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Circle Star Slave Pt. 01

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Carl Bradford
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Circle Star Slave Pt. 01

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.)

(Erin Hutchinson’s viewpoint)

“The jury having found the defendant, Erin Hutchinson, guilty of three counts of embezzlement, I sentence the defendant to twelve lashes followed by eight years of criminal enslavement. Sentence to be carried out immediately.” The gavel banged down. Then, without pausing, the judge looked at the bailiffs and ordered. “Strip the slut.”

I was in shock. OK, so I had “borrowed” some of my bank’s funds for a speculative investment, but I fully intended to restore those funds, with interest—until the market crashed. That meant I owed a lot of money, but not, in my entitled mind, costing me my freedom.

My high priced lawyers had appealed the first conviction, gaining me this new trial. Up until 30 seconds ago, when the jury foreman read out the guilty verdict, I had been certain I’d win. How had this happened, I wondered frantically?

With the bailiffs and judge staring hard at me, I reluctantly began removing the plain business suit that I had worn for my trial to convince the jury I wasn’t rich. I flushed even more as I unhooked a black lacy bra, allowing my C-cup breasts to spill forward, unrestrained and bouncing slightly, and then I slipped off my matching black panties. For some reason, my damned nipples were alert as if I enjoyed this exposure. Before I could even cover myself, the head bailiff ordered “collar,” and I realized that he expected me to kneel like a slave—which I suddenly was!—with one hand holding my hair away from my neck. The tight leather collar he installed felt like a hangman’s noose. Turns out, “white collar crime” in the South now means you end up in a brown (slave) collar. Who knew? Then the bailiffs cuffed my hands behind my back, preventing me from covering myself.

The judge spoke again, and in my helpless condition he sounded like the voice of doom. “Tie her to the jury rail.” Two burly bailiffs lifted me almost entirely off the ground and carried me forward, bending me over the rail in front of the jury box and tying my elbows to the rail. Since the jury were still in their seats, that meant that my face and naked boobs were on full display less than two feet away from the front row of people who had just found me guilty of embezzlement. Then someone thrust a rubber-coated bite stick between my teeth and secured it across the back of my neck.

“Carry out the lashes,” came the dispassionate sound of the judge’s voice. A second later, a line of fire burned across both of my exposed butt cheeks, eliciting an involuntary howl that was significantly muted by the bite stick. Like clockwork, about ten seconds apart, eleven more lashes from that rubber strap seared into my bottom—each one was exactly the same in force, but where one stroke cut across the path of a previous blow it inflicted much greater torment. I felt as if every inch of my once-beautiful (I’d been told so often enough) rump was reduced to hamburger. I’m sure my face was equally red as I sobbed and moaned and squirmed in helpless agony. Finally, that unseen strap ceased falling, and I felt someone spray my rear end with a cooling mist of painkiller. Thank heavens that was over, I thought.

Only that turned out to be just the opening act. The bailiffs untied my elbows and pulled me upright, paused for ten seconds to give the jury a full frontal look at my nude body and tear-stained face, then walked me out of the courtroom, past the gawking spectators and reporters and down the hall to a room with the ominous label “Branding.” Up to this point, my mind had refused to contemplate the full horror of my enslavement, but now I recalled that the State of Texas always branded enslaved criminals on their ass cheeks! As soon as I was strapped down and immobilized, a guy wearing asbestos gloves and a leather apron showed me the iron he was about to use on me. Glowing white hot, the branding head consisted of a five-pointed star, similar to that on the state flag, but in this case the star was surrounded by a circle that made it look like a Western lawman’s badge—the “Circle Star” brand that marked a convicted criminal slave. Cringing at the impending trauma suggested by this branding iron, my mind sought refuge in an irrelevancy—“Good thing I don’t wear bathing suits very often,” I thought, reflecting that my butt would be marred by that brand for the rest of my miserable existence.

The bailiffs hadn’t even bothered to remove the bite stick from my mouth, since they knew that this brand, superimposed on the raw meat that had once been my tushie, would evoke an ever greater outcry than the strapping. I must have cried out, but I don’t remember because I fainted from the intense pain, layered on top of my helplessness and hopelessness; fainting was the only way to escape, even temporarily, from a waking nightmare of pain and humiliation.

*****
I awoke some undetermined time later, face-down on a paper-covered medical bench. My entire rear end was screaming in pain, but the sensation of someone gently touching me back there caused me to twist my head until I saw a guy in a lab coat gingerly wrapping my lacerated buttocks in gauze.
I couldn’t resist. “Usually, I get dinner before I allow a guy to handle my ass,” I murmured. The guy working on me had the grace to laugh, but then another voice—which I recognized as that of the head bailiff—replied, without any emotion, “Don’t worry, slut—from now on EVERYBODY gets to feel your ass and the only dinner you get will be slave kibble.” That brought me back to the full reality of my plight. He was right—I was now nothing but a piece of (tenderized) slave ass at the mercy of any free person who controlled me. No more elegant dinners in business suits—hell, probably no more clothes—for the next eight years. I had to struggle not to cry again.

