Adjusting My Attitude Pt. 02

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, human beings are not property and informed consent is always MANDATORY. This story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author, whom I again wish to thank.)

(Dan Martinson's Story, continued)

If you've read the first part of this strange tale (and I urge you to do so, or nothing that follows will make much sense), you may well have concluded that I was either phenomenally stupid or secretly submissive, just looking for an excuse to abase myself to my brilliant and gorgeous girlfriend, Laura Simmons. I don't think I had any predisposition to being submissive, although I knew intellectually that I would be obligated to act that way once I became her slave. I will readily admit that, over the next year, I thought hundreds of times that I was the stupidest guy on the planet who deserved all the painful and demeaning things that happened to him. If you're wondering about my motivation, I can only say that up until then, persistence had always brought me success. Part of my attitude was based on my training in the Army, where soldiers regularly encountered and overcame challenges that they had never imagined they would face. That works fine until you come to the challenge that you can't overcome, and then it's too late. Think of it as a restatement of the Peter Principle, that people in any bureaucracy tend to continue to rise in that bureaucracy until they reach their personal level of incompetence. I was about to reach mine.

OK: What am I talking about here? At the age of 36, I had a phenomenally successful life, based in part on educational and financial advantages my parents gave me. This had given me a sense of entitlement, a subconscious belief that everyone existed to help me rather than vice versa. I mean, most people are ego-centric, but I was off the charts. This bothered Laura in part because without any of my advantages she had worked her way through college and law school and achieved great success. She and I were otherwise compatible, both sexually and otherwise, but she just couldn't face 50 or more years dealing with that attitude. The sad thing was, I knew she was right.

A drunken conversation with my best friend, Jim Mayhew, gave me a bizarre solution to this impasse: I would put all my assets into a blind trust and ensure my employees were well paid but forbidden to help me. After that, I would voluntarily indenture myself for one year: in effect, make myself a legal slave to Laura, so that she could use me in any way she wished, including lending or renting me out or even selling me. By stripping away all my advantages, I would be forced to re-learn life from the point of view of the most powerless person in society, the one role that involved service to others without any advantage to oneself, a slave. And, in the new world of legalized slavery in the U.S., that meant that I would be collared, naked, restrained, and punished in any way my new owner chose. I THOUGHT I knew how bad that could be. Still, I figured that, as a minimum, I would spend time with her and perhaps make her happier, even if I didn't ultimately convince her to marry me.

Laura had repeatedly warned me of the negative consequences of doing this, including the fact that free citizens, regardless of gender, might force themselves upon me sexually. (Legally, this was not considered rape because the slave had no rights, but it would certainly feel like that to the helpless slave, in this case me.) Having put herself through law school as a dominatrix, she also hinted at some of the techniques she could use to force me to obey her, pushing me out of my comfort zone by exposing me to other people and experiences. This experience might ruin our relationship even if I "learned my lesson." Because she was an ethical attorney (there are a few such), Laura insisted that all my legal preparations be made through another lawyer, completely unrelated to her firm, so that there was no conflict of interest. She also wanted my assets so tied up that she would only receive enough funds to secure me in her home and then to feed me for a year.

Despite all these warnings, I persisted (fools rush in?), and Laura finally agreed. I wanted to believe that she cared enough about me to try to make my idea work, but she also frankly said she intended to use me, at least initially, as a servant who would relieve her of the household chores so she could focus on her legal work.

My new lawyer submitted my petition for self-indenture with an agreed-upon date. On that date (a Monday) I would first sign the various legal agreements with my attorney and then accompany Laura to the local office of the Texas Department of Agriculture's Livestock and Slave Division, where I had to surrender myself formally and begin the demeaning process of enslavement.

Preparing for that date felt somewhat like preparing for deployment to a combat zone. I ensured my immunizations, physical exam, and dental care were up to date. I did not get a haircut during the weeks leading up to the date, as Laura had told me she wanted my hair to grow longer (I had always kept my hair short since I entered ROTC in college, so even after six weeks uncut it was still only a few inches long). I did have the new lawyer prepare another Will that, unbeknownst to her, left everything to Laura. I informed a very few friends, including Jim and his wife Terri, what I was doing, and warned them that Laura was sure to humiliate and coerce me by bringing me to their home as a slave and even loaning me out to them. I asked them to cooperate with Laura if she did this, to treat me however she wished, and not blame her because it was my idea to place myself in her power. Being good friends, they understood how much I wanted to please her, and promised not to think less of me when they encountered me as a slave. We both knew that promise was easier said than done.

