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Ellie May Pt. 04: Free At Last

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Carl Bradford
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Ellie May Pt. 04: Free At Last

Post by 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. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Joe Doe has approved the appearance of Ellie May, Steve, and his other characters in this yarn, and contributed some dialogue for Sarah. Thanks, as always. Note: the enslavement sentences in this portion are to recoup debts, not as a measurement of punishment.)

(Jim Wilson’s Viewpoint)

Every man’s entitled to one mistake, but I made a doozy when I married Alice as my second wife. In my defense, though, I held off until my boy Steve was in college up North, so I thought whatever I did wouldn’t affect him. That thought was an even BIGGER mistake than marrying her, and that’s saying something.

Back when Steve was only 11, his mom and the love of my life, Imogene, came down with pancreatic cancer and died, all within six months. I did my best to raise Steve and still run the ranch, and he turned out durned good—not just smart enough to get into Harvard, but an honest, hard-working, humble, stand-up kinda man. Imogene would have been proud of him.

Once he went off to Massachusetts, my loneliness got even worse. Like a damn fool, I fell for Alice—it wasn’t just my dick thinking for me, although I have to admit that Alice was a helluva good looking woman who seemed to be just as interested in me as I was in her. I not only married her, I brought her and her bimbo daughter Ellie May (who turned out to be as much of a shiftless cock-teaser as her mother) to my ranch and gave them generous monthly allowances. Talk about bait and switch—I shoulda known better. Good thing Ellie May didn’t want me to adopt her.

When Steve came home after his sophomore year in college, Alice and Ellie May set to work on him. Before I realized it, they’d stuck a damn device on his cock that shocked him whenever he got an erection—just so that Ellie May could make him into a 4-H Project about animal stud functions. They never said anything in front of me, but I found out later that they had threatened to de-ball him if he didn’t cooperate. And then they used that threat and the shock-your-cock-locker to force him into voluntarily enslaving hisself; thank heavens Texas law limits that to five years in non-debt sitiations, but meanwhile he’s stuck at Harvard, still going to class but evenings and weekends he’s locked up in the University Slave Kennels! The only way he could find to avoid spending vacations under the thumb of those two bitches was to pimp hisself out, serving as a slave with all the money going back to the women in Texas. I’m not proud of my son being a gigolo, but at least he got laid.

Between that money and what I gave them, I thought those two women would have more than ‘nough for their pastimes. Before we married, I had been upfront with Alice (too bad she didn’t return the favor): Imogene’s family had most of the money in our marriage (somewhere north of $400 million, and that was 20 years ago), plus the money to buy this ranch. I loved Imogene, not her money, so I readily agreed when she established a trust that controlled most of her assets (and DAMN, did that woman have some fine ASSets!) so that no one could accuse me of gold-digging. When Imogene died, the trust became irrevocable, with her brothers Wilbur and Seth as the trustees until Steve came of age. They allowed me enough money to maintain the ranch, plus whatever profit I could make operating it, which was just fine by me—I was too heart-broken to even discuss the trust with them. $500,000 would come to Steve when he graduated college or reached age 22 (whichever came first), and total control when he turned 25. Trouble was, as a slave he could not access this property, so for the moment Wilbur and Seth controlled the principal while allowing me to continue operations.

I tell you all this borin’ detail so you’ll understand what happened next. Almost two years into Steve’s five-year indenture, my #$@&* second wife tried to sweet-talk me into bailing Ellie May and her out. Somehow, the two of them had run up debts of over $200,000—I mean, WTF? I don’t think I’ve spent that much money in my entire life, including payments on my truck PLUS Steve’s college tuition. Naturally, Alice wanted ME to pay that debt—she was so lovey-dovey she seemed to be promising unlimited tail and blowjobs if I would just do her this “LEETLE” favor. So I explained the trust to her AGAIN—Even if I sold my pickup, I’d have less than $100,000 because I’d already given those two cock-teasing bitches [‘scuse my language] everything I could spare.

She became increasingly desperate, and I got the impression that the sheriff was about to seize HER assets—which consisted mostly of her bodacious body and half-owned sports car title. She offered to do “Anything” if I could just persuade Wilbur and Seth to pay off these TEENSY little debts.

