Service Animal Pt. 01

[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.)

(Debbie McAdams viewpoint)

“Ohmigawd! Somebody found ANOTHER way to make money on slave sluts! Debbie, Doug, you gotta see this.” One of my two college roommates, Tim, almost exploded with laughter and, knowing him, lust. He had been sitting on a chair in our apartment, wasting time as usual watching pay-per-view streaming on his laptop instead of studying. Now he insisted that Doug (the third roommate) and I, sitting on the couch and engrossed in our own studies, look at what he had found. OF COURSE it was a story on the Slave Channel, the non-stop X-rated series of news and film clips concerning all aspects of slavery—usually the enslavement and domination of over-endowed young women—in the southern states.

Before I go any farther, you need to know a little about us as roommates. Tim, Doug, and I (Debbie) were all sophomores attending the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa (I am legally obligated to add “Roll Tide!” at this point.) About the only thing we had in common was that all three were from East Texas; that accent helped us to find each other while searching for housing. But “roommates” meant just what it said—NOT shacked up, just sharing an apartment.

Freshman year, I had gotten a little carried away with my personal freedom (wink), and ended the first semester with a C minus grade point average and a bad case of STD. I’m not proud of either, but the STD was easier to fix than my GPA. Since that disaster, I had sworn off sex and even dating, managing to bring my average up to almost a solid B in Apparel and Textiles (which is the study of fabrics design and manufacturing—yes, I’m fairly good with a sewing machine, but primarily as a means of testing out my designs, NOT to be Susie homemaker, thank you very much.) The main point of this is that, while Doug and especially Tim had hit on me, my response was a very polite “Not only no, but HELL, no,” because I had to focus on academics. Which was kind of a shame, because after a year of celibacy I was getting horny, and Doug, an older, quiet Army veteran, looked DAMN good to me. Not only was he six feet two of solid muscle, but he was far more practical and motivated than Tim ever would be. Trust me, this background is relevant to the story.

Like almost all Southern women, when I had turned age 18 I had undergone the humiliating process of slave grading, where young women and many young men voluntarily stripped naked and submitted temporarily to slave discipline at their nearest slave market, in order to be evaluated by career slave merchants who decided what USDA meat category—from Prime and Choice down to Cutter and Canner—best describes the sexual attractiveness of the person in question. The process of objectifying young adults served two purposes. First, assuming you got a high enough grade, it gave you (and indirectly your boyfriend or girlfriend) bragging rights about sex appeal. Second and more practical, an official slave grade, recorded in the National Slave Registry under your name and Slave Identification Number (SIN), was essential for college, home, and even sometimes automobile loans—the borrower had to pledge her/his body as collateral if the loan and interest weren’t paid off, so the lender wanted to know the value of that collateral. I came out of that process not only turned on by being publicly naked and fondled but with two permanent decorations: a SIN tattooed inside my lower lip and the outline of a Longhorn skull and horns, surmounted with the letter “C” for choice, fried deeply into my left butt cheek. That burned for months, but afterwards that brand did wonders for my self-esteem.

I tell you all this so you understand that I, like my roommates, was familiar with and sometimes aroused by the entire process of slavery. No person in her/his right mind (which describes most women but only a few guys, I’ll grant you) would ever want to BE a real slave, but as a fantasy, either being or owning an attractive living sex object of the opposite gender was tempting. Can’t tell you how many times in the preceding 30 months I had jilled off, sometimes tracing my branded butt, to the delicious idea of being owned and regularly screwed by some handsome and powerful guy.

This all came back with a mental rush when Tim showed us the video report on the Slave Channel. As the narrator explained,

“Everyone understands the idea of a support animal—usually a dog—who assists human beings who have issues—hearing or vision, emotional support and reassurance, or even alerting for people who have diabetes or allergies and might unexpectedly go into shock. This is a serious, often live-saving function, but finding, training, and matching the appropriate animals to their human companions is a difficult and expensive task. Even when a successful partnership results, there is always a risk that either human or dog will pass away prematurely, leaving the surviving partner with significant emotional distress.”

He continued while revealing scenes crossed the screen. “Such issues led to an effort to replace support dogs with human slaves—a slave could more easily understand and master the required skills, and a long term of indenture meant that the “support slave” need not be replaced very often. If anything, the human with special needs is more likely to pre-decease the slave, at which time good service as a support animal MIGHT result in the slave regaining her or his freedom early.”

