Same Old Halloween Costume

[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, and no actual slaves were harmed in the making of this story. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Janice Harris’ viewpoint)

Being a public defender sometimes means challenging the (usually) well-intentioned prosecutors and police officers who just want to “lock the scumbag up and throw away the key.” To be honest, many if not most of my clients really deserve to be incarcerated, but it’s my responsibility to give them the best possible legal representation. Period. Just last week, after I cross-examined Deputy Roberts and established that evidential chain of custody had been lost on a weapon, I heard Roberts mumbling under his breath about what a “tight-assed bitch” I was. In a way, that was a compliment, acknowledging that I was doing my job by keeping him honest—but as you’ll see, the deputy’s frustration came back to haunt me.

Anyway, like many other young professionals, I find my life both rewarding and stressful. Regular visits to the gym keep me toned and work off some of my nervous energy, but life is still a (mostly self-induced) challenge. Fortunately, my fiancé, Brian Holden, makes my life more than bearable. Not only do we have common interests and political beliefs, but our love affair and especially the sex is fan-frackin’-tastic! Early on in our relationship, Brian wormed my hidden weakness out of me—I’m a closet submissive who enjoys being dominated and used sexually. More specifically, he knows that the idea of being a slave, “forced” to service strong attractive men like him, both terrifies and excites me. I know that’s a stereotype—the high-energy, assertive woman who (in her free time) reaches inner balance and peace by yielding total control to males—but in my case, at least, it’s true. Ever since I went to the Big D Slave Market to be graded soon after I reached age 18, I have found the idea of sexual slavery, of surrendering power to an owner, to be a great stress reliever. Most of my masturbatory fantasies center around being a naked, bound, sex object, something that in reality I would find frustrating and horrendous.

Brian, as I’ve indicated, helps and in fact forces me to live out those fantasies of surrender and submission while still cherishing and respecting me. When he proposed to me, five months ago, we even talked about some kind of Free In Name Only contract. If you’re not familiar with that idea, I could legally obligate myself to serve him (whenever we were alone) for up to five years at a time. Still, we thought we’d wait until marriage (which is constantly delayed by our two high-pressure careers) before we went through the formal procedures of a FINO, such as getting a slave psychiatrist guardian, and so on. Just the thought of such a contract makes me moist! In the meantime, though, Brian frequently surprises me with private role playing—I’ll wake up on a weekend morning to find myself collared and hog-tied, or sometimes locked into the bedroom cage and brought out only to perform block moves (aka slave yoga) until he gets so turned on that he orders me to “Slave 4s” (elbows and knees) before teasing me some more. Eventually, I beg him to ravish me in every way possible—cunt, mouth, ass, between my prominent breasts, whatever he feels like doing. Fortunately for me, Brian finds these sessions as arousing as I do, maintaining a magnificent erection for what seems like hours at a time. Eight inches of sexual lollypop—what more could a slut want?

Since I’ve confessed to being a wannabe sex slave, I guess I should tell you something about my appearance. Ordinarily, I dress like a career professional, although my skirts tend to be rather form-fitting and just slightly too short, teasing every guy who encounters me. Only in private does the “real” me, the slave wannabe, come out to play. Five foot nine, green eyes and chin-length auburn hair, and weight about 140 pounds (most of which seems to be concentrated in what Brian likes to describe as tits and ass). When I was slave-graded at the end of high school, I was graded as Prime Minus, but no, I was never “Miss Sandyfoot” in the slave market’s magazine. I’ve been told I have a cute face and a voluptuous body with breasts somewhere between C and D cup, but I DON’T think I’m all that, and try to be kind and considerate, not arrogant, as much as possible.

At least when I went for slave grading at age 18, I had given my best girlfriend the power (because I was too chicken) to authorize branding if I graded high enough, so I got a large cursive “D” etched half an inch deep into my left buttock. It hurt like a mother at the time, but now I’m vain enough to flaunt it on the rare occasions when I wear a swimsuit or (in private) play slave for Brian. He loves to run his fingers over it as he mounts me from the rear, all the time telling me what a slut I am—which is the truth, of course! One more detail that may be relevant: to support my favorite fantasy, I keep my pudenda completely hairless, as most slaves are required to do.