I told her that there was one thing that the trustees MIGHT be willing to spend that kind o’ money for, but I had to check with them. She eagerly promised to do “anything” in return. I said I couldn’t promise nothin’, but I’d do my damnedest to persuade Wilbur, the oldest brother.

*****

(Telephone conversation)

“This here’s Wilbur—'zat you, Jim?”

“Yup. Sorry to trouble you, but I got a proposition for you as Steve’s trustee.”

I heard him chuckle. “This oughter be good—OK, brother, what cha need?”

“There’s one thing that’s kinda expensive, but I think it’d be a legitimate use of the trust.”

He laughed, sounding sympathetic but reluctant. “You already gave away jest about everything you got for some high-class pussy—fat lotta good THAT did you!”

“Don’t remind me, Wilbur.” I groaned. “This isn’t about me, though, it’s about Steve.”

“I’m listenin'.”

So I told him, and he agreed, cussing under his breath. Five days later, Wilbur met Alice, Ellie May, and me at the State Agriculture Office; they swore out manumission papers for poor Steve and signed statements acknowledging that they had no claim on his trust or estate OR the ranch, and Wilbur gave them a cashier’s check for $230,000. I had already taken out the necessary advertisements announcing that neither the trust nor I nor the ranch was responsible for their debts and informed my bank in writing to the same effect. I did warn both of the girls that if they ran into debt again, Wilbur and I would be unable to help them. I don’t think they heard us, just rushed off to cash the check.

(Steve Wilson’s perspective)

Even though I spent the last two years wearing a collar and a frakin’ chastity belt, I had done it—passed my last exam to graduate from Harvard. It was Friday afternoon, and graduation was on Sunday. Trouble was, now I had to go back to Texas and serve another three-plus years as Ellie May’s boytoy. Emphasis on “toy.” With my luck, that harpy and her Mom would decide to fry my right buttock with the ranch brand, to balance the fouled anchor on my left (an involuntary memento of having sailed on the whoreship Yo Ho Ho one spring vacation.)

What made it worse was that I had found the love of my life—living with me in the Harvard Slave Kennels, of all places. Billie Jean Jackson was from Amarillo and as smart as she was beautiful, and THAT was saying something—tall, voluptuous, high cheekbones, huge smile, ginger-haired. (I could just imagine how arousing that smile would look when her lips were wrapped around my dick, but unfortunately we both wore chastity belts.) Over the past 20-odd months (and DAMN were they odd!) of slavery I’d spent a lot of time surrounded by prime-rated pleasure slaves, but Billie Jean outshone them all.

She was a junior at MIT who had run afoul of the devious system of “Protected Students” in that school, where lecherous professors would CLAIM that good-looking scholarship students had plagiarized, just so the administration could declare all scholarships and student loans in default, then enslave the student immediately. (If you’re wondering, actual cheating had gone WAY down since the reinstatement of slavery!) Most victims of this scam were kept in small kennels operated by the departments [in the psych department, for example, the “Protected Students” were caged along with the lab rats, used (and paid in terms of debt remission) for experiments such as sexual stimulation as a reward for operant conditioning.] Somehow, though, Billie Jean ended up in the Harvard Kennels, probably because she was in a weird Anthropology co-op program between the two schools. The good news about that was I got to know her and she wasn’t available for “nooner” checkout by the MIT Anthropology profs who had trapped her; the bad news was that Billie Jean was in constant demand to work in the Harvard Kennel Brothel.

Given our supervised existence (TV cameras everywhere), Billie Jean and I rarely had a chance to explore our mutual attraction—at least, not explore it physically. We had managed to neck and fondle—her breasts were TRULY stellar, but in chastity belts playing with them only left us both frustrated. All I could do was memorize her Slave Identification Number and promise to find and buy her once my five years were up—if Ellie May hadn’t castrated me by then! Lord knows that rhymes-with-witch threatened me often enough.