All that made some kind of sense, but for Tim and me, the fascinating part of this story was the film footage of nearly-naked, mostly female slaves kitted out in a manner similar to service dogs. The reporter explained that these slaves had specialized collars, based on the same technology used to produce human ponies and stallions. That is, the collar would only allow the wearer to pronounce a few essential words such as “Danger” or “Stop” or “My Master/Mistress is sick”—plus, of course, the obligatory responses to all commands, including “Yes, Master,” and “I live to serve you.” All other sounds would be converted into dog barks, whimpers, and similar animal sounds, helping to differentiate the service slave, like all slaves, as livestock rather than free human beings. About the only thing the collar permitted the slave to do was, by announcing “Emergency,” activate a GPS device to summon help. (I later discovered that the owner/master could add an app to his phone that would b the collar box and allow the animal to talk if he so wished.)

So far, this may sound like yet another use for the growing supply of slaves, either those who defaulted on loans or those who were sentenced to the collar for serious crimes. But viewing this news report really tripped all my fantasy sensors, primarily because of the way the service slaves were dressed—if you can call their skimpy bondage costumes being dressed.

Let me start with their extremities and work towards the center. In addition to the voice control collar (which also permitted the owner to shock a disobedient animal), the hair on their heads was parted at the center into two hanks, only instead of being pigtails, broad barrettes held the hair out into a flat, full shape that vaguely resembled the ears on a bloodhound. Some but not all of the slaves also had semi-permanent makeup applied—not to make them look like animals, but rather like beautiful, slutty women ready for a night of passion (the developers insisted that this would give better emotional support and gain greater credence when reporting a medical emergency. Yeah, right—THAT’s why the slave was made up like a street walker!) As for their other extremities: the service pets wore fingerless gloves on their hands and (on their feet) those strange new rubberized running shoes, with articulated sections for each toe—the purpose of these gloves and shoes was not only to help the slaves look more like animals but also to make it easier for them to walk or crawl. For the same reason, most of them had knee pads and a few even elbow pads.

The fashion student (and the exhibitionist) in me was particularly attracted to the highly modified service dog vest that each slave wore—like the canine version, these vests had Velcro strips to attach “Service Animal” or other placards to them, but the interested part was the vest itself—each one had a plunging neckline that barely contained (and certainly didn’t cover) the slave’s breasts—let me return to that point after describing the rest of the costume. Below the breast line, the fabric continued to a point slightly below a woman’s waistline, at which point it fanned out into a skirt. Yet this skirt was only 10 or 12 inches long, so it would barely cover the slave’s upper buttocks—still displaying the various brands seared into the woman’s skin. If the slave were permitted to stand upright, the front of this tiny skirt would just cover her pudenda and upper thighs, but any free person could easily reach under or flip up the skirt to goose, fondle, or arouse what on a free woman were considered “private parts.”

To me, at least, the bonds on each service animal were equally intriguing. The two wrists were connected to each other by a plastic-coated cable that
appeared to be about 2 ½ or 3 feet long. The slave didn’t trip over this cable, because the center was supported off the ground by a nylon pulley—which in turn was supported by a bar that seemed to be mounted onto rings that pierced the slave’s breasts just behind the nipples! I could only imagine the “titillating” [pun intended] sensation the slave would feel as she crawled on hands and knees, with her two wrists connected through that pulley so that every forward movement would tug on her breasts. A shorter cable connected her two ankles together. (If this seems like a slow method of travel, the report also showed the service slaves walking, with the two cables latched together by a carabinier, a kind of snaphook that in this case turned the two cables into a manacle system. A few slaves also appeared kneeling on a kind of skateboard so that their owners could “walk” them, one hand inserted between butt cheeks, without allowing them to be upright!)

The reporter told the story deadpan, as a serious means of using intelligent human slaves to take the place of trained service animals. Needless to say, my dirty-minded roommate Tim made all kinds of innuendos and even a few outright statements about how HE would use such a slave to “service” him, including taking her to bed every night and probing all her openings to obtain “emotional support” from the bound animal. Doug was far too much of a gentleman to say anything that crude, but I noticed that his pants became rather crowded in the course of the discussion. In fact, he remarked with a smile,

“Jeeze, when I left the service the VA issued me a letter authorizing an emotional support animal for my PTSD, but I always thought I didn’t really need oe; besides, taking care of a dog would be too much hassle. I guess I need to dig that prescription out!” That comment was shocking not so much for his obvious arousal but for the fact that he had never admitting having Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, even though his violent nightmares had woken me up more than a few times . . .

