Certified Penile Arousal, 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 to have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Belinda for her suggestions about this character; any resemblance between Melinda and Belinda is purely . . . intentional if fictional.)

(Melinda Moody’s perspective)

Being an accountant has always been both easy and difficult for me. A single college semester course will cover the rules for debits and credits, although it may take decades to understand all the nuances. That was fine by me—I’m naturally good at math and enjoy the detailed work of interpreting laws and regulations. By age 35 (three years before these events), my reputation as a Certified Public Accountant (CPA—the UK term is Chartered Accountant) was attracting so many large business clients here in Texas that I had become a partner in a large accounting firm. I’ve heard the jokes about the boring life of CPAs making them appear to live longer, and all I can say is the truth is rarely funny.

The difficult part is not the actual accounting but rather convincing other people that your interpretation is correct. Clients naturally want an interpretation that is more favorable to their bottom line, even if that interpretation may not be allowable if they are audited either as a business or (for personal income) by the Internal Revenue. That means I have to be stubborn, because for me to go along with their “solution” would be unethical and possibly illegal. I don’t like arguing with people under the best of circumstances, but in the male-dominated world of business, “pushy” females like me are much less welcome than “assertive, confident” males. For a lot of men, any woman—and especially any young woman—who refuses to “go along” with what some good ol’ boy wants is labelled with a word that begins with a “b” and rhymes with “witch.”

That kind of confrontation was particularly challenging for me because, to be honest, I was a socially-handicapped introvert with significant doubts about my attractiveness. Other women had the self-confidence to hold their own in the office, but not me. I was a late bloomer with no hand-eye coordination, constantly stumbling and staggering, all of which meant that I had very little experience in social settings and found physical exercise almost impossible. My roommates in college insisted that I was at least cute and perhaps sexy, but that’s not what I saw in the mirror. Five foot five, 120 pounds, mousy brown hair with C-cup breasts and a well-padded tush; I should have thought myself at least pretty if not more, but my social ineptitude and self-doubt hung on for years after I graduated college. I had sex half a dozen times and gave hesitant blow-jobs to three guys I dated because it was expected of me, but I was still very inexperienced. The stress of working in accounting drove me to the gym, where regular exercise tightened everything up so that even I had to admit I had a toned abdomen and shapely legs. But I still felt at a disadvantage whenever I had to deal with beautiful women, let alone powerful men.

OK, deep secret time, and don’t you dare repeat this. I was pretty sure that I was submissive, that I wanted to just shut off my brain and surrender to whatever some impossibly-masculine, opinionated guy told me to do, preferably involving wild sex. I know, I know—how could an educated, successful woman want that? I wasn’t stupid enough to want to be an actual slave, but the image of being some (probably ignorant and arrogant) male’s collared sex toy was enormously appealing, as if I needed a man pounding my brains out to validate myself as an attractive, sexy woman. Even admitting that desire in private is still humiliating, but I could not and cannot resist the idea. My guilty pleasure when I stayed at home nights was reading the Hillary Rodham Clinton paperback novels, all of which have the same theme: smart, beautiful but shy woman becomes enslaved only to fall in love/lust with (not necessarily get freed by!) a masculine man who protects her but also objectifies her and stuffs all of her openings as his designated “love toy.” I’m still disgusted to put those words on paper, but I had been longing for such a situation(violation?) for two decades. And it wasn’t an occasional thought for me—for the past three years before my troubles I had been working out to slave yoga videos. I would carefully pull all my shades down, strip down to undies or, when I felt really wicked, to bare skin, put on a training collar, and then watch in a mirror while I contorted my body into all those lascivious positions shown on the video, repeating the submissive slave mantras—most of which involved begging for a master’s prick to violate my openings—all while imagining that I was a real slave about to be bred ruthlessly by the man or men who controlled my body and my life.

*****
Which is why what was about to happen when this tale begins was so ironic—and unlike Alanis Morrissette, I DO know what the word “ironic” means! You see, some unknown person—probably another accountant, perhaps even one of my business partners—went to a lot of trouble to frame me for felony tax fraud, as if I were Al Capone or something. How else did a faked-up double set of books for one of my clients mysteriously appear on my home computer, right next to all that female enslavement porn, when the DA just happened to serve a search warrant on that computer? And this morning a judge would almost certainly enslave me as punishment, because in modern Texas “felon” (especially female felon) equals “slave,” and “slave” (again especially female slave) equals “naked whore.” I didn’t know how I could survive the public exposure, let alone what I would do for a living afterwards, when I wouldn’t be allowed near any form of accounting. Who would want to hire a crooked ex-accountant?

