Service Animal Pt. 04

[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, Mr. Smith, Avicia, and others for plot suggestions.)

Previously: College student Debbie McAdams had invented a novel method of satisfying her two emotional drives: her attraction to her slightly older, Army veteran roommate, Doug Sherman, and her equal fascination with pretending to be a sex slave—she persuaded him to accept her as his “emotional support animal” when human slaves were substituted for dogs in that role because the slaves were smarter and longer-lived. She didn’t actually become a slave and her “service animal” wasn’t a full-time role, just a recurring masquerade in which she really enjoyed pretending to be a manacled sex object called Deedee [in honor of her large, pierced breasts] who was “forced” to have sex with “Master” Doug or anyone he so designated. Even if the designated dominant was less than attractive, she got off on imagining herself as a dutiful slave obeying her master. As far as she was concerned, that was a briar patch she enjoyed entering frequently!

The original third resident of their apartment, Tim, had first discovered human service slaves while watching his favorite entertainment on pay-TV’s Slave Channel. He didn’t learn about “Deedee the service animal” at that time, but only noticed, to his disgust, that his “smoking hot” female roommate had suddenly moved into Doug’s room where they made frequent and rather noisy love. Naturally, Tim no longer wanted to room with the couple after that, so they moved out and finished college in another apartment while Tim stayed in their former abode, finding replacements in the form of two horny young guys, Mike and Alan, who were as allergic to studying as was he. (In fact, unbeknownst to Doug and Debbie, Tim flunked so many courses that he became a 5th-year senior at The University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa (“Roll Tide!”) while Alan had recently gone home in disgrace.

Doug and Debbie, by contrast, graduated on time, found jobs and a shared apartment in Dallas, and became engaged. Which didn’t prevent them from indulging (frequently) in their mutual hobby of taking “Deedee the service bitch” [an appropriate term for a female substitute of a service dog] out in public on various occasions. She particularly enjoyed being humiliated and used by various people who thought she was a slave; to maintain the fiction and avoid questions of infidelity, she left it up to her “owner” to authorize her service in such situations. (Doug went along with this running gag to keep her happy, not to mention the sight of her sexy body being shafted gave him an erection that could only be assuaged by re-enacting her debauchery when they were alone. After which, belatedly, he would gently restore her to calm by kind after-care.)

At the end of the previous episode of this tale about deceptive doggie tail, Deedee had participated in the equivalent of a national kennel show for service slaves, the San Diego Service Slut Show, where the final competitions were financed and broadcast by the Slave Channel—although masks and other precautions were used to conceal identities on TV. Unfortunately, Deedee let her zest for playing slave overcome her good judgement; she persuaded her “owner” to ship her home while bound, with her voice box turned off, in a large “Poodle Express” cage. That cage went astray, as luggage sometimes does, and ended up not in Houston but rather at the Tuscaloosa Airport, only a few miles from where she had first shared an apartment with Doug. She was helpless, a half-naked apparent slave bound on her knees, so all she could do was activate the emergency beacon programmed into her voice control box. Now, on with the sordid slurping sequence of pseudo-slave sexual service.

(Debbie’s viewpoint)

So there I sat, or rather there I knelt with ankles and wrists bound, inside a large dog cage going around and around and around on a luggage carousel in the WRONG airport, hundreds of miles away from my fiancé and (fake) master, Doug. My ankles were both zip-tied to the back corners of the cage and bound together by a nylon cable; my wrists were connected by another such cable that run though a pulley system attached to my breasts, which were almost entirely visible because the only clothing I wore was a modified “Service dog” vest that showed most of my cleavage and (from the front, while kneeling) ALL of my lower openings. Unlike most slaves shipped Poodle Express, I didn’t have a cum-soaked canvas gag in my mouth, but the control box attached to my throat converted almost every word (except “Emergency,” “Yes, Master,” and so on) into canine speak. Damn, I was in trouble, and it was my own dumb fault.

