The Rivalry 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 have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This is a pure fantasy, written to specifications and plot provided by Jay Hughes).

(Leslie Scott’s perspective)

I was incredibly fortunate growing up—not only was I born as a middle-class Caucasian girl in Texas, but I had loving parents who cared enough about me to insist that I be polite and kind to everyone I met. Without them, and especially my Mom, it would have been easy for me to become incredibly arrogant and entitled. Why? From the time I was four years old, everyone who met me told me that I was the cutest girl in the world—blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and flawless skin. I know I sound conceited, but I’m trying to describe, as objectively as possible, why it would have been so easy to become obnoxious—only I did my best to treat everyone the way my Mom had taught me. When I reached puberty, the same genes that made me cute also gave me a voluptuous body—five feet eleven with long legs and an hourglass figure (I’m talking the classic 35C-24-36.) Despite the wind resistance from my chest, I was pretty good in cross country events, and all that running only improved my muscle tone. In high school, I did my best to stick to my studies and not push myself forward, but the cheerleading coach INSISTED that I join the squad. Of course, that just put me in the spotlight, so that everyone in my school knew who I was, and some of them—including the raven-haired rich girl Janey Bowers, who decided that I was a threat to her own popularity—hated me. I tried to treat Janey in a friendly, respectful manner, but she wouldn’t reciprocate. The cheerleading coach claimed that the vote for squad captain was a tie, so she decided that Janey and I would be co-captains, yet everyone except Janey deferred to me even when I attempted to keep her involved in decisions.

Growing up in Texas, most young people and especially most young women are acutely conscious that, once they turn age 18, they will go to one of the major slave markets for a voluntary slave grading—for 8 to 36 hours, the 18-year-old is naked and subject to control by the wranglers who work in such places, and during that period they have to undergo a series of embarrassing steps culminating in being strapped down, spread-eagled and completely helpless, for an hour on public view. The really blush-worthy part of that exhibition is that anyone who ever knew you (and who is aged 18 or more with 50 cents to spend) can come see the temporary slaves on display, with the visitors fondling and jeering at their schoolmates. In theory, this humiliating exposure to people who know them further arouses the young people in temporary collars so that they appear as sexy and attractive as possible when the professional slave merchants examine them. Each merchant assigns a rating based on the USDA meat grading system (from Prime and Choice down to Cutter and Canner, with each grade further subdivided into plus, minus, and average).

Why would any young person voluntarily strip down and submit to such treatment? First, as a practical matter, in a United States where the 34th Amendment legalized non-hereditary slavery, your slave grade determines how much you can borrow (for college, car, or home loans) with your body acting as collateral. If you default on such a loan, the financial institution literally “owns your ass” and can auction you off as a slave for up to seven years, using the proceeds (minus 10 % fee to the slave market that processes you) to pay off your debts. Second, especially for the young women, getting a high slave grade (Prime, Choice, or perhaps Select Plus) gives you (and your boyfriend or girlfriend) bragging rights about how hot you are. And third, something which NO young woman would ever admit is that she is secretly thrilled by the idea of being treated like a sex slave—nekkid, collared, and cuffed while being fondled and manipulated by (often hunky) slave wranglers. This is a cheap and socially accepted thrill, provided, of course, that at the end of the day whoever you trusted to hold your ticket at the market will take you out of there, remove the fetters, and allow you to scramble back into your clothes. (There are urban legends about young women, legally free but temporarily bound and helpless, who get blindfolded and gang-banged by the wranglers at a slave market. In reality, of course, such an event would lead to a huge investigation with possible criminal charges. But the simple possibility of being treated like a sex slut makes many young women cream their jeans, or at least helps them pretend to be aroused during the grading process.)

*****
So, in the spring of my senior year I was secretly looking forward, with a mixture of arousal and apprehension, to turning age 18 and being slave graded. But if my life had followed such a script, it wouldn’t be worth writing about. What actually happened was much more horrible, blighting the next few years of my life.

Daddy was an honest small businessman, making a respectable but not huge income as a minor contractor. During the winter of my senior year in high school, the project site on which he was working “mysteriously” burned down, leading to a lawsuit that alleged such criminal negligence on his part that the Texas version of a limited partnership was breached, and Daddy was found PERSONALLY LIABLE for $377,000. That was heartbreaking enough, but the jury reached this verdict on the very day of my 18th Birthday, and those moronic legislators (redundancy alert!) in Austin had just passed a new law that, in cases of such personal liability for damages, both the spouse and the 18- to 21-year-old dependent children of the perpetrator were considered to be “available slaves” to help their adult parent(s) pay off the debt.

In plain language, I found out on my 18th birthday that I would be going THAT SAME DAY to a slave market not for a titillating one day pretend servitude but rather for seven years of full and complete slavery! Picture me, the blond, innocent, virginal (yes, really) cheerleader, being stripped in court before dozens of people, then collared, cuffed, and led off to my fate. I didn’t even have the limited support of my Mom and Dad, who were treated similarly but shipped to another slave market for sale, again for seven years of servitude. My older brother had to come home from the Army to straighten out their affairs, selling most of their other assets to appease the creditors.