The slave vet, or whatever he was, finished quickly, but the head bailiff had more to say. “While we’re on the subject of using your body, you need to thank the Doc by giving him a nice blow-job.” He could see the shock on my face. “Look, slut, for the next eight years, most of your interactions with free men will involve you giving them pleasure on demand. You can do it freely on your knees, as a sort of thank-you that MIGHT earn you a little consideration when he treats you again, or you can do it with your body tied down and your mouth stretched around a ring-gag, which will make it more fun for me but not for you. This first time, I’ll give you a choice—I suggest you learn from this opportunity.”

Well, I guess my slavery was starting early, and the bailiff was right—I might as well be generous or they’d just force me anyway. I clumsily crawled off the bench and knelt in front of the vet, my butt still stinging. I knew the pose I was expected to assume—thighs wide, fingers interlocked behind my neck so that my arms pulled my nude breasts up, offering them (and the rest of me) to the guy. And smiling broadly.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Master. May I please suck your huge cock?” I know it will sound like bragging, but my whole life I’ve been considered pretty, sexy, you name it—blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, prominent chest and tush. I doubted that any heterosexual man and only a few women would resist the sight of a naked blond slut offering her mouth and indeed herself to them like that. No surprise except the scope of my new meal—the vet unzipped his trousers to reveal a rather large dick, and I quickly impaled my mouth on it.

I’d never really liked giving head to guys, and usually did it only when I wanted to be especially nice to a boyfriend, such as when he gave me an expensive present. Some women will tell you that they enjoy being in control because it’s their mouth and tongue that causes the guy to stiffen and come, but I still hated having to literally kneel down in submission before the guy, giving him a power trip that humiliated me. And let’s not even discuss the lack of hygiene most guys display. But the SOB bailiff was correct—I no longer had a choice about whether I did it, and I’d much rather climb down there voluntarily instead of being forced to do it. I used my best technique to get it over with quickly, including smiling happily up into the vet’s eyes as if he had offered me a tasty ice cream cone. He came in less than three minutes, and I had the presence of mind to remember that, as a slave, I could only swallow his jism after I stuck out my tongue and exhibited it for his approval. Like most average guys I had ever encountered, he seemed so thankful for my smiling services that the episode was all over in five minutes—although it occurred to me that I’d probably get a similar oral usage every time somebody examined and wrapped my new wound—which was starting to really throb, by the way. You ever hear the expression, “it left a bad taste in my mouth?” Whoever came up with that line must have been thinking about giving a blow-job as a slave.

The bailiffs told me that I would stay in their jail until my brand began to heal, then I’d be sold at a public market—the courts found they got more money that way than from hasty sales off the loading dock, even though a slave market took ten percent of the sale price. So I DID see the same veterinarian every day for the next eight, and as I expected that meant eight more blow-jobs. In return, I got very considerate, gentle care, so it wasn’t a bad trade, not to mention slurping on a meat-sicle that distracted me from my other discomforts. Damn, that thing hurt.

Eight days in jail meant a LOT more than eight loads of cum down my throat or onto my face, however. Almost every interaction between me as a new slave and one of the bailiffs—male or female—involved oral service on my knees. I think a lot of these guys would have been happy to ram either or both of my lower openings, but there was a tag on my neck that, I gathered, warned people not to fuck anything below my cleavage while I was still healing. To add insult to injury, a little coin bank was clipped to my collar, and each person who used my mouth was expected to put two quarters into that bank. This tiny fee was supposedly to defray the costs of feeding a slut on the taxpayer’s dime, but it really meant that a new female slave like me was also a VERY cheap whore, giving blow jobs and pussy lickings (for 50 cents per set of genitals) to absolute strangers who were NOT her owners. I mean, at least they could have charged $5 for each service to help repay the funds I’d embezzled, right?

I’d never had lesbian sex before, but at least the females in that courthouse tended to have better hygiene than the males. Two of those lesbian encounters were with the judge’s admin assistant when I was summoned to his chambers. Each time after I licked her pussy to climax I got the added “honor” of sucking His Honor’s legal shaft—so you could say that he shafted me every time I saw him. As I dutifully licked and swallowed, he casually inquired how I was doing physically and mentally, and I’m sure that somewhere my time kneeling between his legs was listed as a health and welfare inspection! It might have improved HIS mental health, but not mine. I still say it’s corrupt for a male judge to sentence a female to slavery and then use her body whenever he feels like it. Plus, he insisted that, to maintain his objectivity, he couldn’t possibly put coins into my bank, which just meant he got his “kicks for free,” the cheap bastard. Oh, well, turns out I was right the first time—even as a slave, I DID get “dinner” in return for sex. I suppose a mouthful of sperm has a considerable value in protein, but it sure doesn’t taste as good as filet mignon. Neither does slave kibble.