After what seemed like hours on the luggage-go-round, a young guy wearing airline coveralls hauled my cage off it and announced what I had already suspected—my luggage tags and ID were missing. The slutty submissive fetish that had put my ass into this situation meant that I enjoyed it when he reached between the cage wires and thoroughly groped my tits (let’s face it, when you’re undressed and restrained as a service-dog-cum-slave, polite terms like “breasts” just aren’t appropriate!) I was far less happy when he peeled down my outer lip and scanned my slave identification number (SIN). The very fact that he had a SIN scanner available told me that this kind of mishap occurred WAY too often, and that he was about to follow a standard operating procedure to try to return me, as a slave, to my owner. Trouble was, no one was likely to take the time to read the fine print that said I had self-indentured myself, under strict protections, and that this self-indenture had expired several months ago. Instead, this guy—his nametag read “Larry”—would try to deliver me to Douglas Sherman at the Alabama address on file, which was where we had shared an apartment years earlier. WHY hadn’t I insisted that “Master” Doug update my National Slave Registry information before we played master-and-service-animal in public? I knew I was kinky, but I suddenly realized just how reckless I had been.

“OK,” he remarked, more to himself than to me. “Says here you belong to Douglas Sherman, Apartment 3, 4242 South Street.” Crap—just as I thought, that was our address almost three years ago when I signed up to be his Service Animal. And I couldn’t speak English even if he were willing to listen to a caged slave! All I could do was pray that the emergency beacon would lead Doug to me—but he was nearly 600 miles away in Texas . . .

It got both more real and far worse when, several hours later, Larry parked his van in front of my old apartment, slid my cage onto a hand truck, and dumped it in front of the apartment door where my crazy idea had all began.

Tim answered the door, but in response to Larry’s inquiry, claimed that his name was “Douglas Sherman.” Worse still, when Larry asked for some ID, he produced what looked like a discarded student ID card that apparently had belonged to Doug! I will give Larry SOME credit, as he was skeptical about the photograph and used his cellphone to photograph it, but ultimately he believed Tim rather than the bound and voiceless “slut in a cage.” I probably made things worse by showing that I recognized and feared Tim, barking frantically and resisting as the two men dragged me (by my collar and boobs!) out of the cage after cutting the zip-ties that held my ankles. Tim called for “Mike,” who turned out to be a really big, football lineman-sized roommate, to come out and hold me on my knees and elbows while my pseudo-owner thanked Larry sincerely for “returning my property” and even gave him a $20 tip. At that moment, I realized, the horny guy whom I had repeatedly rejected as a boyfriend had just in effect purchased me as a $20 whore.

*****

As soon as the airline guy departed, Tim burst out laughing. “See—when we watched the San Diego slut dog finals last weekend, I TOLD you that I recognized this bitch and her owner as my ex-roommates!”

With one massive paw still planted on my neck, Mike replied, “OK, you were right—I don’t know how your roommate ended up as a caged slave, but she looks good enough to eat. Good thing you held onto that old ID card.”

Shaking his head, Tim leered at me. “Yup. I’ve no idea how Miss High-and-Mighty-Textile-Student got into that cage, but it’s SO appropriate—the bitch with the big mouth is now a REAL bitch who can’t even talk, just bark. So, we can put those cock-sucking lips to a better purpose, right?”

“Yeah!” came the half-shouted reply.

Cupping my chin, Tim stared hard into my eyes. “Time for you to put out, slut-dog—you’re going to be a good little slave and enjoy getting fucked in all three holes. Do I have to tell you what will happen if you try to bite us or resist?” I was terrified and he knew it, so I dutifully shook my head, “No.” He dragged me around to the rear of the sofa—that same ratty couch where he had first shown me service animals on TV—and bent me over from back to front. He tried to kick my legs wide open, but the cable between my ankles held them about three feet apart.

*****
Speaking to Mike, he suggested, “Why don’t you hook that cable between her wrists down low on the front of the couch?” Mike eagerly complied, in the process pulling hard on the arrangement attached to my pierced nipples (ouch!) while I heard the ominous sound of Tim unzipping his jeans behind me. Mike soon followed suit, revealing a prick the size of a jumbo hotdog.