*****

All of this is by way of background to my Halloween costume this year—a costume that you’re probably already anticipating based on my submissive self. A little more background (sorry):

Brian is not an attorney (thank heavens—I’d scream if we had to talk about law), but he IS a rising executive in a very lucrative investment firm. (Side note: No matter how much I may fantasize about being a collared slave, I have no desire to actually be one, BUT: given what I make as a public defender, I would never have been able to pay back my school loans (which were, of course, secured by chattel slavery on my butt!) were it not for my incredibly generous and wealthy boyfriend. And no, I did NOT ask him to pay off six figures worth of potential slavery; he did it on his own, first buying up my loan paper and then handing it to me while I was in front of his fireplace last Christmas eve! Of course, that gift allowed him to claim, whenever we were playing Master-and-slave, that he had bought the face/cunt/cleavage/ass he was busily skewering, and in a way he had. Damn, I love that guy, quite apart from his magnificent prick!)

He doesn’t object to attending social gatherings among my peers (the public defenders), where the meetings tend to be Sephora Makeup or Tupperware parties with cheap wine because we all get paid so little! But every year there are several mandatory, high-bling social functions at HIS firm; the most risqué of these functions is the annual Halloween Party, which runs to sexy vampires and the like. Last year, we had gone (appropriately enough) as a gangster and his scantily-clad moll, which was kinda fun, but this year I was stumped for a costume idea.

You can see where this is going. I had recently told Brian about Professor Sarah Hollister’s new paper on the social psychology of slavery—the idea that, when someone becomes enslaved, their former peers often don’t recognize them because their appearance is so different. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, and nobody expects an adult friend or peer to turn into a slave. This is especially true, of course, for young women, as people tend to stare at the bare—bare breasts, pussies, and butts—and never notice that the face might look familiar. To be honest, I had whispered the whole idea of the unrecognized slave to him while we were playing Master-and-slave, because the thought of being naked and collared in front of my peers was simultaneously terrifying and arousing.

The next time I mentioned my inability to come up with a good theme for the Halloween party, he cut me off gently and said that he had solved the problem. Then he disappeared into our bedroom for a moment, returning with a small bag that he placed in my hands. “This is all you need for a costume, Sweetheart,” he said.

Imagine my shock when I looked into the bag and saw that his idea of a “costume” was the toys we used in the bedroom—a tall, stiff leather collar and four leather bands with attached rings, each with a small padlock, that he could secure to my wrists and ankles! For my last birthday, he had added an engraved plate onto my collar, which included both my (actual, acquired years ago when I was graded) Slave Identification Number and an inscription as if I were a lost puppy (or perhaps bitch?): “199-55-4227, Juicy Janice; if found unattended, please return this slut to Master Brian Holden, telephone 214-XXX-YYYY.”

At sight of my play bonds, I naturally started to protest, because up until now we had always kept our bondage slavery games strictly private. (Although he had occasionally threatened that he would cuff and collar me, then drop me off on a highway to find my way home!) Brian reminded me of Professor Hollister’s hypothesis—so long as I acted suitably subservient and lascivious, it was unlikely that anyone who knew me would spend much time staring at my face, still less recognize the naked slave slut as public defender Janice. (“A slave isn’t seen as a real person but rather as a set of servant hands connected to mouth and dick or tits & ass.”) Besides, he told me, he knew of at least two other women—both of whom I knew slightly—who would likely wear similar “costumes” at the party. Doctor Nikki Sheldon actually enjoyed playing slave for her husband/owner, Paul Sousa. OK, that was a gimmie—of course a slave psychiatrist would be willing to play slave for her husband. But then Brian really surprised me.

“Do you know who Dan Martinson is?”

Now that was a sudden change in direction, I thought. “The computer guru? Have you met him?”

Brian nodded. “I just took over his investment account, so I got to meet him last week, right? Great guy, not stuck up or anything—turns out we were in Iraq about the same time. Because Dan’s such a large investor, we invited him to the firm’s Halloween Party and he wanted to know what it was like. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention your name, but I did tell him I was thinking about asking a woman to masquerade as a slave for the party. He thought that was just great and began laughing about the idea. He told me that his wife owes him a HUGE payback about playing slave—no, I didn’t ask him what he meant—so he told me he would bring HER in a collar.”

“I give up—who’s married to Martinson?”

He grinned slyly. “I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it quiet because he doesn’t want to ruin her reputation—Laura Simmons.”

Talk about out the blue. “Laura Simmons? The hot shot contracts attorney at Harriman, Kingsley, and Gaylen?”

“Yup,” he replied. Mr. Martinson practically guaranteed she’ll show up at the party wearing nothing but a collar, but you can’t identify her in any way, got it?”

“Of course; I’m worried enough about being identified myself without ‘outing’ someone else.”

“So, you see, Darlin’, you won’t be alone—a couple of VERY well known, good-lookin’ women will also pretend to be slaves at the party.”

“Crap. With women like that walking around, I’ll have to worry about your wandering eyes, Bucko.”

