Service Animal Pt.03

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace, as explained below. 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. Thanks to Johnny Lawrence and Mr. Smith for plot suggestions.)

(Previously: Debbie McAdams invented a novel method of satisfying her two emotional drives: her attraction to her older, Army veteran roommate, Doug Sherman, and her equal fascination with pretending to be a sex slave without surrendering her freedom or sacrificing her college studies. The [fictional] 34th Amendment to the Constitution had permitted the re-introduction of human slavery in most of the United States, but on the basis of individual loss of rights: people became slaves not by being born into bondage or kidnapped from other countries but rather by conviction for major crimes, failure to satisfy debts (having pledged their bodies as collateral), or (in a few instances) voluntarily indenturing themselves. Although slaves were usually bought and sold to provide various forms of labor, every slave was also available for sexual use by his/her owner or by others whom the owner approved. Over time, the sex appeal of the slave tended to drive his/her auction value even more than any skills he/she possessed.)

(One of the new uses of such chattel was as intelligent, long-lived substitutes for service dogs trained to assist people who needed help with hearing, vision, or (in Doug’s case) emotional support from PTSD. An entire industry grew up to train such service animals [aka “support sluts” because of their secondary status as pleasure slaves], who normally wore a revealing dog-style vest, rubberized gloves & kneepads, and a voice box that translated all but a few human words into barks, whines and whimpers. What fascinated Debbie—aka “Deedee the service dog,” in reference to her prominent breasts—were the bonds that connected an “animal’s” wrists by way of a cable that, in turn, passed through a pulley attached to the slave’s pierced breasts so that every crawling movement was accompanied by rhythmic (and erotic) tugging on her nipples. That and having her ass and vulva partially exposed by the skimpy costume made her feel like a humiliated, kneeling sex toy constantly available for teasing and use.)

(Long story short, Debbie devised an unusual contract—instead of obligating herself to be Free In Name Only while acting as a slave, she got what was in effect a Slave In Name Only contract that retained her legal freedom (including right to refuse sex) EXCEPT when she was acting as Doug’s emotional support animal. This arrangement not only led to intimacy and mutual affection with Doug, but also exposed (in both senses of the word) her to being used by people, especially government inspectors, who assumed that, like other service animals, she was an actual, long-term slave. Which was fine with her because she could role-play as a submissive sex slave while eventually regaining her clothing and freedom. By the time this third part begins, the two young adults had graduated from their university, found jobs near each other in Dallas, and were living together both for normal intimacy and to indulge Debbie’s game of posing as Doug’s support slut—I mean, emotional support animal.)

(Doug Sherman’s viewpoint)

On Saturdays or (during the summertime) long weekday evenings, Debbie/Deedee enjoyed having her boundaries pushed by going to a slave exercise park over in Fort Worth. Owners could choose which of three grassy, fenced enclosures they wanted to release their "pets" into—female only, male only, or mixed. My horny fiancée bitch [that’s not an insult, just the natural term for a female acting as a service dog!] really enjoyed the mixed enclosure that, for obvious reasons, required all pets to be tested for STDs before entry. Debbie and any other female animals in that enclosure had to wear not only the voice control boxes for service dogs but the full rig of wrist and ankle bands with cables connecting them; I usually removed her doggie vest so that she was completely naked, unable to speak, and conveniently on her knees. The only thing she objected to, judging by her dog whines, was that I strapped a small red dildo into her rectum so that she couldn’t be penetrated back there. If I haven’t explained it clearly, most of the MALE slaves were NOT restrained in any way except for their voice control boxes, which meant that they could stand erect (yup, that’s what I mean) and move much faster than the females.

The first several times we went to the park, I was concerned about the love of my life being injured, but Deedee herself was raring to go, quivering and self-lubricating like the proverbial “bitch in heat” that she portrayed. Within about four minutes after I let her “loose” inside the mixed enclosure on hands and knees, two naked male slaves had cornered her (not that she tried very hard to escape!) One male stuffed her mouth with his dick while another began to invade her cunt from behind! These two guys, each probably someone’s frustrated boy toy in his mid-twenties, had their fun with her, occasionally switching openings or changing the angle and pace of their thrusts.