*****

The news report and conversation about slaves acting as service animals occurred in November, and for several months none of us referred back to it—I think even Tim realized that he had gotten too graphic in talking about the use of such service animals in front of a woman that he still had delusions of bedding. But given the strict no-sex regimen that I had put myself on, my mind kept returning to the idea of slave service animals, half-dressed and manacled at the mercy of their owners. At first, when I was too tired from my studies, I began doodling service vest designs, designs that were wrapped around a well-endowed woman who looked a lot like me! By January, I had graduated to looking up the testing requirements to qualify as an Emotional Support Animal (ESA)—I told myself it was simple curiosity, but in truth I was toying with the erotic fantasy of being a half-naked, bound ESA sleeping with Doug and providing the most intimate possible “services” to “support” his emotions (and mine).

I found myself first making my own vest and trying it on, then mail-order purchasing the bonds involved. On rare occasions, when both of my roommates were away for a night, I would lock myself into my bedroom, lower the blinds, don the costume and bonds, and crawl around imagining that I belonged to Doug. (In case you’re wondering, in my wild freshman days I had gotten both of my nipples pierced—I didn’t usually wear the rings which tended to be visible through bras and blouses, but since I had gone to the trouble and pain of getting pierced, I periodically slipping the rings back in to keep the piercings open.) Now, fully “dressed” (except for the voice controlled collar, which was rare and expensive), I would fantasize about servicing Doug, using a vibrator to get myself off gloriously—and rather noisily—on my bedroom floor. One time he came home unexpectedly and, hearing the grunting and moans, knocked on my door in genuine concern that I might be having a fit of some kind. I barely talked him out of knocking down the door while I frantically redressed as an adult free woman. A close call, but what a rush, imagining him finding me nearly naked and defenseless at his feet!

What began as an innocent erotic fantasy had developed into a full-fledged obsession. I did NOT want to make myself a slave—I’m not THAT submissive or crazy—but I did want to be Doug’s ESA, preferably while traveling somewhere away from all the people (especially Tim) who knew me at Alabama (Roll Tide!) But to move from masturbatory fantasy to reality would require at least four different steps: First, convince Doug that I was not crazy but wanted to role-play this idea and serve him on an extended basis; Second, get my entry in the National Slave Registry annotated to suggest that I was some kind of—but not really—Free in Name Only (FINO) bimbo who was obligated to act like a slave in a dog harness; getting such an entry would require a contractual obligation on my part to serve and obey him (throw me in that briar patch!) Third, have Doug take me to be tested and registered as an ESA, and Fourth, go on the fantasy trip. If, in the process, my “Master” couldn’t resist using his ESA as a sex toy—well, hell, that was what the whole fantasy was about, right? Besides, I deluded myself that this was just an extension of my fashion studies, not a case of hot-for-the-(dog) collar young southern woman.

The detailed list I just wrote out should show you just how obsessed I had become. I thought I could trust Doug to play out the game without actually abusing me, because he was a straight-arrow, honest man—if anything, I’d have to nudge him to use me at all—wonder if I could unzip his pants while wearing those gloves? But before I made this wild suggestion to him, I needed to have a plan for achieving the other steps, ESPECIALLY getting my subservience to “Master Doug” recorded in the slave registry (just thinking about enacting this with “Master Doug” was causing me to “Mastur-bate.”)

I solved most of the procedural hurdles by calling “Uncle Jimmy,” who was not a genetic relative (ick) but the younger brother of Mom’s sister-in-law. Jimmy was about 30 years old, a lawyer on retainer to the Longhorn Slave Market back home. He had always openly ogled me, calling me “DeeDee” in an unsubtle reference to my prominent breasts. More than once, Jimmy suggested that I capitalize on my muscular body (high school track experience) by selling myself for a few years as a pony girl and banking the proceeds for later use. He seemed like the perfect imperfect person for advice on how to put myself into LIMITED hock as a contract service animal. But I couldn’t resist jerking his chain when he answered by phone call:

“Deedee! What can I do for my favorite ‘niece’ —have you finally decided to make both our dreams come true by auctioning yourself at the Longhorn?”

“No, ‘Uncle Jimmy,” but I do need your professional services to write a very special FINO contract.”

“Huh?” He sounded genuinely surprised but recovered quickly. “So, who’s the lucky guy who gets to collar you?”