“That will be MASTER Bucko to you, slave.” he smirked, “I guess you’ll just have to be the sluttiest bimbo in the place to keep my attention, right?”
Gulp. I was still unsure about the whole idea, but it WAS tempting to pretend under his watchful eyes. “Oh-Okay.”

*****

In the days leading up to Halloween, my love-hate (or more properly lust-fear) relationship with the idea of playing a sex slave kept distracting me. On the one hand, this was a fun way for my fiancé and I to indulge my kink and (presumably) have some great sex at the end of the evening. On the other hand . . . I shivered. Everyone—or at least every woman—would be doubly embarrassed in this situation—first to appear as a naked slave, and then to allow everyone to see all the little imperfections and not-quite-love-handles of her body.

I did what any woman might do to try to improve her image, blending in by looking like a REAL collared slut, a Prime Minus who would fulfill every guy’s wet dreams. (You can say that such slaves take the pressure off free women to satisfy male lust, but they also create an impossible standard of sex appeal—a naked woman, rarely overweight because of slave diets and exercise, whose collar implicitly promises the total sexual control that most men and even many women desire, including any type of sexual service however perverted that a free person can imagine.) So, I doubled up on exercise sessions (including slave yoga) at the gym, and spent several sessions at the tanning salon, trying to get a nice overall tan with no sign of straps, since slaves are usually all naked all the time. I went to my favorite hair place, not only to get my hair and nails done but also a wax job (ouch!) to remove every hair from my body below my ears.

When I arrived home on the afternoon of the party, my handsome owner-for-the-night stopped me as I walked in, demanding that I kneel and accept his collar and cuffs as he locked them onto me. (He also told me that he had rented a chauffeur-driven limo to take us to the party, which would be relevant later.) An hour later, when I again knelt before him, freshly showered and enema’d, the only items I had added to my “attire” was evening makeup, a pair of simple low-heeled shoes, and an ankle-length, translucent dressing gown, to conceal me until we reached the party. I had wrapped that gown around my body and cinched the belt tightly, but I wasn’t particularly surprised when, after securing my wrists behind my back, “Master” Brian undid the belt and left the entire front of the gown hanging open, which in a way was probably more enticing than if I had been completely naked—although I only realized that later, being totally humiliated at the moment. Whistling softly, he clipped a dog leash to my collar, ordered “Heel, slut,” and led/dragged me out the front door, pausing only long enough to lock the door. For a moment, I was too worried about not having hands to stop me if I fell, but then the reality hit me.

Now I was outside at night, almost naked, with all my clothes and identification locked up inside a house under someone else’s control. But my fulltime lover and temporary Master, who was obviously enjoying my public submission, upped the stress to eleven (if Spinal Tap was ever in the slave trade) when we reached the limo, where the uniformed driver was holding the rear door open for us. Brian brought me to a halt just in front of the driver (who was already enjoying the sight of my barely-concealed boobs and thighs), then abruptly uncuffed me, removed the gown entirely, and re-secured my wrists in front of me! The young driver, whose nametag read “Carlos,” looked like a cartoon of Roger Rabbit as his eyes bulged towards me; I couldn’t help noticing that his uniform trousers suddenly became very tight below his belt. I was blushing furiously as my “owner” casually ordered me to crawl into the back seat and kneel on the floor, after which he climbed in behind me. He could tell I was freaked out, so en route to the party he encouraged me to lean my head against his leg while he petted and calmed me.

My heart rate rebounded to coronary attack levels when we arrived at the party venue and Brian strode inside, casually leading me by a leash as if he took a slave for a walk every evening. For the next hour or so—I was too overloaded to keep track of time—he led me from place to place while I kept my eyes downcast to avoid making face-to-face contact. I lost count of how many total strangers of all genders casually squeezed by breasts, goosed my ass, kissed my mouth, and otherwise toyed with me as I walked around the room with my hands cuffed. Each time Master Brian stopped to speak to someone, I acted as his docile slave bitch, kneeling down with thighs spread and cuffed hands hooked behind my head, smiling frequently and—if he ignored me for a moment—nudging his leg until he absent-mindedly petted me as if I were, indeed, his horny female dog!