The entire time, both I and the attendant kept our eyes on the spit-roasting trio, ready to intervene of the guys played too rough. In retrospect, they were actually gentle with her (they were probably afraid of messing up such an opportunity to play), but it’s hard to watch other guys banging the woman you love when she’s completely defenseless. I was slightly conflicted, in that any guy would much rather make love to his lady rather than watch other guys cuckhold him, but I couldn’t help being proud of how sexy she looked and the cute begging sounds that came out of her voice box. Deedee REALLY loves playing helpless sex object! Besides, to be honest, I have some dominant tendencies, so I got a major hard-on watching my beautiful “slut bitch” getting hammered, appropriately enough, “doggie style.”

Afterwards, I drove us back to our apartment. As usual, Deedee was still in her full ESA regalia, bound and seat-belted in the car next to me; the only relaxation of her role was that I had used the telephone app to by-pass her voice control box so that she could talk normally. (I didn’t mind that she had her right hand pressed hard against her boobs to allow enough cable slack for her to fondle the bulging front of my pants with her left hand; once again, she was the consummate girlfriend/emotional support animal keeping me happy without distracting my driving TOO much.)

“Thank you so much, Master, for taking me to the pet exercise park. Even though those two guys weren’t nearly as well-equipped as I’m used to [she interrupted herself with a suggestive giggle while squeezing the bulge in my jeans], it was fun being the ‘helpless slave bitch getting spit-roasted by horny male dogs.’” [Her tone of voice made the quotation marks around that phrase very obvious. She sighed happily, then added, “Still, I wish that some time I could . . .” after which she stopped in mid-sentence.

I may not be the most socially adept guy, but even I knew that I should be alert for when my fiancée expresses an unfulfilled desire. “You could what, Darlin’?”

“Well, how do I say this? That was fun, but those two guys were treating me with kid gloves instead of our usual leather ones.” She grinned. Being famous for my witty repartee, I replied, “Huhh?”

Deedee finally explained herself. “They knew that you and that park guy would kick them where it hurts if they weren’t real gentle while mounting me. So the whole thing was a fun game but kinda tame, especially when I’ve read about people pretending to fox hunt with human pets—the male hounds really go to town while gang-banging the female ‘foxes.’ I sometimes wish that it were possible to just turn the male dogs loose to really quote have their way with me unquote.”

I’m no fool (well, perhaps I am, but not when it comes to understanding Debbie’s motivation to play Deedee.) “So . . . what I hear you saying is you want to increase the roughness, the sense of being a real slave? I know you like to pretend, Honey, but I worry about you getting hurt when some guy gets too excited about using a good-looking babe like you.”

“I know you worry about me, ‘Master,’ and I love you for it because it makes me feel safe and treasured. I’m not asking you to abandon me handcuffed in a dark alley, just treat me like your actual property—you know, don’t protect my rear opening, make people think you were angry with your slave or just didn’t care what happened to me. Remember when that TSA guy wanted to test me out? You were so cool, asking which end he wanted to try first and joking about his dick mining my rectum for fudge, as if I were just another slut who didn’t matter to you except as a set of moist holes to stuff.”

I’ll spare you the rest of this strange yet arousing conversation—you get the idea. As soon as we got inside the door of our apartment, I ordered her into “Slave 4’s” (that is, on her hands and knees) and recreated the thorough mounting she had experienced at the park—both of us were exhausted and VERY satisfied when I collapsed on top of my favorite service animal.

Debbie was and is the greatest thing that ever happened to me—the perfect combination of smart, loving woman, fun friend, and slutty bitch. If you’ve read this far, you can probably predict that I would do almost anything to make her both happy and horny, which the latest variant on her service animal act was likely to do. But, I still worried about her safety.

*****

(Debbie McAdams’ viewpoint)

So, the next time we had a free afternoon for an animal play date, my Lord and Master told me to first give myself several enemas and then lubricate both of my lower channels in anticipation of being well-used. He also warned me that he intended to be rough and insulting in the way he delivered me to the exercise park, letting everyone within earshot know that he wanted to punish his slave. He figured that would both encourage the other “dogs” to really ram me and at the same time prepare me mentally, turning me on by the thought of being a helpless slave. How well my lover knows me!

Which began by having me crawl into the trunk, wearing the foot and knee covers, wrist bonds, nipple pulley, and so on—then he used carabiniers to take up most of the slack on my cables, immobilizing me as if a cowboy had just lassoed and tied a calf. To make me even more available, he also installed a ring gag that sheathed my teeth and held my mouth open, available for anyone to use it. Imagine riding around in a dark trunk, buck (slave) naked, hog-tied and gagged—for a submissive addict like me, this was a real thrill even before we got to the “play date.”