By the time I stopped crying and (almost) stopped shaking, I was in the vast entryway of what I later learned was the Longhorn Slave Market in Houston. Kneeling on a hard concrete floor, still collared with cuffs behind my back, I had my thighs spread wide in what I knew was the appropriate posture for a kneeling slave, called “slave spread.” I heard two women speaking in low tones, apparently about me, because I heard someone say “repossessed to help pay her father’s debts.” A few seconds later, two heavy black combat boots appeared on the floor in front of me, and a gentle hand stroked my hair.
I ventured to look upwards, and was both astonished and impressed by the young woman smiling down at me. She appeared to be taller than me, over six feet tall and far from fragile—her body was well muscled, weighed maybe 200 pounds, and built like me only on a larger-than-life scale. Not an ounce of fat, but muscular legs supporting a curvy body with, to be crude, fantastic boobs and a shelf-like butt. Even her curly dark-red hair, gathered in a sloppy ponytail, was unique, and her nametag read simply “Willow.” Beyond that, she was wearing what I vaguely realized was standard clothing for a wrangler. In addition to the steel-toed combat boots, she wore an equipment belt studded with large and menacing objects, jeans, and a dark blue polo shirt displaying the logo of a longhorn bull—head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. And her voice rumbled in a throaty contralto when she spoke:

“Ease up, little sister,” she said in the tone a mother uses to comfort a crying child. To hear such a dominant figure speak so reassuringly was oddly comforting, and I leaned against her leg like a dog asking to be petted. She continued in the same tone. “I gather you’ve had a hard day today, and I’m not gonna lie to you—the rest won’t be easy for anyone to go through. Still, I suggest you try to get control over yourself. The bad news is that you’re about to be sold in a slave market, but the GOOD news is that you’re the best-looking young woman to come in this week. Whoever buys you will have to pay a high price, which means he or she has to take care of you if only to protect their investment.”

Bless her heart. Mistress Willow gave me the courage to continue through the inevitable processing at the Longhorn: medical examination (including birth control), obscene block moves with a crowd of other slaves, inscription of a Slave ID number into my lower lip, inserting a computer chip between my breasts, and humiliating photographs of every inch of my naked body, photos that were included in my national registry entry, an X-rated data base.
What I dreaded the most was being temporarily deprived of my voice (by a spray) and then bound on my back, spread-eagled and helpless, for public view before the slave merchants came to grade me. As I had feared, the news of my enslavement had spread like wildfire through my school. At least 40 of my peers (or should I say former peers?) played truant to come see me in my hour of defenseless exposure. I was surprised and pleased that MOST of these people were actually very kind. OK, the guys couldn’t resist staring at (and occasionally fondling) my breasts, but even those guys and certainly most of the girls talked to me, encouraging me to be brave and complimenting me on how beautiful and sweet I looked. I began to hope that this experience might even be survivable.

But then SHE appeared over my head, mocking me and viciously tweaking my most sensitive parts. That’s right, Janey Bowers couldn’t resist gloating and tormenting me, making remarks to the general effect that I’d finally ended up in the correct place, flat on my back with the legs wide apart, the perfect pose for a pleasure slut. As she spoke, she viciously tweaked my nipples and clit, finger-fucked my labia, and then (when her fingers came out wet) proclaimed loudly that only a total skank would enjoy being spread and waiting to get fucked by whoever rented me out. Truth to tell, the combination of being helpless and terrorized with someone playing with my sensitive parts really DID excite me—somehow, my fight-or-flight response to a dangerous situation got crossed up with my sex drive; I guess I’m weird. In the meantime, the devoxing spray prevented me from even replying, and I dissolved into tears before—thank heavens—a group of my true friends dragged her away, leaving me to recover my nerve before the slave merchants appeared with their electronic tablets to grade me. They said very little out loud, but a few of them whispered to each other and kept writing down something about me.

Finally, blessedly, the last spectators and merchants departed the large, chilly exhibition space, leaving me along with two dozen other naked individuals, still restrained on metal tables and completely vulnerable in a suddenly-quiet room. Mistress Willow appeared promptly to release me from this particular form of bondage, all the while crooning to me and encouraging me, saying how brave and sexy I had been. Then she walked me back to a wire mesh cage, just one of dozens of such cages that we passed. She sprayed down my throat to counteract the Devox, and left me with a bottle of cold water to slowly regain my voice. The “good news,” according to her, was that (despite my fear and depression) the slave merchants had apparently seen my potential to be an attractive sex object; my average grade was Prime Minus, only two steps below the highest possible score.

