The Slave Girl Next Door Ch 1 Pt 2 of 2.
Posted: Sun Jul 09, 2023 1:28 am
The days passed and despite my best efforts the sexual drought with Chris resumed with no signs of precipitation on the horizon. I couldn’t get that slave girl out of my head. It looked like she enjoyed sexually serving my neighbor Jim. Was that even possible? In my dreams and during my quality time alone with my vibrator, I found myself climaxing to the fantasy of being Chris’s pleasure slut suffering through all that great sex. I often wondered when my fantasies would return to normal but in my soul, I doubted they ever would. What had gotten into me? Deep down, I knew something had changed.
I grew up in Highland Park and Chris in neighboring University Park. During my formative years I spent much of my time at the Dallas Country Club learning to play tennis, golf and participating on the summer swim team. In high school I was a cheerleader in the Fall while also making the varsity golf and track teams. Academically, I was accelerated a year in elementary school, but my mother put her foot down when the school suggested skipping another academic year instead forcing me to “experience” school with my age group peers.
Once in high school I was allowed to enroll in some classes at nearby Southern Methodist University (SMU) for intellectual stimulation where I received straight A’s. My senior year I was on the homecoming court and salutatorian at my graduation. My “C” in slave yoga being the difference maker between me and Abby Parker, much to my chagrin since my mother forbade that I practice something I would NEVER need to use later in life.
I knew I was striking with dirty blond hair, green eyes, and a sparkling smile on my lithe 5’6” athletic body. At the time I was more interested in quantum physics than boys, so my world did not revolve around dating like most of my friends. In short, I was attractive, smart, and popular in high school, and that carried over into college with me joining the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority as a legacy and playing on the Longhorn varsity golf team all four years.
An article I wrote my junior year on the exploitation of quantum effects on computing was published in the Journal of Undergraduate Reports in Physics catching the eye of Stanford Professor Patrick Hayden, an expert in the field. We began an email correspondence exchanging ideas, it felt more like an expert in the field quizzing a student at times. In the fall of my senior year Professor Hayden strongly encouraged me to apply to Stanford’s doctoral program, writing a strong letter of recommendation for my application.
In college, my mother’s goal was for me to graduate with a “MRS”. I exceeded her wildest dreams while also managing to graduate summa cum laude with a double major in physics and computational engineering. Chris Walker and I started dating while students at the University of Texas in Austin. He was cute, charming, and witty too and we quickly fell in love, becoming engaged our junior year and married the summer following graduation. We were young and full of vigor, finding excuses to get naked and make wondrous love with each other as our honeymoon sex seemed to last forever.
Chris and I moved to Palo Alto California where he enrolled in the Stanford Business School for his MBA while I started work on my doctorate in physics at the same institution. I was the happy little homemaker taking care of my love in and out of the bedroom while also maintaining my studies where I excelled. I even had a part time job as a TA, adding to our income not that we were struggling with support from both our families.
The first week there we met another newlywed couple, Camellia, and Tom Henderson, at a business school mixer. He was a Fort Worth native also pursuing his MBA. The former Camellia Huertas, a native Californian from nearby Atherton, had just started working at a prestigious architecture firm with plans of obtaining her masters after acquiring some practical experience in the field.
Camellia and I developed a strong friendship, finding that we had so much in common from yoga to golf, even becoming workout buddies. The two of us became inseparable, even becoming pregnant at the same time, giving birth to a pair of boys, Colten Walker, and Garret Henderson, only weeks apart right before our men graduated with their MBAs.
Chris found a good job in finance in San Francisco while Tom joined a startup in Silicon Valley that Camellia’s father helped finance. Camellia enrolled in the Architectural Design master’s program while I continued my studies. We decided to rent a nice sized home together, finding that with our busy lives teaming up to raise two infants while students was much more efficient. The two of us became pregnant again, it was like our biological clocks were in sync, giving birth to a pair of girls, Virginia (Ginny) and Isabella right before we concluded our studies. Both of us were relieved that we wouldn’t be waddling across the stage to receive diplomas while visibly pregnant.