When we got there, he released me from the trunk but used a leash to almost drag me, on my hands and knees, to the entrance to the park. There, in full view of all the cars and many of the visitors and their slaves, he had me kneel in “Slave Spread” and skull-fucked me until I was dizzy. THEN my “Master” [hell, skip the quotation marks—I certainly felt as if I had been mastered for real!] told both me and the attendant that he was very disappointed in me, so he’d decided to let some of the “obedient buck slaves” have some fun at my expense. I knew he was acting, but I immediately got into the role, quivering, whining (through the voice box) and quickly lubricating down below. After loudly refusing to protect my lower openings [“Maybe a few butt-fucks will make this whore less of a wise-ass”], he sent me into the mixed-sex section with a sharp slap on my right buttock.

Needless to say, four naked, male, and unrestrained young males immediately closed in on me, laughing and threatening to “f___ you up real good, little bitch.” Which they certainly did! But all four were smiling, reasonably good looking and seemed intent not on hurting me but on using my body for their pleasure, something that as slaves they rarely got to do. As far as I was concerned, this is the stuff of wet dreams, so all of us were happy. For a few minutes, they took turns holding me on my knees while each one of them face-fucked me through the ring-gag. That was rough and kinda hard to breathe, but at the same time thrilling.

None of them climaxed, obviously saving themselves for another penetration. After the first round of frantic pumping in my mouth, they proceeded to make me airtight. One guy lay down on his back, after which the others encouraged me to straddle him and lower myself until he was fully sheathed inside me as I lay down on top of him (his hands conveniently began to mash my breasts, giving me another shiver of usage). Then, after only four or five strokes from his cock, I felt another pair of hands spreading my butt cheeks wide apart and then—a shock but not a surprise—he thrust past my rectum. I soon felt stuffed back there, but I thanked heavens that my “master” had insisted I enema and lubricate myself ahead of time—not to mention that Doug’s cock was significantly bigger than this one to begin with, so my current “ravisher” went in rather easily. After that, with some difficulty, we slowly adjusted to each other so that I sank down on one prick just as the other one withdrew, after which the guys traded roles. In and out, out and in, in and out. I was in the middle of a copulation sandwich—too bad it wasn’t a “foot long” sandwich!

Hampered by the ring gag and my voice box, all I could do was moan and whine appreciably. Even that became difficult when a third service stud knelt down in front of me and stuffed my mouth. I wondered idly what stud number one (who was screwing me in the “normal” channel) thought about having balls dangling in his face with the weight of two other people on top of him—but then I had to concentrate on simply breathing. That was OK, though—I was in such sensory overload, with three dicks pumping in and out of me, that I was incapable of rational thought, losing myself in slave haze.

Just when I began to get control of my mind again, the prick in my mouth exploded, with so much ejaculate that sperm burst out of my mouth and dribbled down over my chin. A moment later, a similar explosion in my rectum gave me the sensation of suddenly getting a warm enema. I’m sure a lot of that cum escaped when my rectal invader withdrew from me, but at that moment I was focused on the fourth guy, who had taken stud number three’s place in my mouth and throat! At least he entered me slowly, giving me time to adjust, before quickly ramping up his movements until, once again, my nose was rhythmically buried in pubic hair as his dork plowed farther and farther into me.

My distracted mind wondered why doggie number one hadn’t yet unloaded into my birth canal. I mean, I certainly enjoyed his oversized shaft, but in comparison to the other slaves, who were obviously getting off at my expense, his passivity was almost insulting. I eventually decided that the weight and proximity of so many other people interfered with his enjoyment, but just as I arrived at that theory, he finally came inside me, triggering a sympathetic climax inside me. I suddenly realized that the shouting I had vaguely heard was my loving owner encouraging the slaves to “fuck her stupid”—mission accomplished!

By now I was a sticky mess, dribbling from all three orifices. The final hound withdrew from my mouth so I could breathe more easily, but a moment later I realized that this fourth guy had decided to use me for BOTH kinds of sodomy—while I was still enjoying my climax, he abruptly speared my rear end and began frantically slamming into me, blasting another warm load up into my large intestine after what seemed to be only two minutes. Sensory overload finally tripped both of our circuit breakers—I felt him collapse on my back just as I also slipped into la-la land.