Left to recover for a few minutes, I thought bitterly about that grade. If, as I described at the start of my tale of woe, I had received such a grade and been freed to return to school the next day, I would have struggled to conceal an unbecoming pride in such a formal evaluation—I may not have been the most beautiful slave in Texas that year, but I was at least a finalist for such a category. Had I been at the Big D market in Dallas, such a grade would have earned me the dubious honor of a full-frontal nude photograph in the market’s flier, designating me as a “Sandy Foot Girl,” one of the “finest pieces of ass in Texas.” Even at the Longhorn where I was sitting, a Prime Minus was unlikely to end up on her knees sucking six dicks per hour at a glory hole. But whoever bought me would undoubtedly use me as a sex toy with bragging rights, which meant both public humiliation and a probably-painful loss of my virginity. What I wouldn’t give to go back to English 12 in my high school—who would ever have expected to long for that?

When I heard a pair of boots echoing on the hard concrete outside my cage, I again assumed the correct slave spread position for a slave, with hands behind my neck, eyes downcast and thighs apart, a docile and completely exposed slut. I could tell by her face that Willow was trying to reassure me, but I was still nervous as heck. I knew what would follow was an experience that routine 18-year-old slave grading did NOT include—being displayed on a block, slave naked, and auctioned off to the highest visitor. Still, she tried to explain that it was in my and my dad’s best interest for me to sell for as high a price of possible, to help pay his debt—and THAT price, in turn, meant that I had to come across as the horniest little whore that ever walked the earth! (She didn’t use such crude terms, but the meaning was clear.) The good news, she said, was that my Prime Minus grading would attract a lot of attention (and money) from the audience—“all” I had to do was work myself up into a sexual frenzy so that everyone who saw me on that auction block would believe that an innocent virgin high school girl was actually a superb courtesan.

That sounded impossible, but Mistress Willow helped talk me through it, showing an amazing understanding of how a slave girl can arouse herself—in fact, she confessed that she had placed herself into that helpless, subordinate position with her husband several times. It was astonishing to see such a huge (if shapely) woman walking, fully clothed, yet exuding sex at every sway of the hip. She had me role-play simple poses on the auction block, all the while arousing myself internally. This treatment continued as we waited in line for the auction block—me fondling myself and rubbing against her leg like a female dog in heat, her urging me to think of myself as a total cock-hound who would explode if I didn’t get rammed in every hole (which was really superb acting considering that at that time I had never even SEEN an erect penis in full daylight, let alone had one inside of me.)

All that said, I have no real recollection of what happened on that auction block—it was like one of those dreams where you’re naked but everyone else was clothed, only this time I knew it was reality. I couldn’t see the audience past the bright lights in my eyes. For five minutes I acted as if I really were the most lascivious courtesan ever sold at auction, prancing and winking until the gavel fell and I was sold for $81,000 to a bidder—number 177?—whose identity was unknown to me. I was about to learn that identity in painful detail.

*****
(Janey Bowers’ perspective)
I’ve had a grin on my face all day, to the point where my mom was worried that I might have suffered a stroke. Naah—I’m just overjoyed that little-Miss-perfect, I’m-staying-pure-for-marriage, Head Cheerleader Leslie Fucking Scott has finally gotten what’s coming to her—or I guess that, now she’s a slave, I should spell that “cumming into her!” Not only that, but guess who is the new owner of that skanky bitch? That’s right, ME! Two months ago, when I turned 18, Daddy (who is a professional slave merchant) had promised me to purchase the slave of my choice to serve me at home and when I went to college. (He could afford to do that because I earned an academic scholarship to UT, and I know he had already saved money for my college that he could now spend elsewhere.) I think Daddy was afraid I might buy some boring boy with a big dick, but I can get those for free any time I feel like flirting a little. Instead, today I cashed in my birthday present, insisting that he take me to the Longhorn Slave Market to purchase Leslie Fucking Scott. Even Daddy was impressed by how much that blonde whore cost at auction, but when he saw her, all Daddy asked was whether I might let HIM use HER once in a while. “Sure thing, Daddy—how about for YOUR birthday next month? Only trouble is, you’re going to have to get permission from Mom.” He didn’t seem too happy after that, but I intend to convince Mom that Leslie has to live up to her new middle name, and Dad would be a great choice to “break her in” before I let the boys in our high school class bang her.

Anyway—I wish I had a picture of Leslie Fucking Scott’s face when I came into her cage after finalizing the purchase price. She was, of course, butt nekkid, collared, and kneeling with her hands behind her haid, spread wide open so that the wrangler and I could see everything she used to hide so modestly (ha!) in gym class. And when I told the new slut that I was her new owner, she turned white as a Yankee in the springtime and began to cry.
My next surprise was to show her the video of her auction performance, a video I had made on my phone (phones are usually forbidden in slave markets, but Daddy got some kind of professional exception.) There she was, her face looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth while that mouth was begging the audience to fill all her slut holes, while at the same time she was twisting and turning to show off her skanky nude body!

The first command I gave my new slave was for her to bend over the bench in the cage and use her mouth to slave-tip Don, the wrangler who had led me there, to orgasm. As I asked, he jerked out of her mouth at the end and painted her face with splooge. Since she was already bent over, I took advantage of her position to fill her starfish with the brand new, 10-inch dildo I had just purchased in the gift shop. Because Daddy had warned me not to damage the merchandise, I DID put some lube on the huge shaft before I worked it into her. I’m no monster, just want to start preparing her for her new role (or roll, as in roll in the hay?) in life.