I’ll spare you the rest of this VERY odd conversation. He finally understood what I wanted, although he told me I was throwing away good money I could have made otherwise as a pony slut. Jimmy drafted what looked like a FINO contract, obligating me to “serve” Douglas S. Sherman for a period of two years, but only to act “in a manner similar to that of a slave without any intercourse or other sexual contact unless she voluntarily agrees to same on each occasion,” and limiting the times this service would occur so it didn’t interfere with my classes, studies, or testing. A quick glance would make it look like a normal FINO contract, where one person contracts to pretend to be the slave of another, but in reality I was just agreeing to strip down and ACT as if I were a support slave for Doug in my limited free time. I didn’t mind intimacy with Doug, whom I was convinced was a good person who would also be fun in bed; I just didn’t want to be publicly embarrassed or obligated to serve others.

In effect, this contract made me not a FINO but a SINO (Slave In Name Only)—it made clear that I was voluntarily agreeing to act as a slave but that none of those gestures, including stripping, wearing a collar, addressing others as “Master,” or obeying Doug’s commands—none of them could be interpreted in any way as indicating an acknowledgment of slavery. The contract even specified that it was unique to Douglas Sherman only—if he died, became incapacitated, or attempted to transfer control of me to another person or company, the contract was immediately null and void.

I waited for a weekend when Tim was away, then asked for an hour of Doug’s time and boldly laid out the entire program—my idea was that, during spring break when Tim was sure to be chasing women in Florida, we could execute the modified FINO agreement and then practice for and pass the ESA exam for slaves. At the end of the term, we would travel by air back to Texas with me in full ESA regalia; all summer, whenever he needed me, I would visit him privately in between the part-time job (internship in a fashion house) I had lined up.

As I’ve said before, Doug is a stable, practical guy, and he was visibly bemused by my admittedly strange idea. So, I asked him what he thought of the concept.

“Debbie, I don’t know what to think. I’m honored that you would suggest this, but the whole idea seems rather strange. I mean, I presume you get some kind of thrill out of pretending to be my slave, and that’s very flattering, but if I read this FINO agreement correctly, you don’t really want to be intimate with me in any way, so—to be blunt—I don’t see how this deal accomplishes anything. It’s almost like a fraudulent version of an ESA.” Did I mention this guy was smart?

I looked at him straight in the eye, trying to convince him of my sincerity. “Doug, it’s true that I don’t want to act as a slave for other people, and in fact I’m trusting you not to reveal the unusual nature of our deal to Tim. Besides, like you I have studying to do to finish college. But, I really care for and respect you—the only reason I’ve turned you down for dates was that I thought dating would interfere with both of our schooling. Please believe me when I promise you that this is real, I intend to do whatever I can to make you happy, and if you wish I will be intimate with and serve you in any way you need. If you want to talk, I’ll talk all night. If you want to cuddle and sleep together, with or without the service animal harness, I’ll be your girl, exclusively. And if you think having sex would make you happy, I will never refuse you. Just tell me what you want—or just push me into the position you want me—and I’ll do my best to satisfy you. Yeah, I’m kinda fascinated with the kinky aspects of slave service animals, but I also want to be your closest, best companion, OK?”

His calm little smile appeared. “Sounds like we could be good for each other, but what happens at the end of two years, when we graduate?”

I smiled back. “That, darlin’, is up to you. I don’t know what either of us will end up doing after college, but if this two-year trial makes us both happy, I’m open to continuing it—and no, I don’t expect you to marry me, just hold me once in a while.”

“I’ll be honest, your offer is very tempting. Can I think about it for a few days and get back to you?”

“Of course, Doug.” I replied. “The essence of this plan is for you to call the shots, so as long as you decide before spring break starts, we’ll be set. One more thing—in case I haven’t said it before, I really like you a lot!”

“Well, I hope so—I doubt you would make an offer like that to guys you DON’T like, such as Tim.”

“Ewww,” I replied, slugging his arm gently. “You I like, him I would never hook up with! Which reminds me . . .Look, I’m going to just say it. As your ESA, I promise to do whatever you want or need, although I’m not crazy about having sex with other people, OK? But I know that, when we’re going through the processing to make me your service animal, or at an airport, or whatever—there are going to be people who want a free sample from your slave.”
He nodded, then tried to protest that he would never subject me to . . .