I was half-conscious that someone was removing the ring gag and walking/helping me across the ground before I came to rest on a concrete surface. A strong stream of cold water shocked me back into full consciousness, just in time to see my loving “owner” grin at me.

“I told them to hose you down—you’re so hot and sticky that I don’t want you ruining my upholstery, Deedee.” I glared at him for a few seconds, but then realized he was right. “Thank you, Master,” I mumbled through gritted teeth (it came out as a submissive whine) as I dragged myself into the Slave Spread—kneeling with thighs wide apart and my bound hands on top of my dripping hair. He pointed the high-pressure stream of water directly at my nipples and labia, the bastard.

The attendant was obviously enjoying the view, even before my owner gave him what looked like several bills as a tip. Then Doug bent over to attach a leash to my collar, ordered me to “Heel,” and led me briskly out to the car—still naked on my knees in front of any spectators. It may have been a hot day, but the wind evaporating all that water made me shiver. At the car, he almost casually belted me into a car seat and drove off, pausing a few blocks away to gently towel me off and praise me for being “the sluttiest, most gorgeous bitch I’ve ever seen.”

*****

After this “play date,” my first experience at a “stupid pet tricks show,” where I won second place among emotional support animals, was almost anti-climactic. I got the usual thrill about appearing, mostly naked and restrained in full “bitch mode,” in front of a large audience, and it was kinda fun to straddle and hump a series of artificial dildos, each one of larger diameter than the one before, straining up and down on my thighs as if I were a kid on a bouncy ball until I set off an internal sensor. But all that left me unsatisfied and impatient for my ”owner” to finish talking to the judges afterwards—I heard the word “Nationals” at one point, with a date a month hence, but was too horny to focus on the conversation. Despite my restraints, I practically attacked Doug as soon as we got in his car, and I rode home almost sitting in his lap, nuzzling and whining at him. As soon as he parked outside our apartment complex, we both enjoyed a long session with Deedee tonguing her Master’s crotch while he petted and praised her before holding her head down firmly to accept a rather large but liquid gift down her throat.

Only afterwards, when we were soaping each other’s nasty parts in the shower, did he tell me what the officials had discussed with him. Since the introduction of human service animals several years before, the Slave Channel had encouraged enthusiasts to create the National Service Animal competitions, which amounted to a human (or sort of human) equivalent to the American Kennel Club’s dog shows—only in this case, the culmination of these contests was not the Westminster Dog Show but rather the San Diego Service Slut Show, where the final competitions would be broadcast on the Slave Channel.

A principal difference between the NSA competitions and actual dog shows was that the organization tried to conceal the identity of the participating animals—apparently, I was not the only free woman who role-played as a service dog, and even actual slaves needed anonymity against the day when they regained their freedom. Consequently, the service animals of various categories were always identified by their Slave Identification Numbers and/or their pet names while wearing “Lone Ranger” black masks. Everyone connected with the show had to sign non-disclosure contracts that forbade private photography or other methods of “outing” the participants—which didn’t forbid them from sexually using all the service animals, who had after all placed themselves in the role of bound, semi-naked slaves.

The big news was that, because the San Diego show was only three years old, getting to the “Nationals” was still an informal process. The Dallas contest in which I had just participated qualified me to join the “Texas state team” of service animals who would compete for the national “best in show” (or should that be “most in heat?”) awards a month hence.

Needless to say, the submissive exhibitionist in me was enthusiastic about the prospect—having just felt the rush of participating in the local contest, the prospect of competing on the Slave Channel seemed like the slave equivalent of being photographed for a national “men’s magazine.”

Doug told me that he knew I would be thrilled, but he was concerned because the rules specified that all the service sluts of the Texas team had to travel together from Dallas to San Diego, where they would be tested in various ways to ensure they were not on the slave equivalent of steroids—in this case, the “horny juice” cocktail of female hormones often given to female slaves to make them bustier, more obedient, and more easily aroused. Only after such testing could their owners pick the slaves up, allow them to rest for a few hours, and then put them through their paces at the national show—a show that would be broadcast as pay-per-view on the Slave Channel, which in return picked up all the expenses of masters and service animals travelling in both directions to and from San Diego. I had the opportunity to play emotional support slut on the very cable channel that had first introduced me to the concept of enslaved service animals!