Every day in that jail meant more blowjobs and titty-fucks, and every day I stewed, both angry and terrified by my new helplessness and exposure. I’ve never had any desire to be incarcerated, but I would willingly trade six months in prison for that week in a collar, on my knees, where everyone I saw had more power and status than did I.

*****
On the seventh day the Lord rested, but on the eighth the slave whore got auctioned off. Barefoot, collared, cuffed but otherwise naked, I was chained into a coffle with three other judicial slaves and forced to walk the five blocks from the courthouse/jail to the Longhorn Slave Market. It was a warm spring day, but this free floor show brought downtown traffic to a standstill (with lots of horn honking) while passers-by grabbed quick cell-phone photos, squeezes, and finger-fucks on our defenseless bodies. It was a rough introduction to the reality of slave helplessness and exposure in free society; I was disgusted but (I have to admit) felt my nipples and clit become erect from the objectification I experienced. As a free woman, I had very occasionally enjoyed it when a strong man pinned me down and pounded my loins, but now I found that, by extension, being EVERYONE’s naked objectified subordinate gave me a real sexual thrill.

Once we arrived at the market, slave wranglers took charge of us from the bailiffs, replacing our temporary collars with heavier ones that dug into our necks and would, we were assured, shock us witless if we tried to escape or didn’t obey. The warning seemed stupid to me—how could I escape with no clothes or money? Nowhere in the U.S. would give me refuge. Besides, I was already frightened out of my mind and secretly thrilled at being everyone’s potential sex toy. Sigh.

In short order, we got our tracking chips (stapled into our flesh between our breasts) and our Slave Identification Numbers—after the horror of branding, I barely felt the tattooing machine that inscribed the number on my lower lip. The wrangler took graphic photographs of my naked body to include in the data base, ostensibly for identification but really to further subjugate and objectify me. A slave veterinarian examined me briefly, then inserted a subcutaneous rod of etonogestrel for long-term birth control. I knew what it was for because the vet explained it to me; the very thought that I needed such an implant reminded me that, now that my brand was healing, I could expect to have free men discharging whenever they wanted to into any of my three openings!

Unlike most women my age (I was 30 at the time), I had never been interested in Slave Yoga, so in comparison to the younger slaves I had to spend a LOT of time on the wooden stage that day, practicing the suggestive poses and obscene come-ons (“Master, please ram your massive cock up my tight ass”) before my slave wrangler decided I was proficient. Or maybe he just enjoyed looking at a MILF prancing around like a low-budget stripper—who knows? Spending most of an hour gyrating my unclothed body and repeating filthy come-ons in front of a dozen clothed, muscular wranglers served its purpose, making me very obedient and more than a little horny. Okay, hornIER—eight days as a naked sex object was already getting to me.

Things sped up at that time, and I soon found myself unable to speak (after a spray down my throat) and bound naked and spread eagled, face up, on a metal table. On other nearby tables were a dozen other slaves, mostly female, who were equally on display. I had dreaded having a group of young adults fondling and disparaging my “old” body. What I HADN’T anticipated was that several bank vice presidents and other executives—my former peers—would also show up to jeer at me. The lewd way they fondled and described my body would have gotten them in trouble with H.R. a few months ago, but not now. And my body lubricated and aroused in response, which they gleefully pointed out to each other as evidence that I was a “natural slut.” Dumbasses—didn’t they know that was a natural mechanism for some women? Unable to move or respond, I had to lie there while they made remarks such as “She used her body to fuck her way to the top [not true], and now she’ll get fucked all the way back down” and “Find out which whorehouse buys her so we can finally ream that tight little ass.” It was frustrating to listen, voiceless, to such comments but it sounded as if I had no future at that bank even without the embezzlement charge.

In contrast to the boisterous young adults and the obnoxious bank executives, the career slave merchants who assessed me for grading were quiet and dispassionate, almost bored while fingering me. When “my” slave wrangler finally released me and gave me the antidote to restore my voice, I was surprised (and I hate to admit pleased) to hear that I had graded as Choice, which was not bad for an over-the-hill broad who was petrified the whole time.

Then, it was on to the main event, being auctioned off, collared and slave naked, in front of dozens of (mostly male) spectators including my obnoxious former co-workers, who spent the entire time making suggestive remarks about what they wanted to do with my body. Nor did the auctioneer spare me, using his voice and whip to force me into increasingly-lewd poses. Somehow, I got through the ordeal, with a unknown “number 44” giving the winning bid of $140,000 to own me completely for the next eight years. I couldn’t help thinking that price was not bad for an over-the-hill broad; could it be that was actually proud of being bought as a fucktoy? Following that, I had to wait in a cage, wondering and worrying about WHO owned me now. The wrangler had released my wrists, but that temporary freedom did me no good inside a locked cage.

*****
After what seemed like forever, but was probably less than 40 minutes, I heard footsteps (it sounded like a wrangler’s boots and another free person’s softer shoes) walking on the concrete floor towards my cage. The wrangler had told me what to do, so by the time these two people reached my cage I was kneeling, facing the locked entrance gate, with my soft thighs spread wide and my fingers again interlocked behind my neck, touching my collar. I had told myself not to show any emotion, but I’m sure my face betrayed my astonishment when the guy with the wrangler was “little” Jimmy Dillon, one of the junior accountants in my former office.