“Defendant will rise. . . Having been found guilty of a felony, I sentence you to five years’ criminal enslavement. Bailiffs: strip the slut, take her for branding and then, after one week for medical recovery, sell her at the contracted slave market.” Even knowing that this sentence was unavoidable, I was still in shock when a bailiff jerked me to my feet and used a sharp knife down my back to quickly, almost casually, cut through all my clothing, even my bra and panties. The remnants fell away in a heap while my male defense attorney tried in vain not to look at my body . From a clothed defendant I was suddenly reduced to a naked piece of property in front of several dozen people, including the jury that had just convicted me.

“Kneel, slut.” Came the calm voice of a bailiff. I knelt down amidst the remains of my clothing, so that the defense table in the courtroom momentarily shielded my blushing body—or at least my breasts—from view. Then came the inevitable instructions to “collar” (holding my chin-length hair out of the way so that a basic slave collar, not unlike a dog collar, could be wrapped tightly around my neck) and “back hands” which led to my wrists being cuffed behind my back. Two bailiffs lifted me by the elbows to my bare feet, once again giving the judge and jury a full frontal view of my body, then frog-marched me out of the courtroom through the throng of spectators, all of whom appeared to be leering at me. With breath-taking speed, I had gone from fantasizing about slave life to living it! My horny libido was in shock, as embarrassment and sexual arousal struggled for control of my brain. The latter apparently won, as my nipples stood erect and I became aware of a damp buzz between my thighs. These visible indications that I actually ENJOYED being a naked slave only increased my shame and blushes.

Any doubts I may have felt about whether this wet dream (you know the kind of dream where you’re naked and everyone else is clothed) was real came to an abrupt halt five minutes later, when the circle star of a convicted felon was fried into my formerly unremarkable but unblemished butt. The pain was so intense that I fainted and probably lost control of my bladder.

When I regained consciousness, I was face down on a paper-covered bench, with three simultaneous sensations on my upturned, bare butt: a deep throbbing pain, a chilly feeling because something cold had been applied to that rear end, and finally alarm because some unknown person’s fingers were pressing down firmly around the edges of my new burn. Eventually, my mind realized that these fingers were pressing the adhesive of a bandage to cover the wound that had already been treated with a cooling antiseptic and analgesic spray. I didn’t know whether to be grateful for the care or outraged that someone was feeling me up, but I quickly remembered that I was now a criminal slave with no choice about what happened to my body, so I quietly groaned a “thank you” without moving. Then I was placed upright on my feet by the same two (male) bailiffs, who each took the opportunity to heft and squeeze a breast. And my treacherous, horny little brain actually enjoyed the fondling—despite my misery, my nipples erected instantly!

Looking back on that dark time, I try very hard to forget what happened to me in the jail where I spent the first week of my sentence. Instead of discrete events, I remember constant pain that gradually declined while most of my conscious hours seemed to pass with embarrassment about my nudity interrupted by frequent demands that my tongue entertain bailiffs of both genders and even the judge and his (female) secretary. When criticized for my oral efforts, I replied honestly that I’d almost never sucked cock (or licked pussy) before in my life, and some of my tormenters gave me some basic instruction about how to use my mouth, if only to improve their own pleasure. I just kept my head down and my mouth open, doing what I was told and sometimes enjoying the new sensation of getting a mouthful of cock and/or cum. I must have provided fifty or more orgasms that week, but in contrast to my submissive fantasies I got little thrill out of being a slave.

The constant haze of pain and blushing had almost come to an end when, seven days into my servitude, I was connected by my collar to a coffle of five other naked slaves and then marched, with my hands zip-tied behind my back, down the sidewalk of a busy city street from the jail to the Longhorn slave market. My breasts bobbed and my thighs were damp the whole way. I’d heard of prosecutors who scored political points by making arrested white collar criminals do a “walk of shame” or “perp walk” in front of news cameras, but at least those people had clothes on!