“Knowing you, Darlin’, I imagine you’d get off just by being shipped across the country as a slave—hell, you’d probably hump your cage the whole way. But, I won’t be able to protect you while that happens—you’d be bound, caged, and unable to talk while you might get mis-placed or used sexually.”
Only much later did I remember his words; at the time I was so aroused by the prospect of “playing slave” for an extended purpose and even being used by strangers that I eagerly cuddled with him and begged him to agree that “Deedee” could go to the Nationals. We both had to persuade our relatively-new employers to give us time off before and after the weekend involved.

*****

I had been tremendously excited by the prospect of this trip, but on the designated day I got cold feet, er boobs, er—anyway all my extremities were cold and several of them were erect. I was wearing the full, restrictive regalia of an emotional support animal, which meant that my hands and feet were hampered by cables and cuffs, my back was covered by the service dog vest with rudimentary skirt ruffle, but my boobs, my branded buttock, and even my labia were on full display when I crawled along. My elaborate collar included the voice box that normally limited me to barking and a few emergency words; for this occasion, Master Doug had used his App to turn off that restriction, but he recommended I avoid talking so as not to bring my relative freedom to anyone’s attention.

All of that was “normal,” and if you’ve read this far you know that I really ENJOYED the humiliating exposure of that outfit while in public. What worried me was not so much my appearance but my mode of travel. I had expected some form of “Poodle Express,” being bound and cuffed on my knees inside a large cage originally intended for shipping a canine. Instead, following the instructions he had received from the Texas team, Master Doug drove around the freight side of the airport until he located a large, windowless warehouse labelled “Southwest Shipping.” He released me from the car, clipped the two cables connecting my wrists and ankles together, and cautioned me to be obedient no matter what happened. Then, he took hold of my joined cables and led me, shuffling along with my ankles restrained, into the building.

When he stopped to ask an employee where we should go, I suddenly knew the answer. In front of me was a line of kneeling, restrained slaves, most of them wearing the same type of vest I had on, waiting in line before a large metal-framed structure shaped like a squashed letter U. I had read about the ULD-40, designed to transport six slaves while using less space than the same number of poodle cages, and now I was about to fly in one. A guy dressed as a slave wrangler with “Southwest Shipping” and a nametag on his shirt was prodding the bound females into the structure, each in a separate, wired-off segment of the frame.

Realizing what was involved, my owner led me to a nearby “piss grate”—by now, I was accustomed to having to relieve myself in full view of multiple free people, but the act of squatting and urinating like that was still humiliating and demoralizing. Once I finished, Master Doug patted my head, rubbed my belly affectionately, and then pushed me gently towards the line of half-naked, bound sluts waiting to “board” their transportation. I was shaking inside but tried to appear calm. I was the bimbo who always wanted to play slave, so I could hardly object!

When it came my turn, the wrangler was firm but surprisingly gentle as he led me up a ramp to an opening in the ULD. Funny, I thought—on TV I had seen police officers pushing down on the heads of restrained people to avoid bumping head while putting them into cars, but I had never expected that to happen to me. Now, the unnamed wrangler guided my head as I crouched low to inch through the metal opening. I had to step down a few inches on the inside to the cool metal floor. There, the wrangler stopped me, holding my collar with one hand as he waved a small object in the other.

The device went Beep! As he scanned my shipping tag in the same manner that a supermarket checkout clerk might scan a loaf of bread. Then, I stared (slightly frightened) as he closed the door, the latch snapping firmly. There was a second beep as he assigned my collar to this compartment of the ULL. Light filtered in through what looked like ventilation openings, but little enough of either light or air reached me. Not having enough space to stand upright, I crouched lower, where a window opened near the top of the door.

“Have a good trip, Deedee,” said my owner, but even his voice sounded concerned. Well, I has ASKED for this, so I tried to give him a brave smile. Then the wrangler used the same window to pass me a blanket, a pillow, and a large paper bag—my “cabin supplies” for the long flight to the West Coast. (Examining the contents of that bag later, I found two bottles of water, a sandwich bag filled with slave chow, and several granola bars—all the comforts of home, or perhaps the comforts of a slave kennel).

A few minutes later, I had to sit down quickly to avoid falling as the entire ULD jerked into motion on an assembly line, out to an aircraft. A series of very loud snaps and bangs ensued, apparently locking us inside a transport aircraft—I felt the entire thing move and, a few minutes later, take off from the airport. One of the other girls also had her human voice enabled, and we tried to talk to each other, between our compartments and over the noise of the aircraft. I got the impression that she, like me, was a free woman who CHOSE to act as a service animal without being enslaved—she didn’t say that in so many words, probably so that the other girls wouldn’t hear her, but she was almost orgasmic about the idea of appearing on television as a half-naked, kneeling animal, and I had to believe that her attitude reflected her voluntary participation. Finding another woman who apparently had the same motivations was exciting.