From behind me, I heard Tim’s mocking voice, “What did Doug name you in that contest, was it ‘DeeDee?’ Well, time to put those Double-Ds to work, Sweetheart. Hold still!”

I’d never actually seen Tim’s dick but had suspected—based on the small size of his hands and the lack of a bulge in his pants—that he wasn’t too well endowed. Which was a good thing when he rammed whatever he did have into me in three hard thrusts, causing me to issue a moan that the voice box converted, rather accurately, into a low, keening whine. I had to admit that it felt good having two strong hands push my butt back and forth while this clown tried in vain to fill me up. At first, I was embarrassed and even infuriated that my birth canal was self-lubricating, but then I realized that I should be thankful—my fear and pain, the fight-or-flight-syndrome, had converted into just enough arousal that I could accommodate his sub-caliber projection without too much fun. But no, I wasn’t having fun nor approaching an orgasm. These guys didn’t know or care that I was actually a free woman and what they were doing was legally as well as factually rape, but thanks to that fear-turned-into-arousal I hoped I could at least survive this session over the couch. (Even if I ever brought them to trail they could easily argue that I appeared to be a slave when they got me.) I concentrated on relaxing and breathing slowly.

I suspected that Mike was no stranger to forcibly using helpless women—he seemed to know that having his cock in my mouth at the moment that Tim first mounted me might be hazardous to his health. Now that Tim had achieved his life’s ambition by actually fucking his ex-roommate, Mike lost no time in pushing into my mouth. Still, throughout my ordeal Mike’s actions seemed to indicate that he had some humanity, some sense of what would feel good to me as well as to him; he didn’t hesitate to use my body but did so in a gentler, more patient manner. I did the best I could to entertain him not because I enjoyed his dick in my mouth but rather because I wanted to get him off as quickly as possible.

Having read pages about my submissive nature, a reader might protest that I took such delight in scenes like this that I had no reason to complain about what Tim and Mike did—I had fantasized about being double-teamed and had even encouraged my darling guy to set me up in such situations. And I will be the first to acknowledge that my own kinkiness was directly responsible for my being in this situation as a helpless, speechless sex object bent over the sofa, which was one reason why I was so angry. Still, I hope everyone realizes that there is a vast distance between dreaming about or even role-playing submissive bondage scenes and being violated by a guy I despised and his muscular, none-too-bright henchman. Surrendering control to the guy of your dreams is fun, surrendering to these two morons was disgusting and horrifying, even without the consideration that they weren’t using condoms.

I was so infuriated, so angry at my treatment that I must have blown a gasket, because apparently I passed out. At least, the next thing I remember was someone throwing water on my face. Once I realized what had happened, I had to struggle not to grin, because (judging by the fluid in my mouth and between my thighs) the two guys managed to get off while fucking an unconscious woman—hardly the revenge I think Tim had expected when he began. I would much rather have ripped his balls off and stuffed them up his ass, but I would settle for any slight victory I could get.

His angry face confirmed my suspicions that he felt “cheated” by my fainting—what could be more humiliating for a would-be stud, who clearly expected to fuck my brains out, than to discover that I found his attentions so boring [and, he had to realize, his dick so small] that my brain had checked out on him? At least, he decided that I needed water to preclude another fainting spell. So, for the next hour or two I sat on that couch drinking two battles of water and watching whatever garbage they chose on the TV. Of course, these two clowns spent the time fondling my bound body—they had already removed the service dog vest, leaving me wearing just that damn voice box, along with rubber gloves and knee protection as well as those elaborate restraints on my wrists and ankles, with the former connected by a cable and pulley affair pinned to my nipples! The two guys got their jollies out of groping that body, of course, but I certainly didn’t get aroused from having my boobs and pussy played with by two guys who couldn’t find a clitoris with both hands and a book of instructions. All that fondling did for me was to irritate rather than excite, although again Mike seemed to have some interest in giving me pleasure, if only to advance his own. The most difficult task I had was to control my facial expressions, because I didn’t want to give them any indication they were getting to me. I was certain that the emergency beacon would help “Master” Doug rescue me; the only question was, how many hours or days would I have to wait while playing slave bitch to two of the dumbest, most repulsive guys I’d ever encountered?