Throughout high school, this girl had humiliated me without even being aware of what she was doing. I would have one (or sometimes more than one) of the bigger, more muscular male students talking to me, mesmerized by my smile and my boobs. Then they would all get whiplash when skank Leslie pranced by, their eyes shifting from my chest first to her hooters and then, after she had passed by, to what looked like two animals wrestling inside her tight skirt! Now I got to watch Leslie Fucking Scott, completely nekkid with her hands cuffed behind her back, squirming down the hall before me in an effort to keep that dildo inside her fat ass. She looked for all the world like she was trying not to defecate in public, but damn if the men she passed didn’t STILL stare after her.

The situation got even better; as the owner, I wanted to establish bragging rights by having the Longhorn brand her slave grade into her—the outline of a Longhorn skull, complete with antlers, seared diagonally onto her tight little slave butt, with the letter “P” superimposed above the head to denote Prime. And I got to go along, rubbing the handle of a branding iron against her clamped-down pussy, being careful to jiggle the dildo in and out of her wazoo at the same time, until she gushed a gallon of juice, after which the brand was applied while she was still climaxing like the whore she was about to become. Damn, she howled like a banshee despite the stick gag tied into her mouth!

Don the wrangler and my Daddy explained that it was better to leave a newly-branded slave in the market for several days of healing, instead of taking her home with us that day. The plus side to that delay was that, when finally delivered to my home three days later, Leslie the slut was on full display in a large dog shipping cage. In addition to being cuffed and still plugged, she arrived wearing a gag, her eyes wild like the trapped female dog she was. THIS was the way I had always dreamed of looking at her—not just a slave but one who was silenced, immobilized, and on her knees to me.

*****
(Leslie Scott’s perspective)
I had been conscious of Janey’s antagonism towards me, but I never realized just how angry she was. It was bad enough to suddenly descend from high school senior to naked sex slave, but to be in the power of someone who seemed unhinged was truly terrifying. She spent the first few minutes lording it over me, demanding that I kiss her shoes, bow down to the floor, and (once the gag was removed) repeat various declarations to the general effect that I was a worthless whore who begged my mistress to provide me with an ample supply of dick in all of my openings. At one point, she clipped a dog leash to my collar, dragged me into her bedroom, and demanded that I kneel beside her bed while I licked her to several orgasms. All the while the continued to berate me, jerking on my leash and my hair. I was even more miserable because my brand still throbbed as the pain reliever (given at the slave market) wore off.

After 20 minutes that wore out my tongue, I heard her father knock on her bedroom door and demand that she come out and speak to her parents in the living room. In her haste to rearrange her clothing, my owner rushed out of the room, leaving me on my knees and (because the door stayed open) able to hear most of their conversation.

The conversation was a good news, bad news situation for me. On the one hand, her parents told my captor that I was an expensive possession that could not be mistreated; if I became seriously ill or injured, her parents would sell me off (which implied another humiliation on the auction block). But the things they discussed—things that Janey had apparently bragged that she intended to do to me—were horrifying. Her mother actually felt it necessary to tell her own daughter that (1) while I could be naked in the home and again when Janey went to college next fall, she could not parade me around town in daylight where little children could see me, and (2) just because the family dog was constantly humping the legs of family members did NOT mean that Janey should allow that dog to mount me! The bad news for me was that, with her intentions so clear, I had reason to fear that “Mistress Janey” would try these or similar obscene treatments to exact her revenge more fully from me. I realized that I had better pretend to have heard nothing, so I schooled my face into what she seemed to want—a loyal, obsequious, horny toy. Pretend to be like Ren and Stimpy—Happy, happy, joy, joy. I should get an academy award for this acting. . .

The next few days were more of the same—when I wasn’t kept in a cage, she was treating me like another pet (keeping the dog away from me, thank heavens). She insisted that I relieve myself like a female dog while she walked me around her back yard on a leash; several times I heard her lament that her Mom wouldn’t allow her to take me for a naked slave walk in public in daylight (which didn’t stop her from walking me in the evenings!)
In the same spirit of reducing me to an animal, Janey insisted that I wear a hairband with perked up fake ears, sort of like those on a boxer. That was OK, I guess, but what went with the ears was much more uncomfortable—she installed a large butt plug to anchor a short tail between my rear cheeks. She loudly and repeatedly said that she would have preferred to give me a long, silky tail, but that “a dumb bitch like you would probably get it dirty when she went potty, so we have to make do with a short one.” Even so, my owner didn’t hesitate to jerk the plug out when she wanted me to defecate, then ram it back into my colon afterwards. Ouch.

I soon realized that Mistress Janey was the typical spoiled brat who became bored even when doing her best to inflict her bizarre revenge on me. I was forbidden to use the ordinary toilet, but Janey was too lazy to get out of bed and “walk” me in the morning—I think she enjoyed the image of me whining on my knees at the door, so frantic to be let out that I lost control of my bladder. But, of course, the princess couldn’t be expected to clean up after her “bitch puppy,” so caring for the new pet soon fell on the shoulders of the family maid.