*****

When we weren’t talking, I huddled inside my blanket and tried to rest. I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke to the “chirp” and sudden slowing of the aircraft wheels touching down. After what seemed like an interminable period, the aircraft came to a halt and soon thereafter the ULD-40 shook and began moving slowly off the plane and into another warehouse. There was a long wait with various noises, leading me to conclude that we were being removed from the container one at a time. When it came to be my turn, a wrangler with an impassive face let me over to a toilet and indicated that I should relieve myself. It was difficult not only to discharge myself but to wipe myself with my hands cuffed.

I had already seen what happened to the girl in front of me, so I wasn’t surprised when, once I finished relieving myself, the wrangler led me to a nearby 4-wheeled cart and had me step up onto two foot plates at one end of the cart.

“Bend it over,” prompted the wrangler, and so I reached out (my hands being cuffed in front of me) and bent over a padded saddle on the cart. He secured the chain between my cuffs with a strong band at the front of the cart, leaving me bent over, legs apart and rear end raised rather suggestively. The saddle had a narrow, raised platform that fit between my two breasts. (I might add that the wrangler quite casually groped my left boob as he bent over to secure my wrists.) Raising my head, I could see the stressed legs and butt of the woman on the cart immediately in front of me.

A moment later, the line of helpless female rear ends secured to little carts moved forward, towed by a forklift, going outside so that anyone at the airport could see our humiliating posture. The motorized coffle moved into another warehouse, where wranglers separated the carts. I found myself, still restrained on the cart, confronted by a tall guy wearing latex gloves and a white lab coat.

“Welcome to Lab-X, slave; you are here for testing to ensure that you have not ingested and are not smuggling any performance-enhancing substances prior to the contest. Mouth.” That last was unexpected; it was a customary command for a slave to fellate a free person! I did not resist as he calmly strapped a ring gag into my mouth, holding it open. Then I noticed that his pants were unzipped, as he calmly thrust his dick, fully erect and covered with an unlubricated condom, deep into my mouth and down my throat. The cart held me at almost the perfect height for this, and I had no ability to resist even if I wished to do so. Instead, I eagerly tongued the invader while trying to breathe as he pumped in and out for several minutes. It felt as if his dick was growing even larger, until he abruptly pulled it out, stripped the condom off his rampant prong, and then pressed some form of pH contact paper onto the saliva-coated surface of the condom. He grunted, announced “negative result,” and annotated something on a tablet, presumably a record of my “drug testing.”

His next action was much more in line with what I had expected; without releasing me, he put a constricting band around my upper left arm and then drew two vials of blood, which he carefully labelled with my Slave Identification Number and set aside.

After that, it was back to “shaft the slave”—or for this collection of service animals, “animal husbandry” with him in the role of husband. Standing in front of me, he made a big deal out of rolling another dry condom onto his still-erect dick, then walked around to the back of the cart, casually tweaking a nipple as he went, and, almost before I knew it, thrust balls-deep into my birth canal, which was (fortunately for me) dripping from the casual usage I was receiving. He took his time, pounding rhythmically into me as he bent over and mashed both of my breasts. The zipper on his lab coat dug into my back.
Gradually, he built up speed and power to the point where I was afraid that my moaning would let him know my voice box was turned off!

Just when I thought he was about to explode—because I felt the same way—this guy suddenly withdrew, leaving my engine running at full speed and my hips frantically twitching, seeking the lost prize. Talk about rode hard and put up wet! I don’t know how he found the control to stop that far along in our copulation, but he sure as hell frustrated ME. At least he was breathing heavily (as was I) when he reappeared and again, very ostentatiously, tested whatever liquids were coating his by now fully erect shaft.

You can guess what came next. At least he inserted and withdrew a slim, lubricated plug in my anus, followed promptly by that rampant invader. Once again he was bent over me, fondling my helpless body as he slowly, slowly, took possession of my defenseless rear end. Being the submissive slut you know I am, there should be no surprise that this “cavity search” of my bound and bent body, while somewhat painful, was a real thrill. This time, at least, he didn’t stop, bringing us both to climax. I don’t know how he could get any actual results from the condom he finally extracted, although in my case, at least, I had used an enema that morning so that the “sample” he obtained wasn’t too disgusting.