After my graduation Chris and I returned to Dallas where both of our families lived. Chris joined his father’s venture capital firm, and I quickly became a tenured member of the faculty at nearby SMU. We thrived, purchasing a beautiful home in Highland Park near my parents soon joining the Dallas Country Club, where both our parents were still members.
Camellia and Tom remained in the bay area until Tom’s startup was bought out a few years later making him a nice profit. After the sale they moved to Dallas, purchasing a house two blocks from ours, soon after they joined the club where Tom’s grandparents were also members. In no time at all our families became inseparable and Camellia and I, still in sync, each gave birth to our third child.
With the four of us being fanatic golfers, we spent much of our time at the club playing golf when we weren’t participating in our children’s many activities. Much of our social life revolved around the club. When Colten and Garrett started with Little League, Chris and Tom were coaches, always making time for the children’s activities. Unfortunately, they made more time for the children, work, golf and with the slave girls at the 19th hole than for Camellia and me.
The 19th hole was the nickname for the men’s grill and associated playrooms where the club maintained a bevy of attractive pleasure sluts available seven days a week year-round for “member services”, if you know what I mean. Members such as my father with their own pleasure sluts at home enjoyed the variety while men such as my husband and Tom seemed to use them at every opportunity. These nasty tramps were trained to perform all sorts of unnatural sordid sex acts that respectable women such as myself and Camellia would never ever consider.
In Texas, it was an accepted practice for businessmen to partake in the delights of these disgusting slave whores when making deals, and we wives were expected to just accept it. My mother and mother-in-law had, and I was supposed to follow their good example. Mine was not an uncommon fate for the wives of powerful and wealthy men in Dallas society.
As my mother-in-law rationalized it, “These pleasure sluts relieved free women like us from having to do repulsive things with our husbands like anal sex or heaven forbid, swallowing his semen. These tramps were destined to be whores, if it weren’t for slavery, they would be walking the streets displaying their wares and happily offering $20 blow jobs.”
Dear old mom agreed, “Pleasure sluts are just wired differently from most women. They show their true colors when you strip the tramps down and put a collar on them. They have no personal dreams or goals in their empty heads, instead happily existing to serve their betters by performing every sordid sex act under the sun that a respectable woman like us would never ever consider.”
When I was home from college, I once caught my mother giving Wanda, a nineteen-year-old beauty and my father’s pleasure slut at the time, an injection that mom claimed contained vitamins. I would later learn that it was something called Horny Juice that kept the poor girl in a constant state of sexual arousal. Mom had even experimented on Amber, one of daddy’s earlier pleasure sluts, with extra shots of Horny Juice that in hindsight explained some of her problematic behaviors. I often wondered what kind of sick person designed a product that was only used to demean women and how my parents could ever use it.
Growing up I had always looked at slaves as unfortunates living a miserable existence and still felt that way now while compartmentalizing those evil pleasure sluts in their unique whore category. Most of my friend’s parents owned female house slaves as servants. Many were young and fit, and I learned growing up that they were regularly subjected to unwilling sexual abuse. Most affluent families had home slave kennels and playrooms in their basements and ours was no different. In my parent’s household we always had two female house slaves and my father had at least one pleasure slut in our “kennel”.
Intellectually I could not believe these women could ever enjoy the sex, oftentimes caught up in my idealistic fervor equating it with rape to my mother over the dinner table. My older sister Lorelei, or Lori as we often called her, would egg me on just to see mother’s reaction while my older brother and father wisely stayed out of our heated discussions.
Mom was incorrigible, “Remember that slut Amber we had for a couple of years when you were in junior high school? She was always so excited when your father came home from work. That slut was just like Angus, our black lab, running up to him the minute he came in the door. When she started humping his leg, I had to get rid of her and sold her to that high end brothel in New York city where she fit right in happy as a clam.”