Most of the guests were the kind of high rollers whom I had never met and who (I hoped!) would never recognize me if we met when all of us were wearing clothes. But some were so famous that I had seen their photos repeatedly. Doctor Nikki Sheldon’s image had appeared on the covers of numerous books, although this time she was so obviously excited—wide smile, erect nipples, damp thighs—that there was no doubt as to why she was so effective at understanding slave psychology; the only question was why a woman so obviously “born to the collar” was ever allowed to be free! She did everything short of humping her “owner’s” leg to get his attention that night. Meanwhile, Dan Martinson, a handsome, self-confident hunk who could have been a fashion model in the $2000 suit he wore, was instantly recognizable from news photos, but the nude, very nervous dark-haired woman who (like me) was heeling as his collared slave was a different story. I had met Laura Simmons and listened to her speak at a number of legal societies, but she looked so different butt naked on her knees and wearing her husband’s collar that I’m not certain even her own mother would have recognized her. One of the male “slaves” at the party clearly did know her, however—I don’t really know who he was despite our intimacy (see below) although I heard the red-haired, extremely-poised woman who held his leash call him “Rich.” Whoever he was, he seemed to know both Dan Martinson and Dan’s slave-for-the-night, Laura. The strange slave smiled and nodded his head when he made eye contact with the Martinsons, but at other times (when he thought no one was looking), I caught him staring at Laura with a slight smile on his face—not a “serves her right” attitude of revenge, but at least a “now she knows how I felt.” If I ever met him separately, I’d have to ask gently what the heck was going on.

*****
As you can tell, there were a number of wannabee, pretend slaves (with expensively-clothed “owners”), mixed in with the superheroes and ghouls at the firm’s party. After about an hour of chit-chat, someone decided that a “slave off” competition was in order to decide who was the most convincing slut—of course, none of the temporary slaves like me had any say in the matter! First, we had to practice our slave yoga (actually termed “block moves” if you’re a real slave), dancing lasciviously in various exposed positions on the direction of someone who had (he claimed) once been a slave wrangler. That meant moving smoothly from one obscene pose to another on command while repeating dirty mantras that entreated the assembled masters and mistresses—the rest of the party—to, for example, “Please ram your monster dick [or strap-on] up all my holes as hard as you’d like.” When I caught sight of the erections in some of the guests’ pants, I shivered at the possible outcome of such a request (The words from the movie “Top Gun” came to mind, “Your mind is writing checks that your body can’t cash.”) But this impromptu round of slave yoga was fun and arousing—the floor where we “performed” was kind of sticky when we finished. By the way—I don’t know why it turned out that way, but only “Rich” and I had actual brands on our butts, which probably helped us gain points if only for verisimilitude. The other “contestants” had a mixture of bare butts and temporary appliques.

I’m sure the rest of the party enjoyed the show, too. Because most high schools teach “Slave Yoga” to 18-year-olds as part of the elective on slave studies, plus many young adults (mostly women) take classes in the subject as a thrilling form of aerobics, the pseudo-slaves at this costume party could perform pretty well. For Nikki and I, it was more horny method acting than anything else, although the unknown male slave “Rich” was really good at it, too; the only disconcerting part was that he repeated his slave mantras in a high-pitched, feminine voice! Other participants, like Laura, had a more difficult time, being too inhibited to flaunt themselves; it was no surprise that Nikki, Rich, and I were declared the “winners” of this lewd contest.

The next stage was announced by the self-appointed MC of this impromptu slave matchup (Brian told me later that he was the managing partner of his firm, and that my slave performance had notably raised his credit with his boss—fair enough, I guess, since he saved me from becoming a slave for real.)

Anyway, the big boss wanted the three winners to “face off” in an oral sex contest, but to be fair to all cummers, we couldn’t service our OWN partners, but had to bring off a volunteer from the audience. Two unidentified women and an unknown guy—probably Chinese volunteers from the staff—were the lucky recipients of oral services from us “slaves.” I was relieved for “Rich’s” sake that he didn’t have to suck cock, but disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to lick dick (one of my all-time favorite activities, in case you hadn’t guessed), either. Nikki, the lucky little slut, got to deep-throat the guy, and with her experience she won easily. Which meant that “Rich” and I ended up with our heads underneath the skirts of two complete strangers, frantically tonguing their labia and clits. Rich must have had tremendous experience at that, since even through the skirt I heard “his” “mistress” climax only a few seconds after Nikki’s victim—I mean, “Master.” OK, I had experimented with lesbian sex a few times in college, but I’m no expert. I tried to do unto others what I would like done unto me—she tasted good without any repellant odor, but was slow to come to a boil, so I was dead last in the contest.