*****
“Epiphany” is too fancy a word for what I experienced on that sidewalk, but suddenly I awoke fully from the shock of being enslaved, stripped, and branded. What did I have to be embarrassed about, anyway? Yeah, I was slave naked and bound in public, but that wasn’t MY fault—I was the victim of a miscarriage of justice. In fact, I had no moral obligation about the fact that I would spend the next five years as an IMmoral slut—that judge had actually freed me from all the restrictions of my former, very uptight, life. My new existence actually REQUIRED me to be naked and eager for sex, so playing the horny whore was just my duty as a convict. I’d spent decades dreaming about being a sex slave, and now the opportunity had been presented—no, forced—upon me, so why not enjoy myself as best I could? Instead of staring at the sidewalk in front of me, my head came up and I began to look boldly at the free people around me, all the while swinging my hips like the worst type of slut I had ever imagined—which is what I was now, so on with the show! When I noticed my reflection in a store window, I looked like the perfect skank—maybe a little bit old, but in good shape and obviously eager to serve. Where had I read that women in their 30s and 40s often appeared more ripe, more womanly than fresh-faced adolescents? Apparently it was true, at least for the slut-formerly-known-as-Melinda.

I didn’t let up when we reached the Longhorn. For the first time in my life, I was performing slave yoga, butt naked and collared, in front of an actual audience, most of whom were young, muscular slave wranglers. OK, I still blushed a little, but I had no option. Now, repeating those filthy come-ons about wanting to be used was REAL—I was terrified yet aroused by the thought of one (or more!) of those young studs pinning me down and “forcing” me to service their lusts in any opening they chose. Even the slave wrangler who was guiding me through the market, a guy with a nametag reading “Ray” who may have been 20 years younger than my age of 38, noticed how turned on I was, remarking,

“For an old bitch, you’re really gaggin’ for it, ain’t you? Keep playin’ with yourself while I give you sumthin’ to dream about.” He sat down at his data-entry station, whipped out a dick that flattered me by how erect it already was, and told me to get him off. Having seen very few male members before I was enslaved, the one he produced looked impressively big to me, although I later learned it was just kinda average. No problems—I eagerly fell to my knees and stuffed my mouth full of him, licking and sucking while my hands gently massaged his scrotum. My jailhouse lessons in fellatio must have paid off, because this young, muscular god (or so he appeared to my fevered imagination) unloaded down my throat in less than five minutes, then patted me on the head as if I were a female dog and told me, “if nuthin’ else, you have a great future suckin’ cock in a Glory Hole, darlin’.” I felt as happy as if I had won an academic prize in school—I was a success at servicing horny young men, the “career” I had dreamed about for decades; the pay for that career is low, but the “tips” are fantastic. (Of course, I’d much rather take a hard pounding in my—excuse the expression—cunt, but at least I would get some kind of sexual use, rather than being relegated to mindless labor because my owner thought I was too old to be worth—apologies again—fucking.)

That moderate praise for my skills, in combination with the wrangler’s dutiful efforts to keep me horny—although THAT didn’t require much effort!—ensured that I was literally dripping by the time I made it onto the auction block. It all passed in a haze of stiff-nippled excitement and dampness. Gone was the introverted, college-educated accounting professional; now I was slave 3078, an oversexed bimbo determined to wear any master’s cock out! Getting a long-term birth control implant seemed like receiving a license to screw. The experience of being graded, stretched naked, spread-eagled, and voiceless while anyone could feel me up, only fueled my excitement. I was in a fever of anticipation while awaiting my turn to be sold. Then, eagerly obeying the instructions of the auctioneer, I contorted myself on the stage, almost cumming at the thought of how exposed and helpless I was. At one point I got a little TOO carried away, and the auctioneer flicked my rear end with just the tip of his whip. All the bidders laughed uproariously when I emitted an “eep” and jumped three feet high, almost falling when I came down. Then it was back to exposing myself and begging for use, so thrilled that I actually came, almost fainting, when I heard that classic statement of human slavery: “sold to Number 34, for $32,000.” (Which, pardon me for bragging, was a pretty steep price for what one slave merchant had described as “A wrinkled old bitch, well past its ‘sell by’ date.” I may not have been Prime slut meat but I was at least Choice.)

