen the slave girl entertaining any free man who had the right to use her. I put some of my new-found skills to work, treating him to a lascivious blowjob, almost as good as the ones I offered to my new Boss, Don; the only difference was that I stopped short of bringing him off, for the selfish reason that I wanted him to put his magic wand to work making ME happy. Which he did, and I had two climaxes while reassuring myself that they were entirely authorized—it wasn’t adultery because (a) I was no longer married and (b) my beloved owner WANTED me to get shafted. Hmmmm.

The second time, Kat took advantage of the fact that she could order me around. Once again, she found two (slightly-inebriated) guys to come home with us, but then pretended she was too queasy for sexual gymnastics. Instead, she told the two men that I had always dreamed of being spit-roasted. She prodded me into stripping in front of them and bending over the back of her sofa—one guy got to pull my hair to fully seat my mouth over his dick, then pulled out to paint my face while the other screwed me thoroughly while spanking my rear cheeks rhythmically, and then, to top it off, became only the second guy to actually use my butt! (Fortunately for me, he was less well-endowed than my boss.) I got through it by telling myself that it was my duty to service any man my owner wanted to have me. At the end, I came like a firecracker, then after our visitors departed Kat helped me into the shower and praised me for following my owner’s desires.

Still, she was remarkably kind and sympathetic, probably because she herself had a few submissive tendencies, and now she got to act out those fantasies using me as a slutty surrogate. Several other nights when we stayed home, she had me kneel between her thighs and lick her to completion, but most of the time, knowing that I missed the sense of security and domination that I got from my master, she simply had me come to bed naked while the spooned around me.

*****

The net result was that I was slightly more experienced and much more confident about sex with strangers when she returned me to the arms (and wrist cuffs) of my owner. I felt a warm glow when he praised the new, slinkier me; the next chance he got, he took me (this time clothed, thank heavens) to the DMV, where he documented my indenture and had them re-issue my driver’s license with “slave of” written clearly where the address would be. I even had a new photograph taken, this time wearing the thin metal choker that served (in wealthy circles) to denote a slave call-girl.

Relicensing me as a slave operator of automobiles (let’s face it, “slave driver” has a very different meaning!) meant he had to modify our automobile insurance, since the law held the owner fiscally responsible for his/her slave’s accidents. This just increased the sense of control and security I felt—I not only belonged to him, but he stood guarantor of my driving. (To ensure that slaves were still responsible drivers, a judge or owner might sentence them to have neck and wrists restrained in the public pillory, free for the use of all!)

Twice, I accompanied Master Dan on business trips, which meant wearing combination wrist and ankle chains at the airports and on the planes. Since there was no real chance for me to escape, I have to assume that some sadistic legislator just liked the idea of women in chains. Thank heavens nobody I knew saw me. Once we reached our destination, my Lord instructed me to address him as “Mister Murray,” but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that I was his slave; perhaps the only question (unasked, fortunately), was why he kept such an over-the-hill woman around for this purpose. He settled that question by implying—but not quite saying—that he kept his ex around as a slave (true) because he enjoyed humiliating her.

After that hint, the men with whom he dealt found me even more attractive and were more than happy to amuse themselves (and my owner) by making me suck their dicks—and twice even lick the pudenda of THEIR sexretaries—under the table. He also lent me out overnight so that I could service these businessmen with all three of my openings. Although privately daunted, I told myself that this was a license to live out my sex dreams while Dan WANTED me to in effect cuckold him! After each such bout of slave prostitution, my owner loved hearing about my shame and seemed to be particularly vigorous when he banged me himself. I told him that each time I acted reluctant and horrified to be reduced to a slave whore but pretended that the guy was such a great lover that I lost control and begged him noisily to pound my slave brains out! In fact, what excited me was being my lord’s sex toy, casually lent out to anyone he chose and knowing that my presence lubricated (pun intended) a few business deals.

This game went on for six months. Whenever the children came home, their Mom was still their mom, who went to bed every night with dad while they got off playing with the house slave. Of course, that latter opportunity was of more interest to Don Junior than to Phyllis, and I noticed that—at least in daylight—the three younger people acted more like friends than like two young adults with a slave toy. Eventually, my lord and master gave permission for Angelica to also wear a minimal collar and normal clothing—including bikinis to the pool, which put her brand on display!—while accompanying the kids when they wanted to go out to eat or shop. Both Don and I reminded our children that they were responsible for Angelica, and they solemnly promised that they wouldn’t allow her to be penetrated without a condom, let alone abused physically. It was a VERY strange relationship, and Junior in particular seemed to be smitten with the young woman.