Meanwhile, Tim was so full of big talk that I think even Mike decided it was B.S.—how I secretly lusted after his body, and the fact that I showed up bound and caged like this demonstrated what a submissive slut I was (OK, that part was true) and how eager I was to be his “love slave.” Don’t know how I avoided puking when he said that.

When they finally finished bragging, the two guys ate some El Cheapo premade spaghetti that looked even worse than slave kibble—all I got was two slices of bread, but that at least keep the hunger pangs at bay.

*****
Afterwards, of course, it was time to play with their new toy again, although their equipment was still kinda wilted after their previous excursion into my body. Mike announced that it was HIS turn to “fuck slave cunt,” so after clipping my wrists together in front of me, he maneuvered my body so that I was sitting on his lap, facing away, with his hands on my breasts and his rod slipping into my still-moist birth canal. At least HE had a decent sized schlong, so that sliding down until it was sheathed inside me was the first really enjoyable sensation I’d had all day, compounded when he used his muscular arms to lift and drop me repeatedly. Hmmmm—I was actually having fun, at least until Tim’s pencil-dick appeared in front of my face with the gruff command to “suck cock, slut bitch.” I had to resist the urge to ask him where the cock was, since all I saw was something the size of my thumb.
Instead, I tried to use my lips and tongue while he face-fucked me. It was kind of difficult to synchronize the opposing up/down movement of my body with the back and forth of my head. I was just adjusting to this, while trying to use my throat and pilates to bring my two assailants off quickly, when the cavalry arrived. Finally!

There was a loud knocking on the door. “Open up, Sheriff’s Department.”

Intent on getting his tiny dick satisfied, Tim tried to continue skull-shafting me¸ calling out “Whaddaya want? We’re busy.”

But I decided to seize whatever small chance I had of deliverance. (Come to think of it, wasn’t the film “Deliverance” shot nearby, in Georgia?) Anyway, I spit his four-inch protrusion out and began frantically barking in terror—actually, I was yelling “help!” but that’s what came out of the voice box, the only relevant human word being “Emergency.”
And then in mid-bark, the voice box suddenly shut off and my terrified HUMAN voice came out, saying “Help! Help! They’re fucking me!” And at that moment, I realized that my love, “Master” Doug, must be on the other side of that door, within range to use his cellphone app and release my human speech!

Three seconds later, a series of thunderous kicks at the doorknob caused the door to shudder and then pop open—to reveal a deputy sheriff, my loving master, and Larry the baggage guy (not to be confused with Larry the Cable Guy), all of whom rushed in. Doug spun Tim around and decked him with one punch, after which he pulled me off Mike’s shaft and hugged me.

As the deputy was cuffing Tim and reciting his rights, I realized that we now had another problem—I appeared to be a slave, but if we tried to get Tim arrested for stealing and abusing a slave, I would have to testify in court about my strange masquerade. Fortunately for my blushes, Larry—bless his li’l heart, as we say down south—came up with another crime, if only because he was trying to protect his own ass!

“As I was trying to explain, Deputy, this guy—I don’t know his real name—claimed his name was Douglas Sherman. Only THIS guy is Douglas Sherman. He even showed me an ID—here, I took a picture of it.” And he pulled out his cellphone.

The Deputy was a smart guy—once he realized that Doug intended to take his “property” back to Texas with him immediately, he decided to settle for charging Tim with theft of both Doug’s identity (I told him where to find the old ID card) and “valuable luggage”—each of which was a felony in the great state of Alabama.