B.J. [what a marvelous nickname for a beautiful sex slave] and I were spending every remaining moment together before I graduated, when I was summoned to one of the interview rooms—not a brothel bedroom, an ordinary room. I was not entirely surprised to see Professor Sarah Hollister waiting for me, since I’d begged her to find some slave employment for me so that I could stay in Boston. But, I was astonished and embarrassed (I was, after all, collared and slave naked) to see the man with her—my eldest Uncle Wilbur!

Then they showed me the manumission order from the Texas Department of Agriculture. They got the kennel wrangler to remove the collar and chastity belt immediately—which just left me even MORE naked in front of a beautiful female professor. I kept reminding myself that I’d not only seen Sarah disguised as a naked slave but used every one of her velvet openings on that cruise in the Yo Ho Ho—she kept talking, praising my “stoicism” and “hard work” to my uncle. Only once did she acknowledge my erect dick, grinning, winking, and mimicking a blowjob when Uncle wasn’t looking. They did allow me to go pack my belongings before meeting them at my locker to get dressed, which gave me a chance to explain my good fortune to Billie Jean. I kissed her passionately, promising to free her somehow, but then had to leave (needless to say, my unlocked pecker was even more erect than before!)

Uncle Wilbur handed me a new cell phone, a platinum credit card and a bunch of cash. “You’re not rich YET, Steve, so don’t go crazy. But you need to live up here for a few weeks. I STRONGLY urge you not to go back to Texas until you’ve adjusted to freedom; don’t want those harpies gettin’ their hooks into you again.” I knew I had to talk to him about freeing Billie Jean, but this wasn’t the time or place, least of all with the professor listening.

At the door to the kennel, Professor Hollister pulled me aside. “I arranged your freedom, my friend, with the understanding that you can keep a secret and will forget about that nasty little slut ‘Flame’ you met on the Yo Ho Ho.”

“I don’t recall any pleasure sluts by that name, Professor.” I replied, doing my best to demonstrate what a convincing liar I could be. “Besides, I’m a free man now. What’s another slave pussy mean to me, other than a comfortable set of holes?”

“Well, there’s one slave pussy you seem to remember,” she said slyly, looking over at Billy Jean. ”Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she’s safe until you can spring her.”
I thanked her profusely for everything she’d done to make my life more bearable, and she patted my cheek in an almost maternal way. It was odd how dramatically our relationship had changed now that I was free.

For the next several months, I stayed in a long-term motel and Ubered to the kennels whenever they would let me see Billie Jean. My uncles even paid for me to get counseled on Zoom by a slave psychiatrist, Dr. Sheldon. Then, two months after my college graduation, I was astonished to have Uncle Wilbur e-mail me a copy of the agreement he (as my trustee) had reached with MIT, in effect buying Billie Jean’s freedom, paying off her debts, and giving her enough funds to finish her degree. It was all camouflaged by declaring B.J. to be the first recipient of the “Huddleston Trust Scholarship in Anthropology.” B.J. prepared to move back into a regular dorm, and we were able to date. Given that we’d both been pleasure slaves, we escalated to sleeping together really fast. (Gotta admit, even though we had hated to be pleasure slaves, it certainly taught her to be amazing in bed.) Life was grand, but it was about to get even better—or at least more just and equitable.

*****

(Jim Wilson’s Viewpoint)

I had thought that everything was fixed, if a little messy, when Wilbur bought my boy’s freedom at the price of paying off the debts run up by Alice and Ellie May. I even understood why Steve was spendin’ time in Massachusetts—I wished he’d come home, but not until his head was screwed back on so he could resist those two madwomen. Both of us had been too dam’ gentlemanly to handle them—never again.

Two months later, I got indications that those two were in debt again—unexplained phone calls, bill collectors at the ranch gate, and so on. I gave every bill collector a copy of that quitclaim the two Jezebels had signed, indicating they had no claim on the trust or ranch. By now, I’d learned not to trust anything those girls said, so I had an investigator check around. He found out they were even FARTHER in debt than the first time, probably because they had only paid off the most pressing debts without reforming their lifestyle.

When I mentioned this to Wilbur, he chuckled and asked for the name of my private dick. I found out LATER that Wilbur had bought up most of Alice’s and Ellie May’s debts . . .