Nikki had won the contest and received an obscenely-shaped trophy, an actual working vibrator, while as runner-up “Rich” got the privilege of giving “remedial oral training” to the loser—me. I gotta say that, for such a seemingly-effeminate guy, Rich turned out to be a master swordsman. Yes, he was pounding my mouth like a jack-hammer, but he seemed to know what he was doing, slowing down his pumping and mauling my bare tits in a manner that ensured I enjoyed my “remedial training” as much as my “trainer” did. He was somewhat rougher with me than Brian, but when you’re submissive SOME degree of being dominated and forced is part of the fun. I also liked swallowing and then licking him clean, but it was a little disappointing to notice, when I slowly removed my lips from his rod, that he’d spent the entire time staring lovingly at the red-haired 30-ish woman who had “enslaved” him. Oh, well, he got to spurt and I got to suck a nice dick, so I can’t complain.

Plus, when I was finally returned to the custody of my “Master” Brian, he gave me enough to drink to reduce my remaining inhibitions and worries about being identified. We just went with the flow, with continued fondling of my body and risqué dialog.

*****

OK, I confess—I had two kinds of buzz going on by the time we left the party—a little buzz from alcohol and a HUGE buzz from being everyone’s sex slave in public, living out many of my fantasies! I even enjoyed having my hands cuffed behind me while my fiancé/owner led me, slave naked, on a leash (connected to my collar (!) into the cool evening and walked me over to the limousine where Carlos the driver was standing, holding the door open and trying hard not to stare at my bare boobs. The collared bitch inside of me couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to have such a virile young guy use me thoroughly, preferably with my owner-for-the-night also taking advantage of my naked defenselessness. That just added to my sexual thrill, but I managed not to throw myself (literally) at the poor guy. I wanted to—three hours of sexual teasing and nary a climax for “Juicy Janice.”

Then Master Brian spoke, and I realized that I wasn’t the only one who was turned on and half in the bag from drinks. “Carlos! Charlie!” He hailed the young man like a long-lost brother. “You’ve been very patient with us this evening, and I intend to give you a significant bonus in bucks when we get home. For now, however, I can’t help noticing that this slave whore turns you on, right?”

Carlos was visibly embarrassed, not just because he had been checking me out but also because, I’m certain, his employer had threatened him with dire consequences if he had any physical intimacy with the customers. He almost stuttered. “Of-of-course, sir. Your slave is very attractive, supremely sexy, but my company forbids any sexual contact with the customers.”

He grinned, almost leered, at the guy while he proceeded to demolish the vain effort to avoid what all three of us hoped would happen! “Well, your attitude is commendable, Carlos, but this bitch isn’t a customer, she’s my property, right? She has absolutely no say in who fucks her in which hole, does she? So, if I want to lend her to you for a few minutes’ use, there’s no problem with your company policy. She has no choice in who uses her, but if I DID ask her to service you, what would she say?” He stared hard at me, and I knew my lines.

“Please, Master Carlos, this slave would be honored if you would ram your magnificent cock into any or all of my slutty openings, your choice, please Sir? Horny slaves need to be stretched and shafted as often as possible for their own well-being.” I think even Brian, who knew me, was surprised by the way I babbled in my need.

We could both see that the poor young guy had come to the end of his ability to resist temptation. Telling him to follow, my fiancé/pimp led me to the side of the limousine’s long engine compartment, then pushed me over so that I was bent at a right angle, hands still cuffed behind my back as I lay face down on the limousine’s hood. Three hours ago, the metal had undoubtedly been warmed by the engine, but now it had cooled off so much that my erect nipples felt a shock. I gave a little yip of surprise at that cold, but I was more than willing to give this guy a tip by allowing HIS tip—and I hoped a nice long shaft—inside my warm, well-lubricated body. In preparation for that, I spread my feet apart and pushed out my tush, clearly offering my well-lubricated pussy and well as my ass to all “cummers.”

The next three sounds were predictable: the sound of a zipper sliding down, a sharp slap! of flesh on flesh as he drove a very respectable cock into me in only two thrusts, and then my sigh of contentment as a man had finally taken possession of my (pseudo-) slave cunt. That was just the beginning, though—in what seemed like only two minutes, I felt and heard that dick picking up speed and power, ramming into me relentlessly from behind as I squirmed, mewed, and cooed at the sensation of being well and truly pounded, something I had been hoping for all evening. It was embarrassing to be taken by a near-stranger while naked, helpless, and dripping in public, but at least I was finally getting some cock into me! True, I would much rather have had my fiancé do the honors, but slaves, even pretend ones, have to take their pleasure where they can find it. Besides, I was certain that this particular scene would be replayed frequently in both my masturbatory fantasies and our more private role-playing games.

“Oh, please, ram me, Master, fuck me, pound me, Master, please.” I was babbling again, happy to finally get some serious use after hours pretending to be a slave while people kept me on the edge of climax. All too soon, I felt a final flurry of frantic fucking as the chauffeur did his damnedest to ensure his sperm got well inside of me. (I had birth control, of course, but still worried about STDs.)