“But he HIT me!” protested Tim, to which the Deputy replied that “Mr. Sherman” was making a citizen’s arrest, being understandably upset by these thefts. We still had to go to the Sheriff’s office—me draped in a blanket—and spend hours while Larry and Doug made sworn statements, but at least we didn’t have to hang around and admit—in a good ol’ boy southern court—that I was a free woman who had voluntarily allowed herself to be shipped interstate in a slave cage! Then Doug took me to the nearest Walmart to buy some essential clothing, and I changed back from Deedee to Debbie. Fortunately, he had brought along my driver’s license and other ID, and we got back to Texas very late the same night.

*****

For the next several days, we walked on eggs around each other—I was conscious that my foolish games of submission had caused both of us immense stress and almost cost me my freedom, but Doug said nothing. We did cuddle in bed and once, silently, made love, but the elephant remained in the room. At the very least, all my games of submission seemed to be off-limits now.

The following Saturday, I finally found the guts to bring up the subject. I should have anticipated Doug’s response, but it surprised me:
“Darlin’,” he began, “I love you, and I love playing slave games with you, but I have to have some control over you if only for your safety. If Tim hadn’t been an anal orifice about pretending to be me, he could have argued in court that you were a free woman who voluntarily put herself into slave bonds and cage, so obviously you WANTED to be treated the way you were. I had no legal claim on you other than the airline checked luggage stub. It’s just not safe for you to go around masquerading as a service animal without some kind of legal indenture that’s more binding—ha!—than your crazy non-contract-contract. So, the question is, are you ready to give up your freedom so I can keep my little service puppy safe?”

There it was, I thought. All my dreams of being his wife and role-playing as his emotional support dog were just that—dreams. Yet, by now I was addicted to that role AND to him, even if I had to give up my freedom to serve him. I thought about it for a few seconds, then stood up, stripped off my clothes, and knelt in front of him, knees wide apart and hands behind my neck in the “slave spread” position.

“Master,” I said in a tremulous voice. “I beg for your collar, to be your slut for as long as I live. Please register me as your slave.”

He was obviously startled but reacted much more quickly than I had expected.

“Back hands,” he ordered, and while I complied, placing my hands behind my lower back for cuffing, he stood up, unzipped his jeans, and pulled out his large, half-erect dick (did this guy ever relax? I wondered), then sat down again, offering his sausage for my worship. “Suck cock, slave,” he said, very calmly. I promptly took that massive shaft into my mouth and began sucking and licking, all while my tears rolled silently down my face. So much for being a strong, independent woman, I thought—I’d rather worship this guy on my knees. My parents would be ashamed of me even if my Mom might understand.

And then he really DID surprise me. “Sweetheart,” he said, smiling down at me, “You’ve just given me the best possible gift in the world, one that I would treasure for my entire life. What more can you offer than your entire life to serve me? If you really WANT to be my slave, we’ll go to the Agriculture Department on Monday and indenture you. But I’d much rather have you as my free wife and partner. If you want to play slave after that, sign a Free In Name Only agreement that we can put on the national slave registry. That way, I have the right to claim your ass the next time someone finds you wandering around in a collar and service dog vest, like the cute little bitch you are. How about that, Deedee?”

In one paragraph, my life had gone from resigned submission to incredible happiness. After eagerly replying “Yes, Master,” I swallowed his ENTIRE massive shaft down my throat and broke my pose enough to wrap my arms around his legs. With my smiling mouth full of cock and my eyes focused on his face, I brought him to a climax in about 40 seconds of frenzied sucking and licking. Bliss.

We were both so eager to resume our master-and-service-slut relationship that we didn’t even wait for our wedding. I wheedled Doctor Nikki into being my guardian again, and a week later I was once again led across a parking lot cuffed and slave naked, then knelt in the entrance hall of the Longhorn Slave Market while a slave wrangler/notary public helped Nikki and my beloved Doug sign me up for a five-year FINO contract, obligating me to serve my new Master as a slave except during normal work hours, with Nikki as the guardian of record in the national data record, authorized to intervene on my behalf whenever Master Doug was unavailable.