One afternoon, just after someone had towed their sports cars for non-payment, a process server showed up on the ranch, giving the two women notices to appear in county court three days later to settle their debts. I faxed the papers to the ranch’s lawyer and told him I’d pay for a couple hours of his time to review the matter on the phone with Alice. I suspected there was nothin’ he could do, but the girls had long since stopped listening to me except when they begged in vain for me to pay the debts somehow.

On the appointed day, I drove the two of them to court in my pickup, which was the only non-farm vehicle left on the place. Besides, I was curious to see what would happen—and so, apparently, was Wilbur. In the brief hearing that followed, the attorney trying to collect the debts kept looking around and getting nods from Wilbur, which didn’t really surprise me.

In short order, that attorney presented documents indicating that Alice owed some 300,000 bucks for cars, clothes, jewelry, and general foolishness; Ellie May owed almost as much.

The judge must have heard similar cases of “profligate spending,” because he wasn’t takin’ excuses or issuin’ pardons. Once the women said they had no means of payin’ their debts, his decision was short and bitter-sweet (for them, anyway; I tried not to smile):

“Alice Holmes Wilson, this court finds that you owe $304,695 in credit card and other debts, all of which were secured by chattel slavery on your body; the court therefore awards that body to the Huddleston Trust as slave for a period not to exceed 13 years.”

“Ellie May Holmes, this court finds that you owe $271,885 in credit card and other debts, all of which were secured by chattel slavery on your body; the court therefore awards that body to the Huddleston Trust as slave for a period not to exceed 12 years. Bailiff, strip the sluts and convey them to the Trust’s attorney. Next case!”

(In case you’re wondering, in Texas enslavement is considered de facto divorce, because a slave is expected to perform any sexual act directed by her/his owner—the moment that judge spoke, I was just as free as Steve!) Even I was shocked by the length of their sentences, but my (now ex-)wife Alice immediately tried to squawk. I say TRIED, because her third word was interrupted by a loud ZZAAPP! as a bailiff’s cattle prod was discharged into her body, which collapsed in a heap. Then two bailiffs pulled out surgical scissors and began cutting the clothing off her prostrate body. I was glad I waited for the floor show before I drove home—alone.

(Ellie May’s perspective)

These guys Joe and Carl keep writin’ bout me but never let ME talk, so let me butt (emphasis on butt) in here. I never meant for it to get outta hand with Steve being collared, but then I never meant to get so far inter debt that I ended up the same way. Waco College learned me enough about slavery that I was terrified before I ever went to court, but that judge scared the crap outta me! We hadda PRETEND to be slaves for a few hours as part of our trainin’, but this was for real. My heart sank, but unlike Momma I knew I had to be on my best behavior if I wanted to get through slavery with as little pain as possible.

I knew this was the likely outcome of our debt hearing, so I came to court wearing no undies nor bra. I was redder than a Texas sunset as I stripped down right there in court with ever-body watchin’. That judge was really enjoyin’ hisself, too, staring at my goodies. When the bailiff ordered me to, I dropped to my knees and spread wide while they collared, cuffed, and gagged me—both of the bailiffs grabbed themselves a free feel on my boobs, too. Funny thing—getting treated like that in school had been a turn-on, but THIS time the combination of terror and public exposure REALLY got to me. My nipples and clit were harder than dry beans, but I sure wasn’t dry down below. I think the bailiffs woulda walked me out of court immediately, but they kept me there, slave nekkid while they pawed me, waitin’ for the judge’s decision about my Momma’s misbehavior.

(Alice Wilson’s perspective)

I couldn’t believe that asshole judge had the cohones to declare me—ME—a slave for 13 years, but when I started to argue I got hit by some kinda electric charge. I came to suddenly when someone splashed water on my face. I was in the same court room, still facing that asshole, but I felt very chilly and realized with a shock that I was butt naked. No, make that SLAVE naked! My shredded clothes were on the floor in front of me. Not only that, but I could feel a collar around my neck while I was bent over and tied down, with my arms stretched out along the railing at the front of the spectators’ section. I tried to talk, but I couldn’t—some bastard had tied a ring gag into my mouth, sheathing my teeth but holding my mouth open.