He collapsed on top of me as we both frantically gasped for more oxygen. I became aware that I was surrounded by flashing lights; at first, I thought it was just part of my orgasm, but then, as Master Carlos dismounted, I realized that a police car had pulled up behind the limo. Blessedly, the lights went off but I could still hear an engine running and someone walking towards us. Oh, crap—it wasn’t illegal to fuck a slave in public—so long as no minors were present—but I really didn’t want to be identified in police records as being involved in this stunt. And then it got worse.

“Evenin’, folks—do you mind telling me what’s going on here?” Triple crap—of all the law enforcement officers to find me in flagrante delicto, in the very act of being bent over a car along the street and publicly plowed while I was “dressed”—to use the term loosely—as a slave, it had to be Deputy Roberts, the very guy whom I had publicly humiliated about chain of custody two weeks earlier. What goes around, comes around. Karma’s a bitch, and apparently she has it in for wannabee slave girls. He continued walking around the car, probably seeing the side of my face as it pressed into the hood.

My beloved fiancé did his best to obfuscate and distract. “Evening to you, Deputy. I just left my company’s party; as you can see, I hired a limousine so that I wouldn’t run the risk of DWI . . .”

Roberts cut in: “Thank you for that, sir—I appreciate you being so responsible, but what’s this slave doing?”

“Oh,” Brian replied, as if suddenly realizing there was a third person present. “Well, I brought my slave to the party to entertain people, if you know what I mean. As you can see, I’m keeping her suitably restrained—can’t let horny sluts wander around loose. Now that it’s time to go home, I offered my driver a little tip, in the form of using this slut before he drove us home. Would you care to sample her yourself, purely for your information?”

“That’s right neighborly of you, sir. But I’ve never been partial to sloppy seconds.”

“I can see I needed to be clearer, Deputy—nobody’s used her brown starfish this evening, but earlier I had her take an enema and lubricate herself down there.” HO-LEE CRAP, to cite my favorite Asiatic philosopher. Literally, crap, as in Roberts was about to enter my exit-only crap hole. My fiancé was offering my worst enemy the chance to cornhole me, and I couldn’t protest without getting into a worse situation. (In case you’re wondering, the Texas legislature has long since exempted slave sex from any accusation of sodomy or rape, because slaves are by definition not people with rights and they’re legally incapable of refusing any form of sex—the good ol’ boys down here are free to ream any opening in a slave so long as they don’t cause permanent injury. They can be tried for abuse of a public animal or trespassing on the private property of the owner if they penetrate a slave without permission, but those are civil crimes normally punishable by paying restitution to the slave’s owner.)

“Well, if you put it that way, how can I refuse such a generous offer?” the deputy replied. Once again, I heard a zipper opening, then felt two beefy hands spreading my lower cheeks apart and a large—VERY large—and warm object pressing against my sphincter. Once he had me positioned properly, I felt him grasp my butt firmly with both hands, running the fingers of the left hand over my Big D brand, and then WHOOSH. It felt like a warm can of coke being thrust harder and harder, deeper and deeper into my colon. I whimpered as my rectum had no choice but to stretch to accommodate this massive invasion. If he hadn’t been in law enforcement, this guy should have been charged with carrying a concealed weapon—his dick!

Once Roberts was fully seated inside me, with a belt buckle pressed against the small of my back, I expected him to really go to town, but instead he just SSLLOOOWWLLY pumped that intruder in and out; I actually enjoy the dirty, defenseless feeling I get when a dominant guy takes my rear passage, but the deputy was so BIG that I was thankful for his restraint. After about the tenth cycle of out-and-in, he paused—once again fully sheathed inside my body—and reached forward, turning my slave collar around until he found my fiancé’s little joke, which he carefully and slowly read out loud: “199-55-4227, Juicy Janice; if found unattended, please return this slut to Master Brian Holden,” followed by Brian’s telephone number. Once had finished reading, Deputy Roberts (excuse me, for the moment MASTER Roberts) chuckled a little, then rapidly picked up the pace again, slamming into me in a way that pressed my breasts hard against the car and made the entire car shudder and shake.

It was uncomfortable, humiliating, and thrilling. I did my best to hang on under this tidal wave of intimate invasion, and I must confess that I climaxed twice more in the space of four minutes or less—the second time when I felt him flooding my rectum with his slime!