Quick background: I had felt sort of sorry for Jimmy because everyone in the office—including even some of his fellow-nerds—had disparaged and picked on him. I had tried to treat him like a human being, always addressing him as “Jim” with a smile and a “Thank you” when he gave me some information. About a year before my arrest, I discovered that he had read too much into my friendly courtesy, because he startled me by asking for a date! OK, he wasn’t much younger than I was, but it still took enormous social guts for him to ask out a good-looking senior executive who might have blighted his career with a few words. I tried to be as gentle as possible in turning him down, but I could see the hurt in his eyes.

Well, the tables had turned, and now he was clearly in charge, even before the wrangler introduced him as “your new owner, James Dillon.” As always, he was wearing a cheap, made-in-Asia suit, but that suit, which had seemed so chintzy in my office, looked like a million bucks compared to my naked submission.

“Knowing you, slut, or should I say ‘Mizz Hutchinson?’” he began, using the same calm voice I had heard for several years, “You’re wondering how a junior guy like me could afford to buy a high-class piece of slave pussy, right?” He paused and looked at me until I realized that he expected a response, so I murmured “Yes, Master” while blushing at his highly-accurate description of my status.

“Well, I have very good credit now that I’d paid off my college loans, and besides, it was easy to get a loan when I pledged you as collateral! In fact, I imagine that the executives at OUR bank would love to foreclose on you so they can keep you around the office as a naked sex toy, passing you around between them every night.” Oh, god, I could just imagine how mortifying that would be. I closed my eyes at the horror of that idea.

Jimmy—I have to learn to think of him as “Master” to avoid a bad mistake!—must have seen the fear in my face. “Don’t worry, babe, I have no intention of letting that happen, so I borrowed the money from someone else. As a matter of fact, because I was sitting behind the executives at your auction, they probably didn’t notice who was bidding on you!” I felt a flood of relief that must have showed in my face. “BUT,” he continued, “As you can imagine, I’m gonna have to rent you out rather frequently to make the payments on the loan.” Crap—I had imagined being sold as a sex slave, but the prospect of a young kid whom I had known owning and pimping me out was only slightly less disgusting than being a sex toy for the Seventh Floor.
“I can see you don’t like the situation, but in case you haven’t noticed, Erin, what you like isn’t going to be important for the next eight years, is it?” He inquired gently but stared hard at me. I knew he was right, so I dropped my eyes and murmured, “No, Master.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his face become even harder and he nodded, as if to himself. “I think it’s time we get something straight between us”—and then, realizing what he had just said, he grinned lewdly and snickered.

“OK, slave, stand up, sit your cute ass down on the end of that table, then lie back onto the table.” I dutifully obeyed—I didn’t want the wrangler to shock me. “Now,” Jimmie continued, I want you to lift up your legs, bend them at the knees, and put your feet on the table next to your tight little butt.” Again, I had no choice about obeying this dweeb who used to report to me. “Now,” he continued, “Put your hands on your ankles to hold them there, and . . . let your knees fall apart, spreading them as wide as possible.”

I don’t know where this young guy had learned it, but he certainly knew how to impose his will on a slave. There I was, slave naked and spread out so that he could see every inch of my damp sex—not to mention my boobs! Next, he walked over beside the table, reaching with one hand to squeeze my boob and then my nipple, while the other hand slid down to heft my thighs, two-finger-fuck my birth canal, and then very gently tease my clit, which was already standing erect while I leaked liquid. The combination of being completely exposed while he casually toyed with my body brought me most of the way to orgasm. I suddenly realized that was panting with arousal.

Driven half out of my mind by a combination of exposure and fondling, without thinking I murmured, “Ummm—please fuck me, Master.”
Jimmie picked up on that, and his voice became warm and almost condescending. “So you want me to fuck you, Erin? OK, but you know that as a slave you have to ask me politely to use your slutty cunt.”

He was determined to maximize his control, but by now I recognized that I had to go along with the humiliation if I wanted anything out of the encounter. So I fell back on the Block Yoga mantras I had been forced to repeat that morning: “Master, will you please shove your massive dick up my slutty little cunt?”

At least he delivered, temporarily putting me out of my misery. A surprisingly-large and stiff prick suddenly occupied my lubricated passage and began to pump more and more rapidly in and out of me. At first, he clutched my hips tightly, fingering my new brand, but after a few dozen thrusts he reached up with both hands, grabbed my breasts hard, and used THEM as handles to shaft me, pulling me down the table towards his cock and thrusting hips. I was moaning almost incoherently, begging him to “Please, keep fucking me . . . right . . . there!” The sensation was so great that (I later realized) my brand wasn’t even hurting for the first time in over a week. In seconds I had my best orgasm in months, followed a few seconds later by the sensation of hot jism flooding my innards. Then he collapsed onto my heaving chest as we both struggled for breath.