I heard His Asshole Honor say, “Ahh, I see our newest slave has returned to the living. Since you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut in the presence of free people, I find you in contempt of court and sentence you to six of the best, to be executed immediately. Bailiff, do your duty.”

I was furious about the way I was tied up, but before I could even draw breath to protest around that gag, I was screaming when something stiff and hard (and I don’t mean a cock!) slammed across both cheeks of my ass. It was followed by five more tremendous blows from that rubber-wrapped cane—when I finally got to look at my lacerated butt in the mirror, I saw four long red lines spaced out vertically across my injured rear, with two more forming a lazy X on top of the other four.

When they was done beating me, the other bailiffs released me from the railing, cuffed my hands behind my back so I couldn’t even try to cover my body, and walked me, along with Ellie May, down a crowded public corridor to the County Clerk’s office. The attorney who had appeared against us in court, a wizened old man no more than five feet tall with white hair, came along. When we got to the Clerk’s office, both of our gags were pulled out and a numbing agent was sprayed on the inside of my lower lip. I was still tearing up from the whipping when someone stuck some kinda electronic needle machine against the inside of my lip and activated it with a loud buzzing. When they turned down my daughter’s lower lip and scanned what was there, I figured out that he’d been inscribing me with the bar code for a Slave Identification Number, jest like Ellie May got when she was slave graded three years ago. This wasn’t some power-crazy cracker judge; we really WERE slaves! I almost fainted from the shock, but two bailiffs held me up (and took advantage by squeezin’ my tatas, which at least was a distraction from the shock).

After the clerk finished entering a bunch a data into a computer, they took pitchurs—full frontal standin’ and kneelin’ NUDE photographs—of our bodies. I was still recovering from the shock of all this when that old lawyer simply told Ellie May, “Kneel, mouth.”

And she did it! Down on the floor with her legs wide apart, hands cuffed behind her back, right in front of her mama my beautiful girl just opened up and INHALED that guy’s ancient dick! She must have been the finest cocksucker he’d ever seen, because within three minutes he stiffened as if he had a stroke, then pulled his cock out of her glistening lips and tucked it away. She was blushing hard, looking up at me, as she stuck out her tongue to show everyone a load of white goo on her tongue; she only swallowed the repulsive stuff after the old guy nodded. (Much later, she warned me that slaves were expected to do this whenever a master blew off in their mouths—she’d learned about it in slave wrangler school, and I’d better be prepared to do the same thing. Danged if she wasn’t right, too—over the next several months I must have had to swallow cum—something I NEVER did for my three boyfriends and two husbands—a hunnerd times. Make that two hunnerd.)

Then, after defiling my adult daughter before my very eyes, this geezer looked straight at me and said, ”For the next eleven years, that’s all your mouth is good for, slut. Don’t dare to speak again unless a free person asks you a question, and then remember to be respectful, got it?”

If that wasn’t enough, they stuck dang ring-gags into both of our mouths—and my gums were still stinging from the number they carved into them. By now, I’d figgered out that there was no point in fightin’ it—I just followed my daughter’s lead, and mostly what SHE did was obey every order and move as quick as possible wherever she got shoved or spanked. The one time I balked, being marched butt naked down another courthouse corridor full of people, someone whacked my ass right on top of those strap marks!

Then we came to a loadin’ dock, where the bailiffs forced us to kneel inside wire mesh dog cages, after which they tied my ankles and the handcuffs behind me to the walls of the cage. It was really uncomfortable in there, ‘specially when my flayed ass rested on my heels, but eventually I came to treasure being shipped in a dog cage, because at least while I was in that cage men weren’t whippin’ and fuckin’ me! ‘Course, they DID tend to reach inside and grope me . . . Can I help it if I have nice boobies?

I heard that old fart shyster give some clerk shipping instructions to send us to some place called the “Spit-Roast Bar.” I thought—a Bar? Lead me to it—I need a drink after today! How was I to know that the only things I would get to drink were a little water and a LOT o’ cum?