And then, as if nothing had happened, he dismounted and I heard his zipper and belt being put back in order. “Thank you very much, sir, that was a welcome break. And thank YOU, Juicy Janice, for a helluva ride inside your fine ass; I enjoyed establishing chain of custody over it,” he added, slapping his whole hand flat onto my buttock in a way that caused me to “eek” one more time. I managed to mumble, “You’re welcome, Master,” just as I heard him striding away.

*****

Once we were safely back in the limo and on our way home, Brian, bless his heart, was very kind and contrite about the situation, saying he had never intended things to go that far and could I ever forgive him, yadda, yadda. I assured him that it wasn’t his fault, he’d done the best he could to protect my reputation, and that (once I got over my discomfort) I’m sure we’d both look back fondly on this misadventure. I was too stiff to really make love to him for the rest of the weekend, although I gave him a thank-you blow-job for his efforts.

The following week, there were two unforeseen conversations that were in effect fallout from the Halloween Party. First, the experience re-motivated me to start working on the legal niceties of getting a Free In Name Only contract that would give Brian the legal right to expect me to act as his slave in private, on weekends and holidays—a contract that, by the way, would have legalized my public debauching at Halloween. One key ingredient in such a contract was that I had to consult with a licensed slave psychiatrist, which are scarer than hen’s teeth in Texas because you have to be an MD, a psychology Ph.D., PLUS a veteran of at least six months as a legal slave. This “slave shrink” had to interview the FINO “slave” before, during, and after the contract period, plus be listed in the National Data Base as the guardian ad litem if the FINO had any medical or psychological issues, a not-uncommon occurrence for such a hybrid, free-but-not-really person. After my experience at the Halloween party, the logical candidate for such a role in my case was Nikki Sheldon. With some trepidation because I knew how insanely busy she must be, I sent an interview request to her through her scheduling service. To my surprise, she replied with an appointment for a tele-medicine, Skype-type consultation the very next evening.

I had no idea why she had given me such priority, but when her smiling face appeared on the computer screen, she instantly remarked “I THOUGHT that was you at the party, Janice—may I call you Janice?” And our discussion was off and running. Since she had witnessed me pretending to be a slave, it felt much easier to confess my personal urges and desires.

Seventy minutes later, when we finished talking, I asked her when I could meet with her again to continue the process.

She grinned again. “Ordinarily, I’d have at least three different one-on-one meetings with a client before agreeing to proceed with a FINO. I don’t want to run the risk of psychological damage if someone rushes into this. However, since I observed you in action at that party, I think we can dispense with the rest of that; you’re obviously hot for the collar, and your potential owner cares a lot about your well-being.” She giggled. “Too bad I can’t act like a lawyer and bill you for time at the party, but I was off the clock that night. So, anyway . . .” and we discussed the finalization of the process, including the difficult scheduling task of getting her, Brian, and me together at the same slave market on the same day to initiate the FINO and get it recorded in the data base.

The other conversation I had dreaded, but turned out to be not so bad, at least in the short run. The next time Deputy Roberts was at the courthouse, I tried to look right through him, but I could tell by the smirk on his face that he knew my little secret, so I had to agree when he softly asked me to step aside into one of the attorney conference rooms.

He began very politely, but then it went to hell: “I’ve been meaning to apologize to you, Mizz Harris; it was unprofessional of me to use the words ‘tight-assed bitch’ where you might hear me, and especially to say such a thing around the court.” I nodded and gave him a small smile, warily accepting his apology.

“But then last Friday night happened and left me confused. On the one hand, ‘Juicy Janice’ really DID have a tight ass when her husband allowed me to (pardon the expression) make her my bitch, so my original statement was completely accurate and there’s no real need to apologize, except for the crudity of my language. On the other hand, though, I imagine that same anal passage got so stretched that it’s no longer tight, is it?”

I turned white, seeing the end of my entire career, but he continued: “So, may I suggest that we consider the matter closed? And I apologize again for a statement that was accurate at the time but is no longer. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone else because the incident doesn’t reflect well on either of us, but we both know what happened, right? Have a nice day, Councilor,” and he left the room. No threats, no (further) insults, but we both knew that that particular law enforcement officer had DEFINITELY established psychological as well as sexual mastery over me. Without saying a word, every time he saw me he would strike terror in me.

So much for Professor Hollister’s hypothesis about someone being unrecognized out of context—all Roberts had seen was my ass, the side of my face, and that nametag. Perhaps he had fantasized about using me like that? Now I have to explain to my boss why I can no longer take any cases that involve him!