“Not really a problem, my quote Master unquote—in case you can’t tell, I look forward to pretending to be your kneeling pleasure slave. And part of being your service animal is being obedient and giving you the full experience of owning me. Soooo—if some guy wants a blowjob or even a fuck, I want you to AUTHORIZE me to do that. You can either order me to do it, or if I can see your face, just nod slightly--whichever you prefer because you’ll be the boss. That way, I can pretend that I’m still serving you while another guy gets his jollies. Just please, not anywhere near Tim or our friends, OK? I don’t see how I could stand to live here if he found out, let alone got to use me.”

*****

Over the next several weeks, as I waited impatiently for spring break to kick off my bizarre adventure, I got to know Doug better. We never went on a formal date but did spend a fair amount of time both in the apartment and at a nearby Starbuck’s, talking and joking. The more time I spent with this gentle but troubled guy, the more I developed a crush on him.

I also had several zoom conferences with Doctor Nicola Sheldon, a well-known Texas slave psychiatrist that Uncle Jimmy had somehow persuaded to be the designated guardian of record on my pseudo-slave agreement. At first, she congratulated me on the most carefully-drafted contract she had ever seen, one that (thanks to Jimmy) required me to act like a slave ESA but did not obligate me to have sex against my will, and still left me free (and clothed) for studying and part-time paid work.

Nikki, as she insisted I call her, gently inquired about my state of mind, and I was blushingly honest about both my crush on “Master” Doug and my attraction to the image of a bound submissive. Towards the end of our conversation, she did voice one objection.

“Debbie, you seem to have covered almost all the angles, and having talked with your future quote owner unquote I’m satisfied that he won’t force you to do anything you don’t want. But, I have to warn you, when you’re at the slave market for your induction or out in public as his support animal, there will be a lot of horny guys (now there’s a redundancy!) Some of them, particularly the wranglers, will expect your quote owner unquote to let them get off in one or more of your openings—are you prepared for that?”

A long discussion followed. I think I convinced her that, while I had no desire to be a real slave, I was prepared to submit, especially to officials we would meet that first week. I confessed that having to suck or fuck a guy while I was bound on my knees would be kinda kinky, although I relied on my new owner to keep things (and especially strange pricks) from getting out of hand.

She almost laughed out loud on the teleconference screen: “I can tell you’ve got it bad, girl—your brain is too smart for slavery, but your sex drive has you hot for the collar. Be careful you don’t talk yourself into outright slavery; I know a number of women who did that. Don’t hesitate to invoke me as your guardian if you find yourself slipping into slave mind, hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

On Friday of spring break, I waited impatiently until I was certain that our roommate was well on his way to Florida, then began “training” with my new master-to-be. For the first few days, I kept my clothes on but learned to respond quickly to both the slave commands I must obey at the market and the directions (which often required me to be on hands and knees) I would follow as an ESA. Doug and I also tried to get most of our term papers drafted over that weekend, to free up time for being together in the following week. Every time I lost my concentration and looked up from a book or laptop, I found Doug staring back at me. Besides, he seemed to spend most of the weekend with a very large banana in his jeans (hell, I suspected that his “genes” also had a lot to do with that prominent bulge.)

Monday was the big day. Most people are familiar with the process of going to a slave market, in this instance the McQueen Trading Post in Montgomery, where “Uncle Jimmy” had arranged for Doug and me to complete my not-quite-FINO contract, with Nikki Sheldon, who had already signed the contract, teleconferencing in. We could have just done the paperwork quietly in an office, but my horny little mind had insisted on re-enacting the humiliating process that every 18-year-old Southern woman experiences when going to a slave market, and which had been the source of countless masturbatory themes for me. Besides, since my new “owner” wasn’t getting an actual, full-time slave servant, I thought it only right that he should get a reasonable facsimile of gaining a slave. The lump in his jeans again told me he enjoyed the process.

When we parked outside McQueen’s, he played his part very well, giving a series of calm instructions:

“Step out of the car; strip and fold your clothes into a neat pile on the front seat.” As I showed every inch of my body to him for the first time, he locked the car door, depriving me of any chance to cover myself. Master Doug may have been new at this game, but his tone of voice tolerated no nonsense:

“Collar.” (A pause while I knelt and he strapped it tightly around my neck, then:) “Stand, back hands.” (He zip-tied my wrists behind my back, a position that made my prominent breasts push out even farther.)