*****

Back when Ellie May starting that slave wrangling class, they took her to a lot of strange places where slaves lived—if you can call it living. I mean, we all know that men are disgustin’, selfish creatures always trying to get some God-fearin’ woman to give them a blowjob or a feel of her boobies. To be honest, I remember thinking that slaves served a useful purpose, satisfying all those baser urges so us free ladies didn’t have to. But, what my daughter told me about slave establishments seemed so outlandish that I suspected someone was puttin’ us on—not even MEN could be THAT repulsive! Shows you what I knew.

You probably figgered out what “spit-roast” meant before I did, right? From 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. every day, Ellie May and me spent most of our time strapped down and kneelin’ underneath tabletops with all of our openings available for use by the “guests.” The first day, the owner tied us down and whipped our butts [mine hadn’t even recovered from the court room], then warned us that if we didn’t make the guests happy, we’d regret it. I thought that meant getting whacked a few more times, and I was willing to accept that. Boy, was I dumb. Tied down like that, it was the customers I had to look out for: If I didn’t suck some guy well enough with my mouth, he jacked off all over my face and left his goo dripping down in my eyes. If the customer didn’t get off in my cunt, he or she would invade my butt instead! Even without the friction of somebody bumping against my still-sore behind, it really HURT when they shoved big things up my ass.

I figgered I could tough it out, but I worried about poor Ellie May. Yet, at night when we whispered between our neighboring cages, I was surprised to find out that she actually ENJOYED her treatment.

“Come on, Ma,” she whispered. “You taught me to at least ACT like a lady and never give it away for free. Now . . . waal, to be honest, all this fuckin’ is FUN! I don’t like being tied down any more’n you do, but most evenings I get off on this, and I don’t have to apologize or pretend because they’re FORCIN’ me to do it. It’s like a license to steal, a permit to be a Bad Girl and you can’t blame me for doin’ it.”

I thought about that overnight, and I realized that she was right. I do NOT believe that horsehockey about “When rape is unavoidable, lie back and enjoy it.”—rape is rape, for Chrissake. But, maybe half the time when some guy was shafting me under that table it felt GOOD, so why not enjoy being a slave as much as I could? Besides, legally a slave cain’t be raped anyway; when a free man uses someone else’s slave without permission, the only charge is trespassin’ on private (as in her privates) property.

I hate to admit it, but that shyster or whoever decided to send us to the Spit-Roast Bar knew what he was doing. After three weeks gettin’ rammed in all our openings (ouch), Ellie May and I were pretty docile, trying to enjoy the good stuff and avoid being disciplined. And when somebody finally put us back into those poodle cages and shipped us off again, we were happy or at least hopeful. I figured this has got to be the worst, the low point of my slavery—wherever we’re headed, it could only get better from here.

Oops--wrong again!

*****

Texas ranches have a unique smell, a sort of atmosphere I cain’t describe but I like it. So, when that panel truck pulled up at the end of a long trip and the doors opened, it SMELLED like ranch. Trouble was, I was used to bein’ a human on a ranch, not part of the herd or one of the livestock. This was my introduction to the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch.

When they let us outta them dog cages, we got to meet a woman about my age but a lot thinner and with a sour face, whose nametag read “Mary Jacobs.” She looked at both of us, staring down her nose as if we were some kinda vermin. After five long minutes, she sighed as if resigned to doing something distasteful. Don’t know what HER problem was—she wasn’t the one collared, cuffed, gagged, and naked on her knees!

“OK, walk ‘em over to Tack and suit ‘em up.” She said, as two beefy wranglers led us off.

Finally, I thought—sounds like I’ll get some clothes back. Wrong agin!

Before I could blink, we were “suited up” all right—suited up as pony girls. Instead of coverin’ my boobs, that leather rig jest pushed them up while leavin’ my nipples and most of the breasts exposed. In fact, those mothers PIERCED my nipples and put in big honking steel rings! Then, the wranglers tied my arms behind my back, with the forearms parallel to each other so I couldn’t catch myself if I fell on my face. Plus high-heeled boots with horseshoes on the soles and a tail they attached with a big ol’ butt plug. I never thought I would be thankful for those weeks in the Spit-Roast Bar, but at least gettin’ corn-holed there ever’ night had stretched my rear end enough to accept that tail.