When he finally stood back up and retrieved his trousers, I remained spread, waiting for him to release me from the lewd position required by his instructions. I did, however, smile and tell him “Thank you, Master.” Slavery was still humiliating, but I had just discovered that it wasn’t all bad. As a free woman, having a strong guy pin my down and shaft me gave me a submissive thrill, but having a former subordinate order slave Erin around and casually fuck her was FANTASTIC.

*****
He was obviously pleased with himself and me, but tried to remain a commanding, in-charge master. “Stand up, slave . . . Back hands!” I almost jumped to respond to this new, impressive version of the young guy I had known and felt sorry for—and I heard the wrangler step forward and cuff my wrists behind me. Then I became aware that my new owner’s cum was dribbling down my leg.
Master James spoke, very pleasantly, to the wrangler, “She seems to be leaking; would you mind getting her cleaned up before I take her away?”

“No problem, Sir,” said the obliging wrangler, and then, in a much firmer, condescending voice, “Let’s go, bitch—time for a Slut Wash.” As if I had any choice, with my hands cuffed and his fingers inserted firmly between my buttocks, grasping and pressuring my tush as he guided me out of the cage, down a hall between other cages, and finally to what looked like a car wash. The only difference was that the “cars” being washed were all people, slave naked, bound people. In short order, I found my legs tethered three feet apart while a winch pulled upward on a cable connected to the chain of the cuffs behind my back. This upwards pressure forced me to bend over to avoid dislocating my shoulders; my breasts dangled freely below me, completing the image of exposure and helplessness.

The two young men in rainsuits who washed me took full advantage of that exposure, fondling and goosing me, then flushing both my rectum and my labia with lukewarm water, all the while speculating between them about how well such an “old cow” as me would perform when shafted and whether my “ass” was as tight as it looked (that question was followed by each of then shoving two gloved fingers up my butt to check. Apparently I passed their test!) Being over-charged sexually, I kind of enjoyed this dominant attention, but not enough to get any sexual release out of the situation.

Instead, after a trip to the commode to expel the enema and then a quick blow-dry, I found myself once again handcuffed, this time on a leash that Master James used to lead me out of the building. At least he’d paid for a pair of flip-flops to protect my feet, but otherwise I was once again outside, in daylight, fully exposed to the view of dozens of people. Free people, unlike me.

My new owner—and didn’t THAT sound weird!—noticed my embarrassment, so when he reached a modest convertible sports car, he talked about the situation while releasing my wrists from behind my back.

“Now that you’re a pleasure slut,” he began, very calmly, “We need to help you overcome this embarrassment, this instinct to try to cover up, which is only appropriate for a free woman. You’ve got a nice bod, sweetheart, and part of your responsibility as a slave is to improve the view for any free adults looking at you.” he remarked as he casually groped both of my breasts, ensuring that my arousal remained close to its peak. “So,” he continued, “There’s no reason for you to get up-tight; I need to ensure you’re accustomed to public nudity and display. Sit down in the car and fasten your seat belt.”

Of course, that meant that the shoulder belt passed right between my pendulous breasts, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Once I was belted in, he re-cuffed my wrists in front of me and told me to reach behind my head and grasp the headrest. This naturally caused my mammaries to stick out with erect nipples as if I were putting on a sex show—at which time he used some cord to tie the wrist cuffs to the headrest so that I was immobilized in a position where I seemed to be offering myself to anyone who even glanced towards the car.

“Relax, slut,” he said as he drove out of the parking lot. “Like I said, one of your duties as my pleasure slave is to ensure everyone gets a good look at that body—so smile!” It was hard to stay calm, let alone smile, and I got even more distressed when passing cars “honked at my hooters” and Master James casually fondled my breast or my clit every time he paused at a stop light! I didn’t know whether to die of humiliation or climax from sexual arousal. Maybe both, coming and going simultaneously?

And then it got worse. He parked next to a credit union, untied me from the car seat, and led me in the front door, this time by my cuffed hands. Inside the lobby were two cashiers and several patrons—all of them, of course, fully clothed, and all of them looking with contempt at the lowly slave flaunting her body in their view. Master James asked the receptionist by the front door if he could see the manager, and two minutes later he led me into an office and ordered me to kneel—which of course required me to spread my thighs vulnerably apart and again hook my cuffed hands behind my neck, offering everything I had for public viewing.

And THEN I realized that the credit union official James was meeting was Ralph Oliver—a former employee of our bank with whom I had tangled on several occasions. I didn’t think it was possible for me to blush redder, but I was wrong. Ralph lost no time in gloating about my loss of status:

“Well, well.” He murmured, staring at my naked body. “The great Erin Hutchinson, on her knees, cuffed and butt naked in my office. I always thought you’d make a good fuck, but I can see you’re actually a little fat and over the hill.” He shifted his gaze and addressed my owner. “I’d heard that she got in trouble over embezzlement, which doesn’t surprise me because she was always a wise-ass. Only now, I gather, her wise ass just got branded!”