In seconds, I was revisiting an experience that most southern women only live through once—being led by a leash, buck naked and helpless as we walked across the public parking lot and into the foyer of McQueen’s. I don’t know for certain about my new owner, but I certainly got the full experience, complete with erect nipples and a suspicious dampness down below.

After inquiring from one of the reception people, my owner-to-be led me into a conference room to the side, where he instructed me to “Stand,” which meant feet apart, facing the room, but unable to interlace my fingers behind my back as that position normally required. Then I saw who else was in the room, and my fantasy took a sharp turn for the worse—standing there with a leer on his face was “Uncle Jimmy.” Playing slave in front of Doug and a group of strangers had been rather exciting in a naughty way but being looked over by a man I’d known for years, who had frequently lusted after my body and urged me to sell it into slavery for real, was an entirely different experience.

“I just had to come up here to MUNTgomery [that’s how it’s pronounced, folks, EmPHASis on the first SylLAble] to see what you were up to, and I’m glad I did.” Without a trace of hesitation, he reached up, hefted and squeezed my right breast, and flicked the already-stiff nipple. My treacherous body almost came on the spot. Jimmie’s eyes shifted to the guy holding my leash. “You must be the lucky man who gets to own her—I’m her uncle by marriage, and I think it’s obvious why we call her ‘DeeDee’.” For emphasis, he squeezed my left breast as well--hard! The other men in the room, employees of McQueen’s, chuckled. And Doug chose to make this the first test of my docility, nodding slightly to direct me to tolerate it as I had promised him.

I felt as if my entire body was blushing. Eventually, Master Doug released my wrists but ordered me into “slave spread,” an even more humbling posture where I knelt, my obviously-damp thighs wide apart, while my fingers interlocked behind my neck so that my raised arms thrust forward those two objects that my “uncle” found so attractive.

Then they got down to the actual process, with Doug adding his signature as owner to the document that already bore Dr. Sheldon’s scrawl. Still kneeling in full view of everyone—even Nikki’s computer camera—I had to read through the entire document rapidly, initialing each page and signing the last one. A slave market employee, presumably a notary public, embossed and signed the document, then took it away to make several copies—one for Doug, one for Jimmy, one for the market, one converted to PDF for the record, and one to be mailed to Dr. Sheldon—having become a (modified) form of livestock, I didn’t rate a copy for myself. What I DID get was a tracking chip injected directly into the left-hand of my two D’s, plus an annotation in the National Slave Registry, an annotation they allowed me to read, recording that I was (supposedly—none of the local people read it in detail) now the FINO property of Master Doug, with Dr. Sheldon as my guardian for psych. or medical issues. I also got the privilege of being photographed in living pornographic pink color, with copies given to my new owner while the digits were uploaded into the data base. The whole time I was trying to appear calm, but I’m sure every man present noticed that certain parts of me remained erect while my thighs glistened with moisture.

The process was finally complete, and my Master permitted me to get off my aching knees, only to have my wrists again pinned behind me. Not content with giving my boobs and butt some final squeezes, Uncle Jimmy walked with us back to my car, his hand firmly goosing my rear end while he repeatedly reminded Master Doug and me to contact him for the best deal if we ever decided to sell my body for real!

Only after he walked away did Doug cut my wrists loose again. He started to apologize for my humiliation, saying he had no idea that Jimmy would show up, but his apology was cut short when a horny, naked young woman threw her arms around his neck and passionately kissed him.

When our lip-lock finally broke, he looked down, giving me his trademark quiet smile, and inquired, “Should I expect this kind of welcome whenever I take my ESA out in public?”

I grinned back, still breathing hard and aroused, “Whatever my quote owner unquote wishes.”

“In that case,” Doug replied, “I hereby order you to kiss me like that whenever I release your wrists.”

“I live to serve you, Master, but meanwhile, may I please get dressed again?”

“Go ahead, but I think I’m going to enjoy having you strip again, Deedee--soon.” (Oh great, I thought—I loved showing off for this guy, but did I want him to use such an objectifying nickname? I guess it was more appropriate as a name for a substitute dog than for a human being.)