Rosa was a diminutive Latina of indeterminant age, although her body suggested that she had been ripely beautiful when younger. Rosa was already overworked cooking and cleaning, so she was naturally irritated about having to add me to her duties. In addition, there was a language barrier between us—I wasn’t supposed to speak (only bark, except when Janey wanted me to howl obscene come-ons begging to be fucked), and Rosa had very little English (or at least she pretended to speak poorly; I suspect she was living up to the family’s racist stereotypes in a way that allowed her to ignore or “misunderstand” the more inconsiderate orders she received.)

I suspect that Rosa had more cause to lord it over me than did Mistress Janey—psychologically, the poor maid needed SOMEONE to feel superior to, and I fit that description perfectly. Soon, she had established a daily routine of enemas to clean out my colon and ensure I didn’t produce much solid waste—which was important because when I DID defecate, Rosa had to wipe my behind afterwards, a procedure that was acutely humiliating for both of us. It was disgusting for her and reduced me to a baby who wasn’t potty trained.

After having to clean up my urine several times at the door, she set up a box filled with kitty litter, and used the traditional methods of house-breaking the “dog”—she took a particular joy in bopping my nose and tail with a rolled-up newspaper, loudly and contemptuously describing me as a “perro estupido” for missing the kitty litter. Of course, Janey loved to witness this! Even after I began to use the litter box on all occasions, Mistress Rosa kept up the newspaper act—apparently she enjoyed by the idea of treating the blonde blue-eyed “norteamericana” like an errant puppy; I’m sure she got a charge out of the role reversal, and would have MUCH rather disciplined JANEY the same way!

Eventually, Janey’s mother decided to put me to work. When Janey was absent from the home, I was expected to assist the maid with mundane tasks such as scrubbing the toilets (on my knees) and mowing the lawn (but only in late mornings, when children were unlikely to see me naked.) For such tasks I was “permitted” to walk upright and even (for safety purposes) to wear a ragged pair of Janey’s old tennis shoes.

This gave my “owner” an even better idea—daily exercises in the back yard, slave naked except for the tennis shoes. I had to run laps around the yard, perform jumping jacks and pushups, etc. until I was covered with sweat and grass stains. Without a sports bra, my breasts wobbled constantly as I moved, and I’m sure my naked rear shifted obscenely. Janey sat in a shady lawn chair with an iced drink, cackling uproariously at my demeaning antics. She also found it amusing to toss a huge plastic dildo across the yard for me to fetch, and you can imagine what she said when I returned with that thing in my mouth! At the end, Rosa had to use the hose to wash me off; the cold water felt good except when (at Janey’s instructions) the maid inserted the nozzle into my anus as a supplemental enema.

Perhaps it was Stockholm syndrome, but I tended to identify with Rosa, who was almost as low on the social hierarchy as was I. Within days, she had discovered my tongue, so that whenever the family left me at “home” I could expect to end up on my knees lapping her coño (look it up, gringo). Compared to getting jerked around by Janey, this was actually peaceful for both of us. Besides, once Rosa experienced a few orgasms from cunnilingus, she was much gentler and kinder to the family puta. I’d much rather use my tongue like that instead of having my butt turned red from a spanking. While doing so, I giggled for the first time since my enslavement, thinking back to Ms. Herrera who had tried in vain to teach me Spanish or even Tex-Mex. Do you suppose I should tell her that getting paddled with a newspaper was the missing motivation? Or was it the chance to have a little peace while licking my near peer, who was always appreciative of my service, to orgasm?

*****
Any heterosexual man is going to get urges if he watches a young woman, naked and on a leash, her pussy and breasts on open view, all while she is required to loudly beg for cock in her various openings. Not to mention said slave girl exercising in the nude; Rosa had to tie up the dog every time I did that, to prevent the animal from trying to mount me! Mister Bowers kept popping visible boners when he saw me, so at first I tried to stay away from him.
It terrified me when, after several weeks, I heard Janey earnestly talking with her Mom about how I “needed to be broken in” by a “man who knows how to control slave sluts. What’s the point of having a slave girl in the house if she doesn’t service the owners and guests—I’m sure YOU don’t want to take care of Dad every time he sees her bouncing boobs and butt?” I was surprised that she would dare talk to her mother like that—apparently, I wasn’t the only person who suffered from her crude arrogance. More importantly, though, I shuddered at the idea of losing my virginity to anyone, let alone such an old man, who would have little consideration for a slave girl. Still, I concluded that was preferable to Janey having some inexperienced teenager use me just to maximize my suffering. I had only a vague idea about the reality of love making, but expected it to hurt badly the first time someone did it to me, so maybe having an older, more experienced guy would be less painful?

The moment of truth came the next day when (immediately after a cold-water shower and enema outside) a grinning Janey cuffed and leashed me (with a choke collar!), then dragged me to her father’s bedroom door. I had seen his wife drive off, looking angry (apparently because she didn’t want her husband screwing the help.) Meanwhile, my mistress and owner had me kneel, hands still cuffed behind my back, then stuffed the leather handle into my mouth and knocked on the door before walking away.