The wrangler Ray took charge of me when I crawled off the auction block, still feeling faint from the powerful orgasm I experienced at being sold as a slave. He cuffed my hands behind me again and took me off to another cage to recover, releasing my wrists temporarily and giving me a water bottle to drink. But Master Ray insisted that he was never permitted to tell a new slave who had purchased her (or him). “What I will say, Brownie [alluding to my hair], is that your price went sky high for such an old biddy. There was some blonde-haired guy who looked like a football lineman in a fancy suit—I heard his name was Haroldson or sumthin’ like that—who seemed determined to buy your ass, until one of the career merchants out-bid him and he gave up.” My blood ran cold at the thought of how close I had come to belonging to Charles Hardison, another partner at my former firm with whom I had often disagreed at work, and who obviously intended to humiliate and torment me.

I was so concerned that I almost lost track of what the wrangler was saying: “That merchant who made the winning bid was probably acting as agent for someone else, who must have really wanted to own you. At least, after paying all that money for your cute butt, he should take good care of his investment. No sense asking me who your new owner is—all I know is that you’re programmed for a month’s training at the Pearson Pussy Ranch, so I guess someone wants you to be a high-class slave whore. Considering how well you suck dick, that should be easy for you.”

Even I had heard of Pearson’s, which runs intensive training to make female and “sissy” slaves into the finest courtesans that money could buy (or rent). I had long day-dreamed about being a sex slave purchased to pleasure rich and powerful men, but that had seemed impossible for a shy little woman who was long in the tooth and not particularly desirable. Now it looked as if that was what I would become—a living, nude, collared sex toy. What’s the cliché about “be careful what you wish for?”

*****
To get to Pearson’s, however, I first had to experience one of the humiliating “rites of passage” that all slaves either dreaded or enjoyed, depending on how submissive they felt—being shipped by “poodle express,” bound and gagged on your knees in the type of cage originally designed to restrain and ship large dogs. Part of the purpose, of course, was to remind a slave that she (or he) was a sub-human animal, whose highest aspiration could only be as a caged pet for her/his owner. And before that could even begin, the lucky submissive b____ got the “privilege” of suffering whatever indignities the slave wranglers chose to inflict on her. . . Of course, when your libido was raging like mine, that might not be too bad a fate. (I know I just wrote “be careful what you wish for,” but at the time my sex drive was thinking “throw me in that briar patch!”) Far better to be used, however crudely, and have some fun than to be left unsatisfied, all lathered up and no place to cum.

Before I went into a poodle cage, Master Ray had to deliver me to the loading dock, which meant cuffing me and walking my helpless, naked body over there, guiding me (as he had all day) with one hand cupping my buttock, fingers goosing me with his longest one (you know the one I mean, the one that crude men stick up in the air by itself) gently rubbing my anus in a way that constantly reminded me of my function as a sheath for men’s shafts. Now that the auction was finished, however, he had more time to play with me, and I guess he decided he should have as much fun as possible before letting me go.
Once I was cuffed again, my temporary overlord took his time, massaging my boobs (might as well use the correct terminology—ladies have breasts but slaves have tits, boobs, hooters—you get the idea) as if they were two bags filled with warm mashed potatoes. And his fondling certainly made me warm! Or rather, kept me at the slow boil I had felt all morning since I’d been marched to the Longhorn in a coffle, a fact that he reconfirmed by finger-fucking my “twat” to test how lubricated I was.

Ladies, imagine that after a lifetime of always being modest, worried about even showing an inch of thigh, you found yourself as I was then—completely bare and helpless, knowing that your role for the next five years was to provide pleasure on demand to free people of any gender. What would be condemned in a free woman as wanton behavior was now expected, even required, of me as a slave. By the time we reached the loading dock, I was once again aromatically damp between my legs. I didn’t hesitate or argue for a second when Master Ray bent me over, face down, on the top of an empty poodle cage and gruffly told me to spread my feet as far as possible, wantonly exposing every inch of my butt—including my two lower openings—to view for both Ray and the Hispanic-looking guy who ran shipping. They ran their rough hands all over my body, lingering on my damp thighs and on the barely-healed circle-star brand that marked me, forever, as a convicted felon slut in the state of Texas. As they took their fun with me, they at least were kind enough to remark on what a sexy girl I was, rough compliments that were balm to the soul of this ex-wallflower accountant.