After finishing this bizarrely-personalized “testing” sequence, I heard him mumbling to himself as he made further entries onto his tablet. “We’ll have to wait on the blood test, slut, but otherwise you’re cleared for the competition. I don’t know how well you’ll do in the show, but you’re a fine piece of ass!” Just then, the wrangler driving the forklift reappeared with his coffle of exposed service animal butts. He reconnected my cart to the end of the chain and set off. As we moved forward, all still bent over, exposed and immobilized, the last thing I heard from the “lab tech” who had “tested” me was a cheery “hope you CUM again next year, slave,” followed by a solid slap on my exposed ass.

*****

After that disturbing experience, the actual San Diego Service Slut Show was relatively calm. When the carts finally stopped, the Texas Service Animal Team, including yours truly, were finally released, allowed to use toilets (in public view again), and locked into cages to rest. A few hours later, I was overjoyed to see my loving “Master.” I’m afraid I acted like the proverbial bitch in heat, eagerly kneeling to hump his leg; I even tried to unzip his jeans and get at his dick! When I started to babble to him, he promptly re-engaged the mobile App to convert my words into dog noises, then cuddled with me for a few minutes until I regained my calm.

The actual show followed quickly. As I dutifully crawled beside him, heeling until it was time to mount various vibrators, I was acutely conscious of being on display—there seemed to be thousands of spectators in the Pechanga Arena, and I knew that the Slave Channel was displaying my cleavage and (damp) butt to millions. (Should that be pay per view or pay per pussy shot?) This contest seemed like the ultimate in thrills for a submissive like me, so I had to concentrate to perform as expected. I can’t say that I was a brilliant success as an emotional support animal, but I know I earned a few points, and when the scores were announced on the final day, the Texas team came out third overall. I DID know that Master Doug and I had fun staying overnight at a hotel, where he took the opportunity to do me doggie style after I had serviced him orally. Yum.

Because some of my team went home after the first day’s performances, the Slave Channel had decided it didn’t make sense to rent an entire ULD-40 for the remaining slaves from Texas. The Slave Channel offered various options, including paying the reduced fare for a service animal to have an airline seat next to her owner, but I recalled the difficulties and delays we had experienced when we went home from college the first time as master and support hound. Besides, I loved the idea of being a helpless slut in a cage, even though it hurt my knees to travel “Poodle Express.” So I begged “Master” Doug to send me home in a slave cage—big mistake, as it turned out.

The return trip home started out great—at least, great if you enjoy being exposed and treated like a slave, which (in case you haven’t figured it out) was a large part of the thrill of being Master Doug’s emotional support animal—the rest of the thrill, or course, was having him (or that lab tech) use me almost casually, as if I were really an enslaved sex object.

Anyway, Doug was kind enough to come up with a thick Styrofoam pad for my cage and gave me a Valium so I could zone out a little. Happily, I pranced beside him into the airport terminal and dutifully crawled backwards into the cage, hands cuffed behind me and then zip-tied to the back of the cage. I could feel my nipples and clit getting erect already. At the last minute, I got the urge to say, “I live to serve you, Master,” to him, and was startled that it got translated into dog speech. Oops—somehow, he had left my voice control box enabled. Oh, well, I thought at the time—just one more little thrill of submission and helplessness.

The baggage handlers had fun with me, reaching between the cage wires to grope my boobs and ass—just part of the thrills of Poodle Express! They tossed my heavy cage almost casually from one conveyor belt to another, and before I knew it I was inside the pressurized portion of an aircraft storage compartment.

After a final grope of my boobs, a beefy handler shoved my cage against another piece of luggage, and I thought I heard a tearing sound just before the lights in the hold went out. Reconstructing events later, I think that final shove was the point where my self-inflicted bondage went wrong—the shipping label on the cage must have been partially torn off.

At least, that’s the best explanation for what happened to me. I relaxed and tried to sleep like a good little slave bitch, and the next thing I knew there was renewed light, a lot of noise, and my cage rattled down another conveyor belt and into the baggage area of another airport, presumably Dallas.
Only, somehow, instead of delivering me to the luggage carousel for my owner to claim me, I got mixed up with another shipment. I am NOT blaming the baggage handlers, who are good guys who work hard. Still, when you’re moving thousands of pieces of luggage every day, mistakes will happen. This time, I became one of the mistakes! I was supposed to go to DFW but (although I didn’t realize it for a while) ended up at TCL.