Meanwhile, I rather than Angel usually accompanied our owner on his business trips, with the younger slave staying with Mistress Kat when no one else was at home to supervise her. Until, that is, the dean sent another letter for me to resume my teaching, with two introductory courses in the coming term. Don made some remark to the effect that part-time teaching was often considered to be academic prostitution anyway, but then made an appointment for both of us to see the dean. In private, he handed my supervisor the tell-tale driver’s license. They reached an agreement that DON as the owner would sign my teaching contracts, with me returning to class without a collar or any other public recognition that I wasn’t free. It was slightly nerve-wracking for me, worrying that some student might deduce the reality and assault me. I say “assault,” but in truth the only charge would be trespassing on my owner’s private property and abusing a public animal. Slaves lacked the free will to refuse sex and were therefore, by Texas law, theoretically incapable of being raped. (The mind of male chauvinist politicians—which is a redundant description of Texas politicians—does not bear analysis). I got away with the masquerade and taught two courses each term for three terms in a row, thereby helping Don meet the much-inflated cost of the loan he took out to purchase me.

Eventually, we encouraged Angel to do on-line and other courses to finish the equivalent of an associate’s degree, in preparation for her future A.C.—after collar. I still had no idea what MY future would be like, fearing that my former husband would discard me.

Still, having to teach classes every week meant that I was unavailable for several of my owner’s business trips while willy-nilly Angel became the bribe to please business associates. One of them, who had ravished me on a previous trip, even asked her if she were my daughter! It may sound odd, but that was an accurate description of our relationship. Yes, I still resented it a little when the head of the house used the younger slave rather than me, but otherwise she was my third child, dutifully helping around the house and doing whatever I asked, then talking on the phone with her “siblings” who were at school or on internships.

Sibling or not, Angel and I often worked together to entertain our master or his business associates. The sight of two very similarly-looking women (one in her 40s and the other 20 years earlier) who would strip down, fondle and kiss each other, and then (together) lick the same man or men before surrendering our lower passages to them—that act put steel in almost any middle-aged dick. Even when we didn’t have an audience, we had a lot of fun together whether cooking or serving the Boss. If that sounds odd, ask yourself two questions: First, given that we were both legally enslaved, why shouldn’t we be eager to please the owner who kept us in such a happy situation rather than selling or turning us out as sex workers? Second, what middle-aged hetero guy in Don’s position would object when he got to do anything he wanted with two women, one of whom had been his loving partner for decades while the other was a younger, juicier version of the elder?

This strange but happy situation bumped along for several years, with me pretending to be a housewife to my kids, a professor to my students, and a slave prostitute for my master’s business associates—a risky but enjoyable tightrope of roles. Meanwhile my owner (aided by my teaching as well as by my services in closing deals) gradually paid off the bank loan. Then came the day when Master Don, daughter Phyllis, and two clothed slaves attended the graduation of our son from college. He already had a six-figure job lined up with a firm in Chicago and seemed to have the world by the tail.

When we all went out to dinner to celebrate the next evening, however, he took the opportunity, with all of us as witnesses, to get down on one knee and propose marriage to Angel. Junior rushed on, saying he knew that she had a year left on her indenture but wanted to get engaged now, with marriage to follow as soon as she was free again. She was overjoyed and immediately said “yes, but . . .” and looked at her owner, who sighed.

“Son, the short answer is that we’d love to have you marry Angel—she’s already like a daughter to us, provided you overlook the sort of-incestuous relationship she’s had with the rest of your family.”

Don Junior was no fool. “I hear a huge ‘But’ in what you said, Dad. I know we have to wait until she regains her freedom so she can legally consent to marriage, but Mom and you seem to be worried about something else.”

“Yep, we are,” his father replied. “But a restaurant isn’t the place to discuss it. Can we hold off on this talk until we get home?”

Half an hour later, the five of us were sitting in my owner’s living room (it no longer technically belonged to me.) Phyllis tried to beg off from a conversation that (she thought) was none of her business, but my master insisted she stay.

Uncharacteristically, Don was indecisive, unable to begin the disclosure of the lie we had perpetrated for the past several years.

“Would it help if I started, Master?” I asked. Both of my children’s heads snapped around to stare at me. “That’s right, the problem is that there are TWO slaves in this household—Angel and me.”

Over the next several minutes, I stumbled through the sordid tale I have recounted above. I did NOT talk about how their father had pimped Angel and me out to further his business dealings, nor about how he had corn-holed me in front of an audience, but I could see in their faces that they suspected there was much more to the tale (or should I say, a lot more slave tail to the tale?) But the basic fact was clear: their mother was also enslaved and would not be freed again for almost two more years.

*****

Both of my children hugged me and said how sorry they were that I had to experience such degradation. Phyllis, who had clearly thought more about slavery than had her brother, realized that my indenture had automatically ended our marriage! My ex-husband reassured them, however.

“Come on, guys, we’re all adults here. You must have suspected that your Mom had submissive tendencies, right?” He inquired, as if it were obvious. To my surprise, both of my children nodded agreement, looking sheepish.

“So, I want you to understand that your mother actually ENJOYS being my slave, at least most of the time. I didn’t cause her to be in debt, but I facilitated that enslavement because I knew she secretly wanted it. She knows I still love her and will always protect her; when her indenture is up so she’s free to make a decision, I’ll propose to her again. I hope,” he said, with love in his eyes, “that she’ll say yes and we can resume our lives together, although I imagine our love life may be somewhat different, so please warn us when you’re returning home!”