I couldn’t help an involuntary “eep” when the shipping clerk first shoved two fingers past my sphincter and then replaced those digits with a well-lubricated butt plug that felt HUGE (or to quote Donald Trump, “YUUGE”) stretching me down there. Yes, I’d day-dreamed about a master who would sodomize me, but up until that moment my third orifice had been virginal, and the idea of taking a large object in there was frightening. I had barely adjusted to this intrusion when the two men traded places. I heard a belt-buckle jingle and then my vulva were spread even wider by the equally-arousing (if slightly more “normal”) intrusion of Master Ray’s ramrod up my birth canal. In my inexperienced mind, that man had a superb baby-maker, and he immediately began to slam in and out as if he were competing for the title “fastest gun in Texas,” while occasionally popping my plug in and out of my rear to trick my nerves into thinking I had two invaders at once. I had only just begun to savor the novel sensation of having both my lower holes filled when the clerk’s cock appeared before my face—it was obvious what he expected me to do, and by that time I was so thrilled by the situation that I was more than happy to service him with my mouth. His penis didn’t seem nearly as big as the one up my cunt, but I was so thrilled to fulfill one of my fantasies—being spit-roasted between two men—that I did my best to entertain both of them, lapping at one end while at the other my unfamiliar muscles tried to massage Ray’s intruder.

No, they didn’t cum simultaneously; in my (since very extensive!) experience, that happens much more frequently in fiction than in reality. But it made me feel marvelously dirty and sexy to have something warm flood my bowels (and a few moments later, when Ray pulled out), then begin to drip from my over-stressed pussy, followed a minute or two later by a salty discharge filling my mouth. I felt even dirtier when the clerk jerked his dick out of my mouth, so that his final two spurts decorated my face with warm goo (I’m glad I reflexively closed my eyes in time.) Could there be a clearer sign that I was, as Master Ray had remarked earlier, “gaggin’ for it?” The medley of sensations, including sound, smell, touch, and taste, put to shame all my previous innocent fantasies of sexual service. This was reality, and I was indeed a “collared cutie” being dominated by two masters whom I had never met before and probably wouldn’t see again. For the moment, all that mattered was that they had found me sufficiently erotic to get off at my expense, which meant I had met the minimum expectations for a slave . . . soft warm holes that men could invade and take their pleasure from.

All good things come to an end. Master Ray squirted a blast of water into my still-sticky mouth, after which the clerk forced a canvas gag between my teeth, hauling my lips back into a “slave smile” as he tied the ends of that gag behind my head. Next, the two men lifted me up off the cage as if I weighed nothing, pushed me to my knees, and encouraged me to crawl backwards, hands still zip-tied behind me, onto the hard tray that formed the bottom of a poodle cage. Once kneeling uncomfortably inside, I felt several tugs and realized that I had been secured to the back of that cage at three points, my two ankles to the corners and my cuffs to the back wall of wire mesh. I jerked my head backwards just in time to avoid being struck by the wire-mesh door that was swinging closed in front of me. A tiny lock soon held that door in place, and the un-person formerly called Melinda Moody, CPA, was well and truly under control, a helpless bitch who could neither move nor make a sound as she waited for her betters to dispose of her slave carcass. An electronic “beep” indicated that I had been removed from the Longhorn’s inventory, pending shipping, with all the significance of a loaf of bread being purchased in a store. After maybe ten minutes of agonizing wait, a forklift moved me and another caged former woman, a blonde whose young curves made me envious because of the male attention I knew she would get, into the back of a panel van and we were off, presumably bound for the Pearson Ranch. By that time, Ray had only a vague memory of me as a “good piece of ass,” the only positive accolade that a slave can expect from a free person. Left on my knees in the semi-darkness of the van, I was simultaneously terrified about my future and incredibly aroused by the reality of being a sex slave. One thing I could be certain of was that I would be well fucked and driven to sexual distraction for the next 4 years and 51 weeks!