Postscript: It’s two months later, and next month my darling Brian and I are getting married. But, we’ve been having so much fun re-living the thrill of my public quote enslavement unquote that we decided to first take the next step and finish the formal FINO contract, making me his part-time slave for the next five years (after this, I’m sure he’ll insist that the marriage vows include the traditional promise to “obey” him, which will shock some of my feminist colleagues.)

So, I’m wearing my “Halloween Costume” again; half an hour ago, Brian had me collared and cuffed on my knees while he face-fucked me and ended by painting his come all over me. After which, he kindly allowed me to take a quick shower and repair my makeup, then wait for him on my knees again, thighs wide apart and hands behind my neck to pull my breasts upwards.

In the few minutes remaining, I want to tell you how this ends (to paraphrase David Petraeus.) Today, my new master is taking me (bound and nude in his car) to the Longhorn Slave Market to finalize the FINO contract. After he leads me across the parking lot on a leash, I’ll have to kneel in the crowded public lobby of the market while Master Brian, Mistress Nikki (as guardian) and a slave wrangler (as notary) complete my contract enslavement. All the while, I’ll be surrounded by clothed free people and naked slaves, temporary or permanent. THEN I get processed through the market and have my FINO contract entered into the National Data Base with fully nude photographs to identify me, after which I get the usual grading mill—prancing in a practice round of block moves/slave yoga on a platform, then de-voxed and restrained spread-eagle for all the gawkers to fondle and touch before the real slave merchants come through to grade me. To maximize my aroused subjugation, Master Brian has threatened to let some of my male co-workers (including Deputy Roberts!) know when to come view me. To further increase my excitement, he’s told me that if I get a good grade, he’s going to have the Longhorn brand fried diagonally into my other ass cheek, with the “C” (choice) or “P” (prime) above the Longhorn’s outline skull. That will give me a matched set of brands, so that, as he put it, “when we go to the pool at the club, everyone will know what a fine piece of slave ass I married.”

I’m dreading the idea of another brand—not only will it be gawdawful painful, but it will make the next stage in my “introduction to FINO” package even more uncomfortable. Brian told me that “every slave needs to be shipped Poodle Express at least once,” and that includes me. If you aren’t from around here, “Poodle Express” means a large dog cage, inside which the slave (that’s me!) will crawl, mouth gagged, butt plugged, and hands cuffed behind the back. As if that isn’t enough restriction, zip-ties usually secure that slave’s wrist cuffs and ankles to the back of the cage. All of which means that I will be completely helpless and uncomfortable, not even knowing where I’m being shipped—in fact, I hope my new “owner” doesn’t add the final refinement of a dark cloth bag over my head!

As for where I’m shipped? Master Brian has said it will depend on my behavior, since slaves aren’t usually told where they’re being shipped. If I’m a docile little slut who gets high marks and willingly services everyone she meets at the Longhorn, he’ll ship me either to our apartment or (more likely) a hotel room, where we can spend a week with him babying my new brand and otherwise enjoying the use of his new “slave.” But, if I DON’T behave to his expectations, he’s threatened to send me to the Pearson Pussy Ranch for a short course in how to use every part of my body to service free men and women. For a submissive like me, that sounds like hell and heaven combined—if and when I ever get free to write, I’ll let you know what he chooses for me. Did I tell you before how much I love my fiancé/Master?

(The End)

[eroticstoryspinner]

Good story as always. Nice job revisiting old characters.

[Carl Bradford]

ESS, I suspect that you have the same approach that I do about characters. Yes, I could invent completely new characters for each separate story, but (1) I think it gives verisimilitude (spelling?) to all the stories if different characters reappear, suggesting they're all part of the same universe that exists independent of the individual story, and (2) it's kind of an in joke; only if you've read "Full Rigor" will you recognize why "Rich" is giving the other pretend-slave the eye, because in that other story she owned and used him as a slave. Reminds me of how certain historical novels choose to allude, slyly, to the characters in OTHER historical novels (I'm thinking of C.S. Forester's Hornblower series, although I would never suggest that my perverted little tales are in the same class as Forester!)
Thanks for commenting.

Carl

[ElJefe]

Ah, Forester. Only he could describe a drunken sailor as "three sheets to the wind" as he staggers around, then "taken hard aback" as he reels back and forth, and finally "hard aground" when he loses his feet.

[Carl Bradford]

Glad to see I'm not the only one who appreciates good literature. As I recall that story, Acting Lieutenant Hornblower is in a North African port and the "drunk" actually turns out to have the Plague so they all get quarantined--a parable for our times.

Carl

[Roy Jasper]

These crossover appearances from other stories often give us a glimpse of how these characters have gone on to live their lives since their own slave experiences. But since it is just a glimpse, there is still room for each of us to use our own imagination too.