He snickered. “So, what can I do for you, Jim?”

“Well, Ralph, you may be aware that your credit union lent me the money to buy this slut, so I thought it best if I brought her in to register her officially as the chattel collateral for the loan.” Master James replied.

Ralph’s smile seemed to grow even wider, if that were possible. “Jeeze, Jimmy. I approved the loan when you told me you were buying a Choice slave for your personal use, but I didn’t realize just WHICH slut you were buying. For the first time since I became manager here, I have to admit that I hope one of our credit union members defaults on the loan—so I can repossess this bitch! She’d be useful entertaining new customers, not to mention bent over my desk.” They both snickered, then went through some paperwork, including copies of my slave registration data (with those blush-worthy photos from the slave registry!) and a loan contract. When they were finished, Master James again referred directly to me.

“I’m sure you know, Ralph, that it’s a tradition for a slave to orally service the official who registers her indenture. Since she was judicially enslaved before I bought her at the Longhorn, Erin hasn’t had a chance to participate in that tradition. Would you care to have this little whore service you?”
I wanted to sink into the floor and die at that moment, whereas Ralph was overjoyed. “Erin Hutchinson, the arrogant bitch who always made my life miserable at that bank, on her knees wearing nothing but a collar while sucking my dick? Sure, why not?”

“You know what to do,” said Master James firmly but almost kindly while looking at me. “Don’t embarrass me, girl; and don’t forget to ask nicely for permission, got it?”

Crap; it seemed there was no bottom to my fall from grace. “Yes, Master,” I squeaked as I brought my cuffed hands down in front of me and crawled awkwardly around the near end of the desk, acutely aware that my bare hips were swaying like a cow’s. At the end of my crawl, a smiling Ralph had turned his chair sideways to face me and then unzipped his trousers.

“Master,” I began tentatively, practically fainting with humiliation. “May I please suck your monster cock?”

“You may, slut,” he replied, and added the command to “mouth.”

Once again, I had to nerve myself to go through with the act. I’d never thought I would be grateful for my time servicing all those bailiffs, but at least they had taught me what to do and how to overcome my humiliation. Presented with his rigid penis, I licked it all over before plunging my smiling mouth over it, swallowing as much as I could and working my head back and forth as I stared reverently into his gloating face, pretending that I was enjoying myself whereas I would rather have faced another whipping and branding that make this arrogant bastard happy. My instinct was to get it over with quickly, but I had learned the HARD way, while licking other hard dicks, that this would not satisfy most men, so I slowed down and used my tongue and lips to deliver as much sensation as possible. After about five minutes, he erupted into my mouth so strongly that I couldn’t contain the flood of jism; a little of it trickled out of the corners of my mouth. Struggling to breathe around the gooey, repellant stuff, I thrust out my tongue to display the cum to the guy who had just used me like the lowest form of sex object. He found one more chance to subjugate me by pulling out his camera and photographing my blushing, dripping face with the tongue full of goo.

“They say a photograph is worth a thousand words, but THIS photo of bitch-goddess Hutchinson finally performing something she’s qualified for—a blow job—is worth a thousand bucks. Just wait until I e-mail this to all my friends at her former bank.”

“Sounds good to me—she needs to learn her place,” Master James commented. “But—do me a favor, please, and don’t tell them WHO owns her, or I’ll never get any peace at work with people asking to rent or borrow her cunt. Tell you what—if you keep quiet as to who owns her ass, I’ll be glad to bring her back to visit you in a month, OK?” How humiliating would it be, I wondered, to be a slave slut for this guy simply to avoid even greater subjugation from my other former colleagues? Of course, my new owner had already taught me that I had no choice about who used me in what way, or even who got to see my naked, so there was no sense worrying about the humiliation. Hell, Jimmy would be within his rights to cage me in his bank office and rent me out by the hour to all my former colleagues!

*****
After another ride with my hands tied to the headrest and my bobbing boobs on full display (in a manner that kept my nipples at full prominence), he again released me from his car, this time to lead me on a leash walking SLOOWWLLYY through the lobby of an apartment building to his modest one-bedroom home. Once he released my cuffed hands, he indicated a place on the carpet in front of a chair; by now I had learned to assume the kneeling position without hesitation, even though it was a supremely submissive pose that exposed every inch of my body to his gaze and touch. Sitting down in that chair, he was motionless for a few minutes—and I realized that he was looking at my face rather than my body, even though the front of his pants were still tented.

Finally, he asked, “What have you learned today, Erin?”

I knew what he wanted to hear, and he had certainly taught me the hard way: “That my Master controls who gets to see and use me, so there’s no sense worrying about my situation. But it’s still hard to live like that.”

He sighed. “I know it’s a shock for you, and I empathize. But, that’s why I want you to get over your loss of freedom and modesty. Soooo, since now you understand that I control whatever happens to you, what do you need to do?”