*****
I fell asleep in that damn cage despite the discomfort of my middle-aged knees; the shocks and emotions of the previous week had left me exhausted. When I awoke, the van had clearly left the highway and was travelling at a lower rate of speed, apparently approaching my destination. About ten minutes after I awoke, the van braked to a halt and reversed, beeping repeatedly before halting at a loading dock where a forklift deposited the two cages. A few moments later, the zip-ties were cut, the cage doors unlocked, and a loud voice directed the two of us to crawl forward on our knees, wrists still bound behind our backs, to a designated line. While our collars were replaced and our wrists were cuffed rather than tied, the same voice told us what I already expected to hear—that we were at the Pearson Pussy Ranch for training as sex slaves, that we must obey all instructions, yadda, yadda. How blasé I had become about slavery in only 8 days. I was sleepy, and could only summon minor interest in getting on with the lascivious activity!

After the warning speech was over, the blonde and I were marched first to sit on commodes that, as usual in slave facilities, had no stalls or other concessions to modesty. My mind had made the leap from professional woman to naked sex slave, so why was it still difficult for me to micturate or defecate (OK, no ladylike euphemisms; for slaves that translates as piss and take a crap—are you happy now?) while two clothed men watched me? I’m sure Freud would have a field day with that problem and trace it back to potty training, but at the time my difficulty in relieving myself was just an embarrassing relict of my lost modesty. At least the wrangler removed my cuffs so I could wipe myself—guess HE didn’t want to do it! Then the blonde babe and I got the usual slave supper—kneeling on a thin rubber pad (my poor knees really got the worst of this enslavement), hands again cuffed, shoving our faces alternately into two metal dog bowls, one filled with water and the other with slave chow to which some gravy and a few carrots had been added. Amazing how tasty such a simple vegetable now was! I hoped the water would wash some of the food off my face.) The wranglers released our wrists while depositing us into adjacent cages, telling us that when the alarm went off the next morning, we must arise immediately, refold our (scratchy woolen) blankets, and then kneel in “slave spread” position (thighs wide apart and fingers interlocked behind our necks), waiting to be taken from our cages. (I understood and even enjoyed the submissiveness of exposing everything I had, looking upwards towards the free people, but this was getting old on my knees.) Blondie and I scrambled under our blankets, barely remembering to exchange names—Alice and Melinda—before we fell asleep.

And woke up to a raucous buzzer at what seemed without a clock to be an ungodly early hour. Fold the blanket, kneel shivering on the floor. This time two different wranglers—mine a woman whose nametag read “Sylvia”—came to cuff and walk us to the toilets.

The handler let me wipe myself, then she re-cuffed my hands behind me before pulling them upwards by a rope. This forced me to bend over to reduce the strain on my shoulders. She gently nudged my ankles apart and thrust a lubricated tube up my rectum. What seemed like gallons of warm soapy water flooded my intestines, and I tried desperately to hold it in, knowing I would be punished if any escaped. After an eternity of gurgling that was probably only 5 minutes, she released me and allowed me to discharge into the toilet. She repeated the process, telling me that tomorrow she would show me how to give an enema to myself, and I was required to do so twice each morning, plus douching three times a week.

(The next morning, the handler introduced me to a series of nozzles, protruding horizontally about 30 inches off the floor. Each trainee slave was required to sodomize her or himself every morning, posing on hands and knees while backing up until the nozzle penetrated the slave’s anus, after which the slave had to clamp down to trigger the warm, soapy water that flowed out of the nozzle and filled his/her colon. A separate set of nozzles were for douching. On a rotating schedule, slaves took turns disinfecting the nozzles.)

With minor variations, the next three weeks followed the same pattern: wake up, toilet, enemas, slave chow breakfast, and then an hour of strenuous aerobics based on block positions (the raunchy, slave market version of slave yoga.) A quick shower followed by various classes on the anatomy and techniques of arousal and copulation. The afternoons were then devoted to PRACTICING such techniques—which meant, in reality, that I had to accept strap-ons (or on occasion the actual dicks of slave wranglers) in every orifice and combination conceivable. The easiest were prolonged practice in fellatio or in stimulating a cock, real or practice, between my boobs, thighs, or buttocks. The most challenging, of course, involved bruising pounding of my vagina or anus, sometimes by a machine. Over time, the combinations escalated until I experienced several spit-roasts and three-ways, with me being the “fuck meat” in the middle of all these sandwich-penetrations (even the biggest stud can only climax a few times every day, so Pearson’s had to schedule each of its male wranglers and use females wearing strap-on dildoes the rest of the time. Yet, at least one of the members for each such two- and three-way had to be an actual male dick.) I had fantasized about experiencing such sexual use once; the daily experience of being reamed and screwed was far more engrossing than I had ever imagined. In addition to the physical sensations, the consciousness that MULTIPLE dominant males (or sometimes male surrogates, women playing the “bull dyke” role) were inside me, casually occupying and mastering me, was overwhelming. After just ONE three-way, I acknowledged to myself that there was absolutely no doubt—I was a cock-hungry submissive slut for life!