Doug celebrated my new status by taking me, collared and slave naked, to kneel beside him in a restaurant while he bought Doctor Nikki a nice lunch (I got a few scraps off his plate; a slave girl’s got to watch her figure since everyone else does, right?). Nikki spent the time discussing the possible pitfalls of my new relationship, but the only real limit I saw was that I had to act and dress like a free woman at work, when all I wanted to do was surrender my body fulltime to my lover/FINO owner.

In case you’re wondering yes, he took me to the playdate park to be used by other slaves, but now he even felt comfortable enough to go in with me, shafting my two lower openings while he let some male slave try out my mouth. Otherwise, he forbad me to travel by poodle express ever again. “If you want to travel as a caged slut, Darlin’, I’ll put a cage in the back of my pickup and drive around so everyone can see what a fine woman I got.”

We had a conventional, formal wedding and reception, seeing a lot of friends and family. The next day, however, Master Doug led Deedee the wonder slut onto an airliner, where I had to spend hours fully tacked up and bound in the seat next to him. With my head under a blanket, I was happy to worship him orally for almost an hour before he blasted off into my mouth. And when we got to the hotel, he had rented a room complete with slave cage; he bent his service dog over that cage and stretched both of her lower openings before unloading a bucketful into my large intestine.

I didn’t think it could get much better for a submissive pseudo-bitch . . . until at dinner we sat near a gorgeous redhead who openly flirted with Doug. For the first time, I saw the drawbacks of being a service slave, FINO or actual. All I got to eat was a few choice pieces off his plate, in between sensuously licking his rod. I had no part of the conversation, in which the redhead, whose name was apparently Charlize, flirted outrageously with my husband/master while making sly comments about how inadequate his emotional support animal appeared to be. Eventually, she slid off her tiny (and apparently very moist) panties and gave them to Doug, who seemed more interested in her than in his new wife who was slavishly sucking him off under the tablecloth. I thought my heart would break when Charlize agreed to visit “his” room one hour after dinner—and meanwhile he locked me into the room cage, with Charlize’s damp panties spread out on top, and left me alone while he took a shower. He even gloated a little about he was able to attract “prime pussy” even when he was an “old man” married to me. Silent tears appeared on my face, but the voice box once again prevented me from speaking.

I should have known better, of course—it was a put-up job designed to tease me, although I never did learn where or how they had connected before our honeymoon. Almost exactly an hour after we finished dinner, there was a loud knocking at the door, and I wanted to die of humiliation, about to be cuckolded openly on my second night of “wedded bliss” while I would have to watch the adultery from a cage.

Instead, when Doug opened the door, ANOTHER studly guy (whose name, I later learned, was Jim) walked in, leading a semi-naked, redheaded service-bitch-on-her-knees named Charlize! Two minutes later, two fully restrained service animals were doing their best to get each other off while the owners watched and issued lewd instructions. I’d never tried lesbian sex before, but the thrill of obeying my lover overcame most of the traditional reluctance I felt. At least, I had a good idea what kind of caresses and licks gave ME pleasure, so I was able to entertain Charlize and vice versa. Her service name, I soon learned, was Buffy—as in “Buffy the Hard-on Slayer.”

Then Jim gave us a “doggie toy” to play with; a large bright pink two headed dildo which threw onto the floor next to us. Charlize yipped happily when she saw it, managing to line that monstrosity up so to speak. With “woofs” of instruction, I quickly got the hang of it, finding myself pleasantly impaled on the pink plaything. This gave new meaning to the word "bone"--Jim threw us a bone so we could bone each other! Now the boys had a show as we gave each other the shaft so to speak with Buffy crossing the finish line, first bursting into a frenzy with me not close behind.

Turns out Buffy was a match made in pooch (pussy?) heaven for me; an insatiable and submissive service slut that was neer satisfied with one orgasm. My sister slut and I quickly picked up the pace, so to speak, fucking each other silly much to the boys’ amusement, rolling around on the floor attached by the doggie toy before exploding into yet another climax.