And then, when they pulled out my cloth gag, they gave me a drink of water and replaced the gag with an elaborate headdress and a dang’ horse’s bit! Every time I got the stupid sulky (with some fat bastard in it) movin’, the driver jerked back on the reins and practically tore my lips. Two weeks later, when them nipple rings had healed, the driver hooked up reins on them and it felt as if my TITS were being ripped off! Breast-feeding Ellie May was a picnic by comparison.

That wasn’t the worst of it. Here I was, gagged, butt-plugged, almost naked, trying to pull that fat bastard when he suddenly jerked on my mouth and tits. And kitted up like that, these people expected me to not only walk but RUN for hours ever’ day while eating nuttin’ but a few carrots and two bowls of tasteless slave kibble. Good enough for Ellie May, who was young and in fairly good shape. But, not for a middle aged lady who had been too busy for physical labor like this! Those bastards ran us ragged for weeks on end. I WILL admit all that exercise tightened everything up and I even lost some weight at my waist and caboose, but what a way to do it! (I’m probably biased, but my daughter looked even more beautiful than ever after several months of this treatment.)

We literally worked our asses off (as in those asses shrank and tightened up) for months, gettin’ whipped on our butts and boobs whenever those bastards didn’t like how hard I tried. If that wasn’t bad enough, that bitch Mary Jacobs drove me crazy with horniness—feeling me up, giving me monster shots of some hormones called “horny juice,” and telling me all the time that I was “a horny old mare who wants to get fucked.” Trouble was, I’d become so used to getting shafted regular-like at the Spit-Roast Bar that I really DID start to miss sex (hey! I’m not that old!) Jest when I couldn’t stand it anymore, them bastards tied both Ellie May and me to metal mounting frames, played with our clits and nipples, and LEFT us there. Five minutes later, I had to watch some slave-naked young stallion be led up to POUND the you-know-what out of both of my daughter’s lower openings. I didn’t know whether to be outraged at him debauching my own adult daughter (who seemed to really enjoy a good shafting) right in front of me or envious that SHE got banged and I was left frustrated. I was about to explode when someone (I never saw him) mounted ME and screwed the bejeebus out of my poor neglected pussy. I was just comin’ down from a fantastic climax when whoever it was abruptly jerked his rod out of my cunt and the horsetail out of my butt and used his penis to give my asshole an exam—from the inside. Despite my reluctance to have anal sex as a free woman, by now I was so used to being corn-holed that I almost forgot to be offended when this unknown stud built up to rammin’ speed and flooded my insides. How could I stay outraged when it felt so darn good?

After a month of pony training, Ellie May and I had much better stamina and tighter bods. Just when I thought we had mastered this crazy situation, the sadists runnin’ that ranch decided to introduce us to pony girl TEAMS. Runnin’ in harness beside Ellie May wasn’t bad—once I glared at her a few times she started followin’ my lead. But then the hands started hitching us up in 4s, 6s, and 8s—rumor in the stables was that we were going to pull the bride and groom away after a weddin’. Who cares? I thought. Many legs make it easier to tow sumthin’ anyway, and once in a while one of the hands felt me up in a nice way. Nobody would recognize us rigged up like this, so to repeat myself, who cares?

(Steve Wilson’s perspective)

My wedding day, and I couldn’t be happier. Professor Hollister, who told me she was in town to visit the Big D, even showed up, smiling and applauding. As B.J. and I exited the Southern Babdist [that’s how it’s pronounced in East Texas] Church in my hometown, my dad was waiting with a team of eight pony girls hitched to a bridal carriage. He’d assured B.J. that the foundation lawyer had checked—all the ponies were genuinely convicted for serious crimes or enslaved for massive debt—but being a former slave she was understandably reluctant to “exploit or mistreat” slaves. I helped her into the carriage, then my father whispered to me, “Check out the wheelers on this team—jest don’t let on to your bride!”)