The instructors also introduced us to common methods and poses of sexual bondage, ranging from being spread-eagled on a bed to the elaborate rope restraints of shibari. Being rendered helpless in these ways only intensified my feelings of sexual domination—the first time that a wrangler hog-tied my body, wrists to ankles, and then rammed his dick into my “slave cunt,” I came in an explosion of multiple orgasms that left me almost unconscious afterwards.

If I were wealthy and had complete secrecy, I would have happily cashed in all my 401Ks and IRAs for such a fulfilling (in both senses) experience of submission with daily, often hourly orgasms. Instead, all it cost me was my freedom, my reputation, my modesty, and my anal virginity—I’d never dared to consider self-indenture before, but had I known how much fun it was I might have willingly surrendered years ago. Besides, Mistress Sylvia and the other wranglers insisted that, if I wanted an orgasm on any given day, I had to arouse myself and try to seduce my “partners” every time I had sex. As you might imagine, I spent every afternoon dripping below while my face practised various expressions of adoration and enticement. From being the bashful broad who never dared to ask a guy out, I became a bimbo hunting for (dominant) partners to use me.

I can’t pretend it was all fun and games, of course, particularly when it came to anal sex. Being penetrated and controlled in such a private area not only went against my upbringing but required physical adjustments on my part. Mistress Sylvia was patient, using a lot of lube and stretching my colon with progressively bigger strap-ons until I could accommodate an actual penis, then having me practice part of every day with a plug-tail between my nether cheeks. There’s still nothing like the sensation of a warm, smooth dick pumping in and out down there, driven by the powerful thighs of a dominant male—I think I orgasmed within 30 seconds the first time I felt this ultimate experience of surrender and submission. Fuck Freud if he wants to make something of that.

Once I had adjusted to penetration in all my orifices, the wranglers stopped requiring me to crawl around on hands & knees. Instead, the focus shifted to teaching me (and the other females) how to walk like lingerie models, flowing smoothly across the floor with backs straight, tits out-thrust, hips swinging just slightly, even while wearing heels. After a lifetime of stomping around with my mind focused on maintaining my balance while covering ground, this was another revelation. I even noticed that the male wranglers, who sometimes had difficulty “getting it up” because they got all the slave cunt they wanted every day, began to get erections just from watching me. For the first time in my life I actually felt sexy and desirable, and began to believe that I could indeed attract and seduce almost any male; it was a heady boost to my fragile self-esteem.

In preparation for one of Pearson’s famous cocktail (emphasis on the first syllable) parties for owners, successful trainees like me got the slave equivalent of a make-over or “the works” at a beauty salon—trim and coloring of my now-shoulder length hair, wax removal of all body hair (ouch!), shaped and polished nails. We were only permitted to wear VERY short chemises or baby-dolls (the kind that reached down barely three inches below my labia, so walking displayed everything my mother taught me to conceal). Nonetheless, after almost two months of being “slave naked,” even this simulacrum of modesty was exciting, and when my trainers videotaped me walking, with makeup, chemise, and heels, I didn’t recognize the sex-on-stilts on the video as being any version of the Melinda I had been for almost four decades.

The Pearson “cock”tail parties were always big productions, a combination of graduation exam and sales event to demonstrate the value of the ranch’s training to owners, customers, and other high rollers. What made me even more nervous was the rumor among my fellow slaves that our actual owners would be present, and might well take some of us off to an available bedroom to sample our sexual skills. I had no idea who had bought me at auction, so I was concerned that I would have to please this unknown Master.

(to be continued)

[JustBob]

What a great way to bring a girl out of her shell! I am definitely looking forward to reading the rest of this story. As usual, very well written.

[Belinda]

Carl,

My sincere thanks, you are simply a wonderful person.

Belinda