Mister Bowers, a six-foot tall, slightly-overweight and balding man of about 45 years, opened the door, took the handle out of my mouth, and led me, crawling, over to the queen-sized bed. He stood over me, the leash taut but not digging into my neck, and asked me if I knew why I was there.

“I believe so, Master; Mistress Janey said that she hoped you would take my virginity,” I replied softly, being careful to stare at the edge of the bed rather than look at his face, which is normally forbidden for slaves. I was quaking at both my helplessness/nudity and my fear of a painful deflowering.

“So you’re still a virgin? I didn’t believe there were any more 18-year-old virgins left in that high school, let alone virgin slaves.”

“Oh, no, master—there are lots of stories about classmates having sex with each other, but I think it’s mostly just boys bragging. I mean, I lost my hymen doing gymnastics, but I’ve never had anyone’s penis inside there.” While my statement was mostly accurate, I would have been VERY surprised if his daughter could say the same thing!

He gave an amused snort. “You’re fortunate that nobody asked you that at the Longhorn—if they’d known that a cute piece like you was still intact, you’d have sold for twice as much money to a brothel that would raffle off your virginity the same night they got their collar on you.” I shuddered at the thought.
Seeing me flinch, his voice became softer and more concerned. “That’s why I agreed to Janey’s crazy idea of my making love to you. I won’t lie—you’re a hot piece of ass that any guy would want to take to bed, but this could really be a better way for you to become sexually active. I know that the idea of having sex with an old man may horrify you, but in my younger days I was a slave wrangler who actually had to help a few slaves lose their hymens. If you can just relax and accept that this happens to slaves, I will ensure you get some pleasure out of it. Are you OK with that, girl?”

I had no choice but to trust him, so I bowed my head further and said “Yes, Master.”

At least Mr. Bowers didn’t give me the “wham-bam-thank you, ma’am” treatment that I feared from one of my male peers, intent only on their own pleasure. First, he pulled out a rather large but clean cock from his pants and sat down in front of me, so that I was looking directly at it. As I’ve already mentioned, since becoming a slave I’d been required to suck several dicks (no sense being genteel about it), but this was the first time someone had seriously tried to TEACH me what to do. I could tell that he had, indeed, trained female slaves before, as he described how to use my tongue, how to control my breathing, where the most sensitive areas (including the ball sack) were, and so on. Perhaps the most important thing he taught me was psychological: the way to give satisfaction when fellating a guy—not to mention the way to speed up the process—was to act as if I really enjoyed the rare treat he was offering me. And, to be honest, once you get past the idea of some fat slob using your body solely for his own pleasure while you kneel submissively before him, I found out it could be kinda fun to know that I was controlling him, that he enjoyed having me serve him. Here’s where the acting came in: Mr. Bowers urged me to apply some method acting, to pretend I really liked being a cock-sucker. Moaning, slurping, telling my nipples that they must be hardening, and looking up, adoringly, into the guy’s face especially at the moment of ejaculation. Not only did this pretending prepare me for the actual entry of a dick into my body, but the guy would swell quicker, get off quicker, and enjoy himself more if he believed (or could pretend to believe) that the cute girl kneeling before him actually ENJOYED giving him a hummer. In all my subsequent experiences with pricks (and trust me, at some level most guys are just dickheads who serve their own dicks), experiences that were often demeaning, humiliating, and even painful, these acting lessons allowed me to gain some type of control and relief, escaping mentally and sometimes physically from the worst aspects of being a sex slave. Thanks, Mister Bowers.

Just when he (and I, to be honest) were really getting into my oral service to him, he abruptly pulled that magnificent all-day meat sucker out of my mouth and told me, somewhat breathlessly, to stand up. After he released my wrists, he ordered me to move into the Present position—feet shoulder-width apart, hands interlaced behind my neck in a posture that inevitably pulled my (erect) breasts up and out. I could feel dampness between my spread thighs even before this skilled slave handler began to gently but firmly run his hands all over my body. I had been too exhausted and downtrodden to do much with the startling experience I had first had at the slave market, when even casual fondling excited me. Now this imposing man smoothly ran his hands everywhere—between my thighs, up between my rear cheeks (including goosing my anus), standing behind me while firmly grasping my boobs and manipulating my nipples, kissing my neck, and above all finger-fucking my cunt (I’m a slave, that’s what it’s called, ladies). The sensation of his left hand toying with my corresponding nipple while his right hand manipulated my clit made me so aroused that I came unexpectedly, shuddering and barely able to avoid falling.

After this masterful exploration and arousal of my body, my owner’s father calmly told me to lie down on my back on the bed, to which he added the command to tease my own nipples. My attention was distracted by his rapid stripping, casually tossing his clothes onto a chair before he lay down beside me. For a middle-aged guy he was in surprisingly good shape. Using one hand, he gently turned my head towards him and guided me to kiss him, all the while indicating that I should continue playing with myself.