“Try to please you in any way possible. Speaking of which, may I suck your massive cock, Master?” It was humiliating but true that I was not only turned on by my subjugation but also quickly learning that I should cater to my owner if I hoped for any kind of safety and stability over the next eight years. I reminded myself that, if I found it humiliating to kneel and blow my younger former colleague, at least he seemed to care about my well-being and care how I felt. I could easily find myself as the office slut servicing ALL of my gloating former co-workers, who would happily pound all my openings every day and take turns using me at night and on weekends.

There was no sense hurrying with my mouth and tongue, because Master James had the power to make me serve him in far more unpleasant ways. I thought I even smelled (and tasted) remnants of my own arousal from when he had mounted me at the Longhorn. Now, as I gently lapped and sucked at every inch of his growing penis, he petted my hair and told me what he expected of me. In brief: he would dictate whether and how I dressed—and I was thrilled by the thought of wearing ANY clothing about eight days in the buff, even though I suspected (correctly) that his idea of appropriate clothing would be far more revealing than the pant suits I had worn as a free and very well paid woman.

Beyond that, he expected me to clean and cook for him whenever he was not (shudder) renting me out. Some nights I would be honored to warm his bed, but if I was difficult or disobedient in any way I would be relegated to a small cage without even a blanket to keep me warm. He also demanded instant response if he sent me to the corner or otherwise placed me in “time out.” To reinforce his control, once he unloaded down my throat he put me through a series of raunchy slave yoga poses with accompanying mantra.

Master James also instructed me to wear a clear plastic apron whenever I was cooking, starting that evening by broiling him a steak and using a combination of microwave and oven to bake a potato. Once the meal was prepared, he had me kneel next to him while he ate, in which position he periodically offered me a bite of steak, potato, or salad, all of which tasted heavenly after more than a week of slave kibble and vegetable mash.
I caught myself leaning my head and torso (including my left breast) comfortably against his leg, feeling (in comparison to the previous eight days) as if I were safe and cared for. After supper was over, he petted my hair like an animal. With a start, I recognized that I was slipping into slave mind, sort of like an abused dog (OK, literally a bitch!) who had finally found someone, however demanding, to take care of it—a true master. I was still naked and collared, but now, at least, I was the possession of a nice guy who had (at one time, anyway) liked and respected me enough to want to date. Trouble was, there were no dating rituals now; he could use me any time and any way he wanted, and (at least in comparison to being the office whore where I used to work) I would have to be grateful for his protection.

That sense of being a treasured if controlled pet only increased when we showered together and then he took me to bed. With my hands cuffed in front of me and my owner spooning behind me, I fell asleep feeling safe and almost happy after eight days of horror.

And woke up feeling the same way. I slipped out of bed and, still cuffed, managed to urinate and brush my teeth. Then, knowing what was expected of bedwarmers, I crawled under the covers and began licking, sucking, and fondling his cock and balls. I knew he was awake because his hand gently toyed with my hair while I continued to fellate him. When he was fully erect and I took a breath before trying to swallow all of him, he suddenly flipped me over, dragged my body up the bed, and pushed my bound wrists over my head and behind my neck, so that he could grasp each wrist with his arms under my back. I had no trouble thinking of him as “Master James” because he clearly mastered me, pinning me down and pounding me to a rapid climax—a climax for him, that is. For a moment, I was afraid that he would leave me unsatisfied, but once again he displayed his concern by pulling me back into a spoon and then furiously man-handling my clit and nipples until I, in turn, exploded. Damn, I thought—if I HAVE to be a slave, this is a pretty great way to live!

*****
The next several days were a sort of kinky honeymoon. He went to work every day and left me home with instructions to clean, cook, and work out on his treadmill. For the first time in years, I didn’t have to worry about my career or customers or money or anything like that—just pleasing my owner. The second night, he presented me with a tan-colored bra that matched my own skin, saying he didn’t want my tits to sag from eight years without support (just the thought of eight years as a naked slave was bone-chilling). Then he sat me down next to his computer and proceeded to order a bunch of clothes, occasionally consulting me about sizes. I was privately somewhat embarrassed at what he chose for me to wear, most of which was stereotypical revealing clothing for bimbos and whores—a French maid outfit with plunging cleavage line and no panties, a schoolgirl uniform with very short skirt, a street-walker image that included high heels and fishnet stockings—you get the idea. Still, I told myself that ANY clothing was better than being slave naked, so I tried to be enthusiastic and grateful. Besides, it was a small price to pay to make my protector happy. As each package arrived over the next several days, he had me do a “fashion show” of slut-wear.

I assumed that I was just fulfilling his fantasies, and that it didn’t matter because he was the only one to see me like that. Wrong. One weekday night he took me out, dressed in hooker couture, to visit Victoria’s Secret and similar places to try on and acquire yet more slut-wear—pushup bras, G-strings, a bustier, and so on. A trip to a slave beauty parlor restored my hairstyle and finger polish. And THEN he told me that I would be wearing some of my new clothing when I worked to “pay off the loan” which had bought me.