The first thing I noticed when I climbed up beside my new wife was that the wheeler pair were both sporting our ranch’s brand—a combined W and H—on their left buttocks. It took me most of the drive from the church to the reception hall to realize where I had seen those shapely asses before, although always before they’d been wearing blue jeans—the wheelers were my ex-step-mother and step-sister, freshly branded for our ranch! Somehow, I managed to keep up a conversation with Billie Jean ‘til we got to the hall, where (thankfully) two slave wranglers were waiting to take charge of the team. As I walked B.J. past the ponies and into the hall, I couldn’t help winking at Ellie May’s face, with a bit in her mouth and reins clipped to her nipples. If looks could kill, I would have been felled on the spot. Considering how often she had tortured me, it was difficult for me to regret pissin’ her off jest a little.

After a brief honeymoon, Billie Jean had to go back to Cambridge (Massachusetts, that is) for her second semester of senior year while I stayed home to learn more about the family ranch. Before she left, I came clean and told her that the two ponies (staying in the stall where they used to confine me!) were my ex’s, and Dad and I thought a little role reversal was in order for those two cock-teasers turned cock-hungry sluts.

She thought for a long moment, then drew in a breath and smiled at me. “OK, buster, but I expect you to come visit me on Spring Break—and you’d better not be too tired to let me blow and fuck you, ya hear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” I have the most understanding wife in the world.

*****

These days, Dad and I move about the ranch by driving our own sulkies—Alice pulling him and Ellie May pulling me. In many ways, I think we’re much more humane in our treatment of them than they ever were to us, making sure they get water and suntan lotion in the hot weather. No chastity belts! And if it gets TOO hot, we find a nice stretch of fence line in the shade, where we bend the two ponies over, hands still bound behind their backs and ankles tied well apart, using zip-ties to secure their nipple rings to the fence rail. To explain this in really crude terms, my ex-step-sister enslaved me so that people could fuck me in the ass, so it seems only fitting (she’s a tight fit) that I fuck HER in the butt. Meanwhile my ex-step-mother refused to give my Dad anything more than an occasional missionary screw, whereas now she gives him her mouth and ass anytime he wants them. And then we wash off our dicks and swap play-things; “Momma” has a tight twat and even tighter ass for an old mare, and with the voice-converter collar she really whinnies when she gets shafted back there.

The last time we were using the two ponies in the shade, I had removed Ellie May’s bit to ensure she could breathe in the heat. She took advantage of this to complain bitterly, “Damn you, anyway. All that poundin’ on my butthole HURTS. Why cain’t you be like ever’ other guy—just get your rocks off and leave me alone?”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t you remember, slut? You spent so much time edging me because you were teaching me to prolong my erection. Well, aren’t you proud of your 4-H project? I’m good for at least 30 more minutes of fuckin’ my slut pony. How does THIS feel? (SLAM.)”

(Ellie May’s perspective)

Actually, it felt kinda good, but like I said, being a slave had made me really ENJOY gettin’ shafted all three ways. I guess there’s two morals to this story: don’t use your in-laws for 4-H projects, and if you cain’t avoid being a slave, pray that your owner has a dick that is big enough for fun—but not too big! Ouch!

(The end)
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 04: Free At Last

Post by jeepster »

Awesome! Glad to see Steve free and doing good!
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 04: Free At Last

Post by DonMarco »

Hi Carl,


A great story series finds an end, which leaves no wishes open.
Love the fact, that Elli May get what she deserves and "benefits" in the end from her own work.

Also the Spinoff with the "Sabbatical in Slavery" was a MUST-Read. :tiphat:

Keep them coming.

Don Marco
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 04: Free At Last

Post by StoryLover »

It's good to read Steve is doing good. But I would have liked to have Ellie-May and her mother in chastity at least for their first 2 years in slavery. After all Ellie-May didn't hesitate to do it to Steve.
But at least they're earning their keep, carting around Steve and Jim around the ranch. Though, to me, pony girls should be wearing ballet-boots, not high-heeled boots, ponies don't have heels.
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Re: Ellie May Pt. 04: Free At Last

Post by jeepster »

Wondering when Sarah wll send Flame to Texas for training and "fixing her tattoo"! I realize that might be a Joe Doe story but you suggested it in the last chapter.

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