Of course, my mother, ever the drama queen, was overexaggerating poor Amber’s behavior while seemingly forgetting those extra Horny Juice shots that may have explained some of the slut’s conduct. But I had to confess, the proof was in the pudding as she used to say. Those sluts did really seem to enjoy themselves the way they eagerly fawned over Daddy and my older brother after he turned 18. It was nauseating to witness this pathetic behavior day after day and the house slaves weren’t much better.
Even though I had my doubts, intellectually I always believed the pleasure slut’s sexual arousal was an act they put on to avoid punishment. To this day I struggle with the belief that mother might be right that these sluts were just wired differently; I mean, you couldn’t train them to act this way, or could you? I didn’t think so.
All our house slaves completed basic obedience training right after purchase. Daddy always did get the best of everything. With his pleasure sluts it was usually a well-trained Sandy Foot Girl with the prestigious Big D logo burned into her left buttock identifying her Prime status with either the Pearson’s Pussy Ranch or the Venus Academy logo prominently displayed on the other cheek.
My main problem was that since returning to Texas a deep seeded loathing festered within me for these women that seemed to enjoy so blissfully the damage that they were doing to my marriage. My hatred for these happy homewreckers conflicted with my intellectual side that felt pity for these slave girls that were forced to perform all those disgusting sex acts against their will. The old saying that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned fit me to a T with regards to my view of these evil creatures. I mean, the problem couldn’t be with me after all, could it?
Decades ago, after slavery became legal, wearing kilts sans underwear became fashionable as a matter of convenience, even in a masculine testosterone driven place like Texas. All a man had to do was flip up his kilt when using one of those filthy pleasure slut whores whether it was bent over in the boardroom, a bar, at a ball game, or even before starting the back nine on a golf course. It was considered good manners to conceal the bobbing head of the slave giving head under a kilt instead of unzipping out in the open.
The first Christmas we were home from Stanford my mother gave Chris a set of kilts, one for business meetings and the other for the golf course along with a big welcome back to Texas hug. It was her tacit approval for something that until then had not been an issue in my marriage. I was so angry with her that I was fit to be tied.
It wasn’t just the men that owned slaves. Some of the women reciprocated by purchasing male slaves to sate their own needs while their spouses were busy enjoying their pleasure sluts and looked the other way.
There was a significant clique of women at the club that had a second home at the Parker Center, a high-end equine facility devoted to pony-play with a stable full of well-endowed stallions, or membership in the Cougar Club, a women’s social club with a large kennel of well-trained male slaves if you know what I mean. There were a variety of similar establishments that catered to free women with needs in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Many of these businesses ran popular obedience schools that also promised to improve the male slave’s “performance” in a variety of areas. Most people didn’t try too hard to hide it, so everyone knew who was partaking in slave side action and who wasn’t much to my embarrassment over my husband’s proclivities.
Camellia and I refused to partake even after trying unsuccessfully to rehabilitate our men. Instead, we commiserated, comparing the performance of a variety of vibrators and dildos that we regularly used on ourselves to meet our own often neglected needs. We had many discussions about how much we despised these evil pleasure sluts who had stolen our husband’s affections from us. I often felt like a failure, one of those women unable to keep their husbands sexually satisfied, but a respectable lady must draw a hard line concerning what she is willing to do in the bedroom.
What was I supposed to do? Demean myself regularly swallowing my husband’s semen or take it in the ass every date night. Ouch! That had to hurt. On the other hand, it was a matter of pride; refusing to be one of THOSE women that bought slave cock to replace their neglectful husbands. I mean, what kind of marriage was that?
When I graduated from college, my mother admitted to really enjoying taking it out on each of my father’s many pleasure sluts in their basement playroom with large strap-ons and a variety of straps, paddles, whips, and nipple clamps. Even confessing that she used our house slaves sexually more than Dad did, especially for oral relief claiming, “That was why the good Lord gave the sluts tongues”.
In her best Texas twang good old mom butchered Jerry Hall’s famous quote with her own revision, “My mother said it was simple to keep a man: You had to be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. I just purchased slaves for all three and kept that damned pleasure slut on a short leash.”