*****

Now that I was legally registered, and Master Doug had seen every inch of my body, it was time for “dress rehearsals” in my new role. Tuesday morning, after brushing my teeth, I donned a short robe and brought my homemade service dog outfit to my new owner. I felt as if I were submitting to him as I discarded the robe and strapped the very revealing service vest around my otherwise nude body. After that, it was almost a ceremony, in which he rather than I strapped on the fake feet and then the cuffs onto my wrists and ankles. With a lascivious smile he connected my two nipple rings with the metal pulley assembly. (I noticed that he took the opportunity to grope me slightly, which made the entire process much more erotic.) As he connected the plastic-wrapped cables to the cuffs and threaded the upper one through the pulley, I felt a shiver of helpless subordination to this handsome man whom I barely knew. Small wonder that my body felt alive, with my goosebumps exceeded in size only by my three very sensitive red nubs—which, of course, he took every opportunity to fondle. He even had an excuse for such intimacy—he’d been studying the concept of service slave and explained that slave wranglers and the developing group of service slave trainers had both concluded that the best means of rewarding and motivating female slaves was to fondle their nipples, clits, and butts—and if they were VERY good, to use vibrators on their lower openings. The idea of being controlled by him in this manner was so thrilling that I actually climaxed as he toyed with me. As a final step, the VA had issued him a voice control box to strap around my neck, reducing me to a literal “dumb animal” who had to use grunts, growls, and whines to communicate to the all-powerful human who loomed over me.

I had thought that was the final piece of my clothing, but Master Doug suddenly produced a tail—connected to a well lubricated plug that he inserted . . . well, you get the picture, and I got the point! It made sitting difficult but the sensations of being stretched and invaded by my owner’s hands were the final step in making me feel like a bound animal. Fortunately, he assured me that he would remove it when we had to travel seated.

Once I was in full costume (or should I say I was full of costume?), there followed a lot of boring, frustrating work. Most of the time, I was learning to heel, crawling beside him including going up or down stairs. “Heel, slut” or “Heel, DeeDee” were his most frequent commands). If he sat down, I would sit or kneel on the floor/ground to his immediate left, unless he gestured for me to kneel between his legs, in which case I was to open my mouth and look adoringly into his face. (three guesses what that would be a prelude to!) There were also periods when he had me stand and connected my two cables together in preparation for leading me at a walking pace when crawling would be too slow.

Throughout the training, I was supposed to sense his mood from tone of voice, facial expression, whether he jerked my chain, and so on—if I sensed that he was troubled or sad, I would press my body against his and look lovingly into his eyes, alert for anything he might want me to do for him. I even licked his hand when it dangled, while my mind wondered whether I might improve his mood by licking his DICK! To be honest, it was difficult to interpret his mood when he was almost gleefully fondling and teasing my body, but I figured that the opportunity for such fondling was one of the easiest ways for the service slave to give the master reassurance and pleasure. Yet, Master Doug was clearly still reluctant to take advantage of me—brief fondling was one thing, especially when he could justify it (to himself) as training reinforcement, but he was such a gentleman that he never demanded intercourse of any kind.

In fact, the only suggestive thing he said came when he released my leash and encouraged me to drink water from a dish on the floor. As I approached the dish I heard a giggle come out of him. I turned my head and glared, obviously demanding to know what was so funny:

“Sorry, Deedee, but your butt looks so cute when you crawl, flexing back and forth so that you wag that tail! And the Longhorn on your butt seems to be using the tail to dust the room.”

Whatever I wanted to growl in return, the voice control box chose to interpret as “Thank you, Master.”

The only real break I got was at night, when he would pull out the tail plug and release my wrists so that I could bathe and sleep in my own bed—alone, sore, and feeling frustrated. I had to get myself off a few times.

*****

To accustom me to my new role, he led his ESA out of the apartment twice while fully rigged up, once in the early morning and again in late evening when we were unlikely to meet other people. I know he chose those times to avoid my embarrassment. As a result, on Thursday morning when I suited up (minus the damned tail!) to go for my ESA test, it was a real shock to appear bound and crawling among ordinary (clothed) people. It gave me almost the same thrill I had felt when he paraded me naked at the slave market, but this time I was sub-human, unable to speak or even look people in the face as my owner led me about. Master Doug reinforced that sensation by having me climb into the back of his pickup truck, riding around fully exposed just like the dog I was supposed to replace.

The humiliation continued when he led me into the waiting room at the testing office, an office that contained several other mostly-naked slaves who knelt, fully bound, beside their owners. I could barely look at the two who were female, but I was acutely aware that I was showing parts of my crotch and half-bared breasts to their male owners as well as to a MALE slave squatting next to his female owner. I took some small consolation when I noted that this last “service animal” was wearing a chastity belt that seemed too small to permit an erection—perhaps that was why he did his best to avoid looking at me! Of
course, having to squat over a grill to urinate in front of all those people and ex-people was even more blush-worthy . . .