Somehow Buffy had maneuvered us so that we were backed up to each other on our hands and knees. sharing the shaft. Good that thing felt good, with Christmas just around the corner I needed Doug to stuff my stocking with one of these. I wasn’t so lost in my slave haze that I missed Jim pulling out his smart phone.

Jim nonchalantly commented, “Dude, this is Buffy’s favorite doggie toy. Check this out.”

I vaguely recall him doing something with his smartphone when the “doggie toy” started vibrating like mad, igniting yet another series of explosive orgasms that just melded into one long frenzy of orgasmic pleasure with two service sluts writhing on the floor literally howling in pleasure until we were interrupted by loud banging on the door and an angry voice, “Please, get your damned dogs under control.” The boys took away our doggie toy as we whined in disappointment until we found other ways to amuse each other.

Once that was finished, I was positioned on my back in a sort-of 69 position with Charlize/Buffy the service animal on top—only instead of lapping her labia, my mouth was fully occupied entertaining a pair of hairy balls that belonged to her master, who was enthusiastically ramming in and out of his “dog’s” twat. Not to be left out, MY master was vigorously shafting ME at the other end. About ten minutes later, when I was in the throes of yet another orgasm, I sensed Charlize quivering on the edge of her own climax, the two stud-masters abruptly traded positions. I found myself tasting my own juices dripping off the scrotum that I was now licking, as Master Doug plundered Charlize the same way he had previously rammed me. Can’t say I liked the taste. Besides, I had to concentrate so that I didn’t inadvertently bite anyone when Jim’s rather hefty dick stretched my already-excited birth canal!

Eventually, the couple went back to their room with promises to meet up the following morning. Master Doug released me from all my paraphernalia and then took me into the shower for some serious fondling and necking. He confided that Charlize, like me, was legally free but enjoyed being Jim’s FINO. By that time, I was too exhausted to really contemplate what that relationship might mean for us. I was happy just to be embraced by my new husband, who spooned behind me as I quickly fell asleep.

The next several days were equally fun for a submissive wannabee. Masters Doug and Jim proudly walked their service slaves along the beach, pausing occasionally to make us kneel and service them. That proved a little difficult, because our (often moist) genitals picked up a fair amount of sand when we knelt, so the masters began to carry extra bottled water and wet wipes to clean us off. With one exception, when we all dressed up normally to go out to dinner, Charlize and I spent those two weeks restrained, subservient, and on our hands and knees, often napping together in a puppy pile that sometimes evolved into another 69. It was a real rush to live the life of a dehumanized sex slave at the control of the men we loved—and I say men, because Doug and Jim frequently “swapped sluts” for bondage, spanking, and sex in all our openings (not to mention between boobs and buttocks, another problem for sand!) When you’re playing helpless slave, you have to be prepared to get used by anyone your master approves. If our two masters were feeling particularly cruel, they would occasionally lock one of us into a slave cage where she could watch, cuffed and helpless, while the two guys double-teamed the other woman. Still, at some point every night we ended up sleeping with our husbands, which made it all enjoyable fun rather than slave bootcamp.

We’re back home at our respective jobs now, and life has returned to “normal,” if that word can ever be used to describe our lives. I finally learned that Jim was an Army buddy of Doug’s, and that my example had apparently inspired—or perhaps corrupted—Charlize into pretending to be a service animal as well. Anyway, Charlize and I are already planning another vacation on our hands and knees!

As I’ve remarked before, when kids come along we may have to put FINOs and slave role-playing on the back burner, but I still imagine myself as a service slut, joyfully kneeling and servicing my darling Master well into my 80s. Bound, powerless, and overwhelmed by a series of orgasms gives new meaning to the slogan of my university—“Roll Tide!”

(The End)

[Belinda]

Carl,

What a wonderfully romantic ending (at least romantic in our world here). Her willingness to give up everything to be his slave shows her true love for him. His response is of marriage and a fino contract also show his love. What a happily ever after story dear. Just sensational.

On a literary note you skill in writing and touching your readers is beyond dispute. Please keep up the great work.

Sincerely

Belinda