Much to my mother’s chagrin I refused to follow in her footsteps by purchasing house slaves for help. Hell would freeze over before I brought a pleasure slut into my home. Instead, I hired free citizens for house cleaning, gardening, pool service and as nannies. Now my older sister Lorelei made mother look tame by comparison with her own extensive home kennel of female and male slaves. It turns out my sister had quite the sexual appetite coupled with the means to afford it.
The rest of the chapter is below.
I grew up in Highland Park and Chris in neighboring University Park. During my formative years I spent much of my time at the Dallas Country Club learning to play tennis, golf and participating on the summer swim team. In high school I was a cheerleader in the Fall while also making the varsity golf and track teams. Academically, I was accelerated a year in elementary school, but my mother put her foot down when the school suggested skipping another academic year instead forcing me to “experience” school with my age group peers.
Once in high school I was allowed to enroll in some classes at nearby Southern Methodist University (SMU) for intellectual stimulation where I received straight A’s. My senior year I was on the homecoming court and salutatorian at my graduation. My “C” in slave yoga being the difference maker between me and Abby Parker, much to my chagrin since my mother forbade that I practice something I would NEVER need to use later in life.
I knew I was striking with dirty blond hair, green eyes, and a sparkling smile on my lithe 5’6” athletic body. At the time I was more interested in quantum physics than boys, so my world did not revolve around dating like most of my friends. In short, I was attractive, smart, and popular in high school, and that carried over into college with me joining the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority as a legacy and playing on the Longhorn varsity golf team all four years.
An article I wrote my junior year on the exploitation of quantum effects on computing was published in the Journal of Undergraduate Reports in Physics catching the eye of Stanford Professor Patrick Hayden, an expert in the field. We began an email correspondence exchanging ideas, it felt more like an expert in the field quizzing a student at times. In the fall of my senior year Professor Hayden strongly encouraged me to apply to Stanford’s doctoral program, writing a strong letter of recommendation for my application.
In college, my mother’s goal was for me to graduate with a “MRS”. I exceeded her wildest dreams while also managing to graduate summa cum laude with a double major in physics and computational engineering. Chris Walker and I started dating while students at the University of Texas in Austin. He was cute, charming, and witty too and we quickly fell in love, becoming engaged our junior year and married the summer following graduation. We were young and full of vigor, finding excuses to get naked and make wondrous love with each other as our honeymoon sex seemed to last forever.
Chris and I moved to Palo Alto California where he enrolled in the Stanford Business School for his MBA while I started work on my doctorate in physics at the same institution. I was the happy little homemaker taking care of my love in and out of the bedroom while also maintaining my studies where I excelled. I even had a part time job as a TA, adding to our income not that we were struggling with support from both our families.
The first week there we met another newlywed couple, Camellia, and Tom Henderson, at a business school mixer. He was a Fort Worth native also pursuing his MBA. The former Camellia Huertas, a native Californian from nearby Atherton, had just started working at a prestigious architecture firm with plans of obtaining her masters after acquiring some practical experience in the field.
Camellia and I developed a strong friendship, finding that we had so much in common from yoga to golf, even becoming workout buddies. The two of us became inseparable, even becoming pregnant at the same time, giving birth to a pair of boys, Colten Walker, and Garret Henderson, only weeks apart right before our men graduated with their MBAs.
Chris found a good job in finance in San Francisco while Tom joined a startup in Silicon Valley that Camellia’s father helped finance. Camellia enrolled in the Architectural Design master’s program while I continued my studies. We decided to rent a nice sized home together, finding that with our busy lives teaming up to raise two infants while students was much more efficient. The two of us became pregnant again, it was like our biological clocks were in sync, giving birth to a pair of girls, Virginia (Ginny) and Isabella right before we concluded our studies. Both of us were relieved that we wouldn’t be waddling across the stage to receive diplomas while visibly pregnant.
After my graduation Chris and I returned to Dallas where both of our families lived. Chris joined his father’s venture capital firm, and I quickly became a tenured member of the faculty at nearby SMU. We thrived, purchasing a beautiful home in Highland Park near my parents soon joining the Dallas Country Club, where both our parents were still members.