It was finally my turn, and I played the role of a dutiful bitch going through various maneuvers alongside the owner I was supposed to support. I thought I had satisfied all the obedience requirements, and when he sat down in a chair, next to the examiner’s desk, I was actually happy to kneel next to him, pressing my body against his leg. But then the examiner started talking seriously. Apparently, I wasn’t the first woman who, for a joke or a favor or whatever, had posed as an ESA without really intending to perform all the duties of this role. The guy said it was particularly inappropriate when, as in Doug’s case, a woman tried to deceive them because it might be considered as defrauding the Dept. of Veterans Affairs. Inside, I was shaking with the fear of exposure (not that I wasn’t already exposed!), so I didn’t quite follow everything the guy said, but I gathered that he was telling my owner to “prove” that I was genuine by having me service the EXAMINER with my mouth. At which point, he unzipped his pants and turned the desk chair towards me.

I was frozen, not believing what was happening, but fortunately Doug was in control. In a calm voice, he ordered, “You heard the man, Deedee. Suck dick, slut!”

Well, I HAD promised to provide such services when required, hadn’t I? So I shuffled towards the man, who spread his legs apart and, in the best tradition of the movie “Blazing Saddles,” proceeded to “whip this out.” I remember thinking that his cock looked much smaller than (I suspected) Doug’s was, and for some reason that decided me. I licked that shaft half a dozen times and then INHALED it, slobbering as I rotated my head forward and back, each time trying to accommodate the intruder. I don’t even recall a gagging sensation. The nameless inspector must have been even more surprised than I, for in what seemed like seconds he was discharging his sub-caliber weapon into my mouth. Recalling what was required for a slave giving a blow-job, I first stuck my tongue out to display his cum, then swallowed it (bleech) when he nodded, and finally gently, thoroughly, licked every inch of his prick to “clean it up.”
He actually apologized! “My mistake, Mister Sherman. You clearly have a well-trained animal who should provide you with decades of dutiful support. Is there anything she WON’T do for you?”

My pseudo-owner replied with the absolute truth but a lot of innuendo: “I haven’t found anything this slut won’t do for me.” And he sounded as satisfied as a man who got sex whenever and however he wanted it.

In a flurry of paperwork, my “license” as an emotional support animal was approved, complete with a photo-ID for me that slipped into a small pocket on the vest. I still have that photo; it may be my imagination but I could swear there’s a line of cum drooling out of the corner of my mouth.

Continuing the act, my owner “rewarded” me by flicking my nipples and calling me a “Gooood slut,” then walked me back out to his truck and helped me up into the truck bed. Then and only then, he said in a low voice,

“Sorry about that, Deedee, but you were magnificent! Any chance that you would give me the same kind of quote service unquote?”

This time, the voice control box got it right, translating my smiling giggle as “Yes, Master.”

*****
Once we got home, he released me from everything so I could use mouthwash and toothpaste to eliminate the taste. After that I took a long soak, then got dressed and cooked a simple dinner for both of us—no slave kibble, thank you! All evening we returned to our ordinary roles as roommates, studying quietly until he finally announced that he was going to bed. While he took a shower, I quickly stripped in my room. Wearing only a short bathrobe, I knocked on his door ten minutes later and went in, finding him already in bed. He looked bewildered but managed to ask what I wanted.

I wasn’t wearing that voice box, but my reply was straight from its limited repertoire: “I live to serve you, Master.” At which point I dropped the robe, burrowed my head under the covers, and tried to give him the same service that had convinced the examiner. I had been right; he WAS a lot bigger than that clown!

OK, I had to use the mouthwash again, but then returned to his bed, curling up with him wrapped spoon shape around me. My obsession had turned into a long-term passion, and I was really glad I had decided to attend Alabama (Roll Tide!)

(To be continued)

[Mr. Smith]

I love the way the Longhorn badge burned into her ass did "wonders for her self-esteem". Life is good for veterans in Carl's world. I'd love to see DeeDee competing in a pet show or some other public contest.

[Belinda]

To a person of a submissive mindset such as I am. This is the ultimate romance story. So well written and formulated. Two lovely highly intelligent people indulging in a passionate relationship of the Dom- Submissive ilk. Lok forward to the continuation. Love the inclusion of Dr. Sheldon.