When he leaned up on one elbow and shifted over me, I naturally expected him to mount me, but instead he crept down to the bottom of the bed, between my spread legs, and—oh, rapture!—began using his tongue and lips to manipulate my labia and especially my clit. It had never occurred to me that, as a slave, I would encounter such an experience. In the urban folklore of my generation, at least, a guy only went down on a girl if he (a) absolutely loved the girl and wanted her to be happy or (b) thought that cunnilingus would earn free passage for his dick into the woman’s openings. I suddenly understood why Mrs. Bowers would be so visibly angry about her husband deflowering a young slave—it wasn’t solely about monogamy, but also her awareness of how rare and unusual he was as a lover, something not to be shared.

After he had brought me to two further climaxes, my owner’s father slid upwards until he was lying on top of me, where he added another quick series of caresses and tweaks before he finally brought his massive shaft up to the charge. Even then, he displayed remarkable control and consideration, pausing up to 30 seconds after each thrust as he slowly rammed his way into me. It did hurt, but not nearly as much as I had feared. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of being under his control, of being pinned to the bed by his body and completely occupied by his dick. Even if I had been an actual lover instead of an 18-year-old slave, it was clear who was in charge, and it wasn’t me. Yet he continued to kiss and touch me gently as he slowly worked in and out of me, clearly concerned that I would enjoy myself. When I finally gave up and begged him to take me, he pounded into my body over and over and over and over. (It felt like we had screwed for an hour, but it was probably closer to ten minutes!) When we finally came—not together but within a few seconds of each other—he pulled a sheet over us and held me, cuddling and murmuring nothings for an hour. And THEN he did it all over again.

*****
I had been royally, thoroughly fucked—there’s no other verb to describe it—and my body moved slowly and painfully for the next day or so. But Master Bowers had ensured that my introduction to womanhood was among the best any girl might dream of, and as soon as my discomfort began to lessen, I found myself dreaming of being his love slut again. (I’m not advocating acceptance of rape, but if I HAD to be a sex slave, why not maximize my enjoyment?) More practically, he insisted that his daughter and maid leave me alone, making minimal demands on me and certainly not requiring sexual service for several days. Then he took me to the nearest branch of the Samson Clinic for Slaves, getting me an OB/GYN exam before releasing me back to the not-so-tender mercies of his vindictive daughter. I was acutely conscious of him watching my every move, but thereafter the most he would demand or accept from me was a blowjob.

Janey had no such restraint. Her next idea was to build on my (supposed) humiliation—whenever her father was at home and her mother was not, she would order me to prostrate myself before him and beg, in the most graphic of terms, to be face-fucked, screwed, and reamed thoroughly. The only problem about this for Janey was that her parents would never allow her in the same room to witness her dad’s exposed member; although she could hear my begging, she had no idea that both the master and I were grinning lasciviously at each other. He softly petted my hair as his dick expanded down my throat; I don’t know what HE was thinking, but I had a bad case of slave crush, dreaming about my mature lover ravishing every area, every opening of my body every day. Unbidden, an image leaped into my head—I was lying on my back, his scrotum hanging down into my open mouth like a teabag and my hands pressing my boobs together while his saliva-coated prick slid in and out of my clearage—I did say I had developed a crush on him, didn’t I?
When the vicarious pleasure of pimping me to her father paled, Mistress Janey decided to take matters—well, me, actually—into her own hands. Two weeks after my deflowering, she acquired a strap-on harness, some water-soluble lube, and several large dildoes that fit the harness. Well, “large” is a relative term—none of them was larger Mr., Bower’s dick, but it’s difficult not to be intimidated when such a monster is pointed directly at my face.

Although it was humiliating to fellate that plastic rod, I learned to be thankful that Janey insisted on my saliva coating it, not to mention my fingers
awkwardly spreading lube inside both of my lower channels. Sucking her strap-on was, as I said, demeaning and embarrassing, but having her pound it in and out of my birth canal and colon was incredibly difficult to endure, even after a month of wearing a tail plug. You would think that, as a woman herself, Janey would be concerned by the discomfort she inflicted—but you would be wrong to think so. Night after night, my owner would rotate that shaft from my mouth to my slave cunt to my butt, all while bruising my thighs and buttocks with constant and frantic sawing in and out, jeering at me as if I were some submissive guy she was pegging. Occasionally she would even climax from the procedure, but that was not her main goal—she wanted to demean me to the maximum possible.

She certainly succeeded in that, although the strap-on sessions helped me to survive the post-graduation party she threw. Somehow, she persuaded her parents to spend the night out of town (as I said, they had spoiled her terribly but still wanted plausible deniability), although they did insist that their daughter be responsible about drunk drivers and not allow her friends to damage the slave (me)!