Camellia and Tom remained in the bay area until Tom’s startup was bought out a few years later making him a nice profit. After the sale they moved to Dallas, purchasing a house two blocks from ours, soon after they joined the club where Tom’s grandparents were also members. In no time at all our families became inseparable and Camellia and I, still in sync, each gave birth to our third child.
With the four of us being fanatic golfers, we spent much of our time at the club playing golf when we weren’t participating in our children’s many activities. Much of our social life revolved around the club. When Colten and Garrett started with Little League, Chris and Tom were coaches, always making time for the children’s activities. Unfortunately, they made more time for the children, work, golf and with the slave girls at the 19th hole than for Camellia and me.
The 19th hole was the nickname for the men’s grill and associated playrooms where the club maintained a bevy of attractive pleasure sluts available seven days a week year-round for “member services”, if you know what I mean. Members such as my father with their own pleasure sluts at home enjoyed the variety while men such as my husband and Tom seemed to use them at every opportunity. These nasty tramps were trained to perform all sorts of unnatural sordid sex acts that respectable women such as myself and Camellia would never ever consider.
In Texas, it was an accepted practice for businessmen to partake in the delights of these disgusting slave whores when making deals, and we wives were expected to just accept it. My mother and mother-in-law had, and I was supposed to follow their good example. Mine was not an uncommon fate for the wives of powerful and wealthy men in Dallas society.
As my mother-in-law rationalized it, “These pleasure sluts relieved free women like us from having to do repulsive things with our husbands like anal sex or heaven forbid, swallowing his semen. These tramps were destined to be whores, if it weren’t for slavery, they would be walking the streets displaying their wares and happily offering $20 blow jobs.”
Dear old mom agreed, “Pleasure sluts are just wired differently from most women. They show their true colors when you strip the tramps down and put a collar on them. They have no personal dreams or goals in their empty heads, instead happily existing to serve their betters by performing every sordid sex act under the sun that a respectable woman like us would never ever consider.”
When I was home from college, I once caught my mother giving Wanda, a nineteen-year-old beauty and my father’s pleasure slut at the time, an injection that mom claimed contained vitamins. I would later learn that it was something called Horny Juice that kept the poor girl in a constant state of sexual arousal. Mom had even experimented on Amber, one of daddy’s earlier pleasure sluts, with extra shots of Horny Juice that in hindsight explained some of her problematic behaviors. I often wondered what kind of sick person designed a product that was only used to demean women and how my parents could ever use it.
Growing up I had always looked at slaves as unfortunates living a miserable existence and still felt that way now while compartmentalizing those evil pleasure sluts in their unique whore category. Most of my friend’s parents owned female house slaves as servants. Many were young and fit, and I learned growing up that they were regularly subjected to unwilling sexual abuse. Most affluent families had home slave kennels and playrooms in their basements and ours was no different. In my parent’s household we always had two female house slaves and my father had at least one pleasure slut in our “kennel”.
Intellectually I could not believe these women could ever enjoy the sex, oftentimes caught up in my idealistic fervor equating it with rape to my mother over the dinner table. My older sister Lorelei, or Lori as we often called her, would egg me on just to see mother’s reaction while my older brother and father wisely stayed out of our heated discussions.
Mom was incorrigible, “Remember that slut Amber we had for a couple of years when you were in junior high school? She was always so excited when your father came home from work. That slut was just like Angus, our black lab, running up to him the minute he came in the door. When she started humping his leg, I had to get rid of her and sold her to that high end brothel in New York city where she fit right in happy as a clam.”
Of course, my mother, ever the drama queen, was overexaggerating poor Amber’s behavior while seemingly forgetting those extra Horny Juice shots that may have explained some of the slut’s conduct. But I had to confess, the proof was in the pudding as she used to say. Those sluts did really seem to enjoy themselves the way they eagerly fawned over Daddy and my older brother after he turned 18. It was nauseating to witness this pathetic behavior day after day and the house slaves weren’t much better.