I was worried but tried to relax and sleep. The next time I awoke, I was tossed onto yet another conveyor belt, loaded onto a cart with other bags and at least one other Poodle Cage.

Before I knew it, I was on one of those luggage carousels, only it didn’t look like the carousels at Dallas. Eventually, I heard one of those “do not accept packages from strangers and do not leave your bags unattended” announcements put out by TSA—and the announcement began with “Welcome to Tuscaloosa International Airport!”

Now I knew I was in trouble. The only thing I could do was to voice-activate the homing signal that a service dog is supposed to use when her master needs assistance. Trouble was, my signal was still keyed to the Dallas area, so nobody could come to MY rescue for a while. In the meantime, my cage kept going around and around and around and around on that carousel . . . made me dizzy.

(To be continued)

[Belinda]

Carl, what a wonderful continuation. Her submissive qualities are so enhanced in role as a service animal. Her designation as a bitch is so exciting to me and stokes my submissive instincts. Just a wonderful piece of work.

[ElJefe]

It was a little bit of a shock to see my creation used in another story, but it's part of the shared world now, and the details (including the lab testing) were perfect.

And now inquiring minds will want to know...just where does unclaimed luggage go in Tuscaloosa?

[Carl Bradford]

Sorry, El Jefe--it occurred to me just before posting that I should have asked your permission to use your shipping system, but I hope you don't mind. I though it was appropriate to ship a large group of service sluts that way--a way that, you may notice at the end, proves to be much more reliable than Poodle Express cages. Just another endorsement for Southwest Express!

[imreadonly2]

Southwest Shipping remains my fave, El Jeffe, and it would be criminal not to build on the amazing story you gifted us all.

Carl, I loved this story, and the new chapter, which kept me on the edge of my chair. The anonymity & randomness of the dog park was brilliant. There was a scene in one of the Gor novels where a woman asks a soldier who is tasked with guarding her to help her masquerade as a slave. At one point, he leaves her chained in an alley for a moment, where a passerby assumes she has been left for public use. He returns in time, and the stranger apologies. The Mistress is shocked and horrified, but all is well, and the men laugh about it, as it is an understandable mistake. It's the casualness of the men, and the shame of the helpless women, that make these sorts of scenarios such a turn on.

I also loved the mechanization of the process, with each PING of the bar code reader emphasizing that she is now cargo.

As for El Jeffe's question, unclaimed baggage is sold.

https://www.unclaimedbaggage.com/

I imagine in the case of livestock, the sales would have to be done rather quickly, so the animal could be relocated to an environment where it could be cared for properly. After all, we want to be humane.

GREAT STORY!

[Carl Bradford]

No one should be surprised that Joe Doe is an expert on Norman's Gor novels! When you reminded us of the scene where the free woman of Gor masquerades as a slave in an alley, it reminded me of the throw-away line I put into this episode of Service Animal: "I’m not asking you to abandon me handcuffed in a dark alley!" Evil minds think alike, I guess.

For me, at least, much of the erotic power of a story is based on power exchange. In this instance, a free woman with submissive tendencies had put herself into jeopardy. Not only is she bound, helpless, and speechless, but she gets a thrill out of appearing to be a slave, available for use by anyone who gains temporary control of her body. I would vigorously condemn any form of rape in the real world, but here she gets a thrill out of the vulnerability she has assumed--and her users would be justified in assuming that she was an actual sex slave. (Recall that the word "assume" famously makes an Ass out of U and me.) Based on the suggestions readers gave after previous episodes, I hope you'll be satisfied with what she endures in part 04.

[imreadonly2]

Your line about being left in the alley is what reminded me of the GOR novel. Too funny!

Yes, these stories setup a classic approach-avoidance conflict, where the girl wants the turn on of being treated like a slave, but experience only the excitement, with none of the disadvantages. The inherent impossibility is that it's impossible to both lose control and keep control, or to give up all your power and keep it. She wants the thrill of being permanently branded, and owned, but not the pain and finality of being permanently branded and owned. This creates these moth-to-the-flame scenarios, with the fun for the reader seeing the girl dance along the edge before inevitably falling in. Of course falling is part of the fantasy, even if the landing is hard, or especially if the landing is hard.

I loved your story. More coming from me around Halloween (with Carl's help!)