Master James’ methods of renting my body to raise the money varied. Most of the time, he rented me out to the local office of SlutsRUs, which put me to work as a pleasure slave—in a glory hole, as a lap dancer at a strip club, sometimes even as an actual street walker, which I found the most degrading as well as nerve wracking. All those years of education and banking experience reduced to being rented out as a slave whore—and sometimes I wondered what I would do for a job when I regained my freedom in middle age. Better not to think about that now—I guess I could always earn my keep in a glory hole—with all the protein shakes I wanted!

The SlutsRUs employee who usually “handled” me—although to be honest he rarely touched me—was named Master Hugh; I had to say he looked out for my safety, especially when I was standing on a street corner with three other whores, but he showed very little concern for how I felt. I was just one of a dozen or so collared women whom he moved around like commodities, and he only praised me when I brought a particularly large haul of money back from turning a trick. In between, I spent a lot of time inside cars and sometimes cheap hotel rooms, giving blowjobs if I was lucky but often more “intimate services” to really repulsive guys. I learned to give myself a douche and enema every afternoon before lubricating my openings for “work” and again late every night when I staggered home, often with nylons laddered, makeup smeared, fluids dripping out of me, and very sore labia and anus. I tried not to complain, but a few times my owner gave me 24 hours off to rest and recover from the mauling I experienced.
Except for a few tips (money tips not dickheads!), I didn’t get to keep any of the money I made, nor was I able to pass it to Master James. He apparently got a flat fee from the agency, varying only slightly depending on where Master Hugh hired me out. To be honest, though, James was so much more concerned and considerate about my feelings that, once again, slave mind slipped in and I began to feel happy just because he paid attention to me. Having reached rock bottom as a pleasure slave who had to put out for dozens of strangers every week, I had to find SOME basis (other than as a fucktoy) for a feeling of self-worth, and I guess it was natural that my ego craved validation from the man who owned me—even though he was the one selling my ass (and sometimes it was literally MY ASS that was sold, ouch!) to strangers! Sounds odd, I know, but James was the only one who talked to me as if I were a normal person whom he valued for something more than just my body. A night (or at least an early morning) in his arms went a long way to give me the courage for another evening renting my three openings to smelly, self-important bastards. The concept of being a street-walking slave may sound erotic, but the reality was often disgusting!

It was bad enough to be a slave whore for hire, but in the back of my mind I worried even more about encountering someone who recognized me. I had a close call, once—Master Hugh delivered me to a hotel room on consignment, only to find that I had known and even dated the John in college. Mark Ansel had been a pain in the butt ten years earlier, and now he was a REAL pain in my ass! I denied knowing him and put on a fake Boston accent, but that didn’t prevent him from taking out his frustrations on me. Apparently, he had both hated and lusted after me in school, so now he was REALLY rough with my supposed twin, climaxing (in both senses of the word) by thoroughly reaming my behind. That was one of the times I was thankful to have lubricated myself back there, so I could PRETEND to be in pain while only suffering slightly. To be honest, I think that my moaning and complaining got him off more than actually using a woman. I must have convinced him that I really wasn’t his long-lost lust, because he gave me a huge tip for putting up and putting out.

I barely made it out of his hotel room before I broke down crying and had to take refuge in the hotel bathroom to put myself back together. When I finally got “home,” Master James immediately recognized that something was bothering me. Again, being cradled in his arms helped me put myself back together mentally. By now, slave mind was inexorably mixed with affection if not love—who would ever have thought I would fall for the wimpy accountant who was pimping me out on a daily basis?

(To be continued)
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Re: Circle Star Slave Pt. 01

Post by Belinda »

A marvelous well written tale. I love stories with mature professional women brought down to a level of servitude to society. To loose their humanity and become hyper sexual beings. You are a master truly in this literary world.

Humbly,

Belinda
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Re: Circle Star Slave Pt. 01

Post by Mr. Smith »

I am glad to see Carl exploring the world of penal slavery to see his take on it and look forward to the next instalment. As I read this over again I was thinking how much fun it would be if one of the jurors reached forward and copped a feel.

There I was tied down to the jury railing with my tits hanging over the edge right in front of juror number 4, the seventy-five year old Mrs. Crabwitch, who was glaring down at me. During jury selection she acted like your favorite grandma who I was happy to have on my jury, but once seated on the jury her demeanor had change. Now she just scared me!

Suddenly she reached forward grabbing my right nipple between finger and thumb giving it a mighty squeeze as I squealed into the bit as the courtroom erupted into laughter at the sudden spectacle. Damn she had a strong grip for an old lady!

Grinning down at me she laughed, "Stupid slave girl, You are going to work harder as slave slut then you ever did as a high and mighty bank executive. You earned everything your going to get in your new life."

The judge stopped laughing long enough to intervene, "Mrs. Crabwitch, please release the sluts teet so the bailiff can whip her ass."

Smiling sweetly she replied, "Yes your honor," all the while giving my poor nipple one last squeeze before letting go.
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