Even though I had my doubts, intellectually I always believed the pleasure slut’s sexual arousal was an act they put on to avoid punishment. To this day I struggle with the belief that mother might be right that these sluts were just wired differently; I mean, you couldn’t train them to act this way, or could you? I didn’t think so.
All our house slaves completed basic obedience training right after purchase. Daddy always did get the best of everything. With his pleasure sluts it was usually a well-trained Sandy Foot Girl with the prestigious Big D logo burned into her left buttock identifying her Prime status with either the Pearson’s Pussy Ranch or the Venus Academy logo prominently displayed on the other cheek.
My main problem was that since returning to Texas a deep seeded loathing festered within me for these women that seemed to enjoy so blissfully the damage that they were doing to my marriage. My hatred for these happy homewreckers conflicted with my intellectual side that felt pity for these slave girls that were forced to perform all those disgusting sex acts against their will. The old saying that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned fit me to a T with regards to my view of these evil creatures. I mean, the problem couldn’t be with me after all, could it?
Decades ago, after slavery became legal, wearing kilts sans underwear became fashionable as a matter of convenience, even in a masculine testosterone driven place like Texas. All a man had to do was flip up his kilt when using one of those filthy pleasure slut whores whether it was bent over in the boardroom, a bar, at a ball game, or even before starting the back nine on a golf course. It was considered good manners to conceal the bobbing head of the slave giving head under a kilt instead of unzipping out in the open.
The first Christmas we were home from Stanford my mother gave Chris a set of kilts, one for business meetings and the other for the golf course along with a big welcome back to Texas hug. It was her tacit approval for something that until then had not been an issue in my marriage. I was so angry with her that I was fit to be tied.
It wasn’t just the men that owned slaves. Some of the women reciprocated by purchasing male slaves to sate their own needs while their spouses were busy enjoying their pleasure sluts and looked the other way.
There was a significant clique of women at the club that had a second home at the Parker Center, a high-end equine facility devoted to pony-play with a stable full of well-endowed stallions, or membership in the Cougar Club, a women’s social club with a large kennel of well-trained male slaves if you know what I mean. There were a variety of similar establishments that catered to free women with needs in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Many of these businesses ran popular obedience schools that also promised to improve the male slave’s “performance” in a variety of areas. Most people didn’t try too hard to hide it, so everyone knew who was partaking in slave side action and who wasn’t much to my embarrassment over my husband’s proclivities.
Camellia and I refused to partake even after trying unsuccessfully to rehabilitate our men. Instead, we commiserated, comparing the performance of a variety of vibrators and dildos that we regularly used on ourselves to meet our own often neglected needs. We had many discussions about how much we despised these evil pleasure sluts who had stolen our husband’s affections from us. I often felt like a failure, one of those women unable to keep their husbands sexually satisfied, but a respectable lady must draw a hard line concerning what she is willing to do in the bedroom.
What was I supposed to do? Demean myself regularly swallowing my husband’s semen or take it in the ass every date night. Ouch! That had to hurt. On the other hand, it was a matter of pride; refusing to be one of THOSE women that bought slave cock to replace their neglectful husbands. I mean, what kind of marriage was that?
When I graduated from college, my mother admitted to really enjoying taking it out on each of my father’s many pleasure sluts in their basement playroom with large strap-ons and a variety of straps, paddles, whips, and nipple clamps. Even confessing that she used our house slaves sexually more than Dad did, especially for oral relief claiming, “That was why the good Lord gave the sluts tongues”.
In her best Texas twang good old mom butchered Jerry Hall’s famous quote with her own revision, “My mother said it was simple to keep a man: You had to be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. I just purchased slaves for all three and kept that damned pleasure slut on a short leash.”
Much to my mother’s chagrin I refused to follow in her footsteps by purchasing house slaves for help. Hell would freeze over before I brought a pleasure slut into my home. Instead, I hired free citizens for house cleaning, gardening, pool service and as nannies. Now my older sister Lorelei made mother look tame by comparison with her own extensive home kennel of female and male slaves. It turns out my sister had quite the sexual appetite coupled with the means to afford it.
The rest of the chapter is below.