He'd just hit my trigger button—more than anything, even the fear of public disclosure to my friends, I feared that he would discard me in contempt. I was so overjoyed by his expression of love that I ignored the three younger people in the room and again knelt to tenderly kiss his shoe. Without hesitation, he pulled me up to sit on his lap. And I couldn’t have been happier.

“I guess . . .” began our son, and then paused. “I guess this isn’t such a disaster as it sounded like at first. But, without meaning to take anything away from your love, what’s that got to do with my wanting to marry Angel? If anything, I would think Mom’s situation would make you guys more willing to have me marry a former slave.”

“It does, Don,” replied my husband as I snuggled into her arms in a VERY un-motherly posture. “The problem is, we want to keep these two enslavements a secret. For years, I’ve kept it quiet by threatening Angelica with severe punishment if she even hinted at the truth, although I hope she knows that I care about her too much to carry through with my threats. By the same token, though, I’m sure that Angel would not appreciate it if I described her as ‘my daughter-in-law, the slave.’ Similarly, we don’t want your future bride telling the world that Gwen had worn a collar.”

“May I speak, Master?” It had been years since we required that Angelica ask for permission like that, but she could tell that formality was required. When our mutual owner nodded permission, she continued. “I know that nothing I say as a slave is legally binding, but I hope you both know I would never hurt you. I hated Gwen when she first bought me and had me branded, but soon I realized that she had SAVED me from a far worse fate and invited me into a real, loving family. I would be happy to marry the younger Master Don not just because he’s a great guy but because I care about all of you.”

*****
I’ll spare you all the tears and corny emotions that followed. Suffice it to say that we got along pretty well for the remaining time of Angel’s slavery. Several times when I was available to accompany our owner on business trips, we would ship Angel poodle express to live in our son’s apartment for two weeks. She admitted to me privately that she had become so accustomed to slavery that she really got turned on by this experience. Three days after Don took her to the Ag Department to end her term of slavery, she married our son in a big wedding and went away on a honeymoon with luggage that, not surprisingly, included her collar and chains so they could continue the master/submissive roles.

Four months later, it was my turn to be set free, parading naked for a final time through the Ag Department offices. True to his word, my ex-owner handed me a set of clothing, took me to lunch, and proposed to me again, returning the engagement ring I had surrendered upon enslavement. After lunch, by appointment, we went back to the records office and re-registered our marriage.

Although I’m now pushing age 50 and my well-exercised (not to mention well-used!) body is free again, I work very hard to keep my husband happy. On multiple occasions, he’s told me to put on my old leather collar and submit in Slave 4 position while he ravaged all three of my orifices, finishing by thoroughly reaming my rear end (to avoid pain, I regularly wear a butt plug, and am always happy to bend over the furniture when he comes home to find me doing nude housework.)

OK, OK—you may be wondering whether this life, however enjoyable, satisfies me. Not always, but Don watches me closely for signs that the submissive urge is returning. Any time I become irritable or bratty, he “drags” my collared butt along on a business trip so he can pimp me out or even share my body in a spit-roast with his associates. Being “forced” to “suffer” slave sex is the best cure for any mental ailments. Now that’s MY recipe for a happy ending, even (or perhaps especially) when he’s stretching my rear end—accept no substitutes!

(The End)

[JustBob]

Thank you, Carl, for a very enjoyable story. Something I noticed is that the displaying of slaves being graded is no longer with them strung up on a pole, but laying horizontally on a table. I kind of miss the imagery of fresh meat strung up for display. I think that the humiliation would be higher hanging on the pole.

Anyway, a minor quibble,. Thanks again.

[Carl Bradford]

JustBob is correct that there is variation in how slaves (and wannabee 18-year-olds) are displayed for slave grading: Sometimes strung up vertically, sometimes spread-eagle on their backs, sometimes bent over, ankles restrained widely, with arms secured in a raised position behind (which puts the slave's mouth at the level of the spectator's genitals), depending on the slave market. All have advantages as far as creating a sense of subordination and exposure. It's about not only displaying naked flesh but also making the individuals feel sub-human. I think having the spectators standing, leaning over and fondling you might be more intimidating, but each to his or her own perversion.

[Mr. Smith]

There is a lesson to be learned from this story. In a relationship don't hire someone to do something for your partner when you yourself can do it better. The individuals that are FINO slaves for their spouses as ways to spice up and/or improve the quality of their marriage are the ones that find true happiness. Only through slavery was Gwen able to overcome her fear of the taboo anal sex act and learn to enjoy it. Carl is truly a romance writer using legal slavery to bring his characters closer in another great story.

[Belinda]

What a wonderful "live happily ever after" story. I am a sucker for this type of romantic ending. It pulled at my heart strings. Such an emotional loving story for two women with strong submissive feelings. Their slave training years grooming them as wives to two dominant men. The slave persona thus defines their life in a private way that allows normal behavior to exist in free life after slavery. So well done on both a literary and emotional level.

[lovethissite]

I probably a broken record but I love complete stories and you delivered another one. Thank you. Loved you the entire story it was a great romantic story. I look forward to your stories in the future.