At first, it seemed as if Mistress Janey had heeded her parents’ warnings. She even had me wear a metallic red bikini as I helped Rosa serve the guests. It provided very minimal cover, of course, being mostly thin cords that held up three tiny triangles over my nipples and vulva (the rear side was covered only by a small butt-plug, held in place by the vertical floss of the G-string.) Of course, every time I bent over to set down some drinks, my erstwhile classmates ran their eyes and sometimes their hands down my cleavage. To ensure I played my role fully, the afternoon before the party Janey gave me a bootleg shot of Horny Juice so that the evening had a feeling as if I were in an erotic dream. As I walked around carrying a tray and swinging my hips wantonly, I felt a LOT of stray hands between my thighs, goosing my butt plug or tracing the brand on my left cheek. Still, most of the people were friendly to me, especially the nerds and geeks I had always been polite to in school.

Then it hit me—why had the princess of popular, Janey Bowers, invited every brainy, pimply-faced, socially-inept class member to her party? Twenty minutes later, I got my answer.

Mistress Janey didn’t stop with simply ordering me to strip naked in front of 40 or more of my former peers—no, she had me lie face down over a table, then wrapped straps around my back and my bent legs, leaving my three openings “conveniently” at waist height. Next, she installed a ring gag, holding my mouth wide open so that I could neither speak nor bite down on an intruding dick. And THEN she announced that I was “open for business” to be used by all my ex-classmates. She even called out by name several nerds, urging them to be the first to ram their pricks into me. In moments, I had a cock down my mouth and another one that first occupied my birth canal but soon found its way into my winking starfish. Within minutes, there were lines waiting to use me, with the next two persons “on deck” getting warmed up by my hands (which worked as well on dicks as they did on labia; in case you’re wondering, I got to lick and fondle a lot of nerd pussy that evening. Some of those girls acted like me pre-slavery, as if they’d never had a real climax before!) (Because they were seniors, all of my “partners” were over age 18.)

In recounting my story above, I may have given the reader the impression that I enjoyed being fucked, and that was true up to a point. Now, however, I wanted to ask how come nobody could take a joke? Except for brief squirts of water into my mouth, I got no relief for what seemed like an hour; my stretched lips were dry, my tongue was tired, and there were random strings of cum in my hair and on my face. Despite Janey’s strap-on play, my cunt and ass were soon in pain. I’ve no idea how many orgasms I induced in my classmates, but they certainly gave me a number of them.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Janey was cackling, insulting me, and taking photos that she threatened to post on social media. She kept encouraging the nerds to use me, claiming it was the only chance for sex, especially sex with a cheerleader, they would ever get.

If there was a head nerd in our school, it was Jimmy Orbey. Three inches shorter than me, thick glasses, no hand-eye coordination, and social ineptitude—got the picture? But that night Jimmy was a hero, at least to me. Apparently, he had arrived late at the party, but once he realized what was going on, he strode to the head of the line and shoved aside the current people toying with me, reminding them how kind and considerate I had always been. Janey tried to intervene, claiming he just wanted to f___ me himself. His response was memorable:

“If Leslie voluntarily wanted to kiss me, I would be in seventh heaven, but even nekkid and in a slave collar she’s more of a lady than you are, Miss ‘My-crap-don’t-stink’ Janey Bowers. I understand that you own her, but even for slaves there is such a thing as animal abuse. Not to mention I see enough beer and wine around here to get everyone under the age of 21 arrested and your parents in trouble. So what’s it going to be, princess: are you going to release this woman and end the party quickly, or do I need to call the police?”

By this time, after two months of tormenting me, Janey had fallen into the habit of thinking that she was all-powerful and that I somehow “deserved” whatever ill treatment she gave me. She was outraged that a despicable grind would dare intervene, but Jimmy, bless his heart, refused to back down. He removed the ring gag from my mouth, gave me several drinks of water and then, when Janey continued to rage against him, pulled out his cheap cell phone and loudly asked,

“What number do I need to call? Oh, that’s right, nine-one-one.”

Janey capitulated before he actually dialed, after which Jimmy got several of the nerdy girls to release me, insert sanitary protection, and help me back into my bikini. Already, the more cautious teenagers were making their excuses and leaving the party. By this time, even Janey realized that she had gone too far and would undoubtedly hear about it from her parents if not the police. When the crowd dwindled down to just a few nerds, Jimmy quietly advised Janey that I needed a shower and sleep, followed by a visit to the Samson Emergency Room. “Please let me know tomorrow what her condition is,” he asked, which was a polite warning to her not to retaliate against me. Jimmy and his friends spent ten minutes picking up the discarded trash and straightening the furniture around the pool, and then they were gone.

I was apprehensive about what my owner might do to me, but she just told me to shower and go sleep on the dog bed she had allocated to me. I was exhausted and soon fell into a deep slumber. Heaven only knew what would happen to me tomorrow.

(To be continued)

[jessmartin]

Great story as always. Having read all your stories I can't wait for the moment when Mrs. Janey ends up with the collar around her neck being fucked over and over again.

[Mr. Smith]

It wouldn't surprise me if Janey started the fire that burned down Leslie's father's business. Who knows? A wonderful start to a new story.

[imreadonly2]

Great start, and a great story. Thank you for the wonderful Christmas gift!!