One unusual preparation I took, on the advice of various people including Terri, was to attend a co-ed slave yoga class taught by a veteran slave handler. This had three purposes: it was good exercise, it conditioned me to instant obedience to orders from slave handlers, and it let me practice the various slave postures that I would have to perform as part of my processing and slave grading. (Laura had insisted, understandably, that I go through the entire gauntlet of this experience. In order to qualify for college or home loans, Laura and many other people who lacked my family's money had to submit themselves for grading, naked and bound, at a local slave market after they reached age 18.) For the last class before my surrender date, I arranged with the handler-instructor to let me go through the entire class naked, as a very brief taste of what was to come. As I expected, the female members of the class clearly enjoyed my nudity, and two of them patted me on the butt as they passed at the end of class. I realized that this was not a true experience because someone was holding my clothes, but it was a start.

At Laura's behest, on the Friday before my self-indenture we went out on a date. After a nice meal, she invited me back to her home, which I did not expect. She said she wanted a memory of how we had been before, a memory that both of us could carry for the next year. We spent hours of intimacy, each of us working to ensure the other's pleasure. Around 2 a.m., I woke up and went to the bathroom. When I finished there, still half asleep, I took a wrong turn and walked into a spare bedroom rather than the room where we had made love. What I found by accident didn't really surprise me, because Laura was nothing if not thorough: reinforced doors, bars on the windows, wrist and ankle cuffs already installed at the corners of a bed, and unobtrusive closed-circuit cameras. The room also contained a sort of vaulting horse with more cuffs, obviously intended to hold me bent over with my butt in the air, and well as another padded frame that seemed intended to hold a person in a kneeling position with both head and butt exposed. The open door to the closet showed women's clothing on hangers: three very frilly and flowery aprons plus various maid dresses and a few blouses, skirts, and dresses, all of them too large to fit Laura. As I backed out of that bedroom, I noticed that there were other closed-circuit cameras in the hallway and everywhere else I looked.

I wasn't angry or alarmed, but I decided this discovery was a signal for me to leave. I quietly got dressed, then left a note thanking her for a great evening, pledging my love, and promising to meet her at my lawyer's office at 9 a.m. on Monday. I went home, where sleep eluded me.

Saturday afternoon, I made another preparation that was unknown to Laura. By appointment, I had a thorough waxing and shave to remove all my body hair below the eyebrows, including around my cock and balls. I fully expected that Laura would have this done to me, since she had threatened to feminize me as her slave maid, and the closet full of dresses confirmed her intention. I decided to be waxed in a comfortable setting and (I hoped) gain brownie points with my new owner. "Comfortable" is a relative term, of course—I don't know anyone who enjoys a waxing, but at least it was done before I had to face the far greater trauma of being a slave. After I finished the waxing and shave, I looked like a very large, young boy with a middle-aged face. The beautician, who probably thought I was TV or TS, remarked that my legs looked fabulous. I had to admit that she was right—once you covered my genitals, my smooth-skinned legs did look like those of a somewhat muscular woman.

If your mind is like mine, you're probably wondering, so I'll satisfy your curiosity. Yes, I jerked off repeatedly that weekend, knowing I probably wouldn't be permitted to do so for some time. Laura had urged me to read a lot of FemDom fiction, and chastity cages/denial of orgasm was a frequently-cited technique. I couldn't avoid the disquieting thought of Laura dominating me, but in my masturbatory day-dreams we were making love as equals and even going on our honeymoon after my year of servitude. It seemed like I was drawing to an inside straight after betting everything.

Monday came very quickly. I re-shaved in the shower and then had my driver drop me off at my attorney's office before the driver and most of my staff began extended vacations, taking turns so that someone was available to care for my home and cars. In case of emergency, they all had the phone numbers for Laura and for my new attorney. By now I was having serious doubts about the whole idea, but it was too late to back out. I repeated my mantra that at least I'd be spending time with her.

The sight of that beautiful woman, who met me at the office door, restored some of my courage. She was neither gloating nor criticizing and seemed more worried about my morale than anything else. We went over all the documents again, with Laura very concerned that I did not inadvertently give her some of my property or wealth. As we descended in the elevator after the appointment, she turned to me and smiled gently:

"Dan, I care about you, and this is going to be very tough for you. I'm not sure whether you're an incredible romantic or a damned fool."

"Right now, I'd vote for fool."

Her look of concern deepened. "Do you want to back out? We can still go upstairs and tear up those documents. I said before, I won't think less of you if you stop."

Dan: "No, thanks. I'm probably making a big mistake, and I know I'm going to regret this many times over the next year. It may not work out the way I hope, but I trust you to do what you think is right, not what I want. At least I'll get to spend some time with you."

"You've already demonstrated your trust by giving me absolute control. I just hope you don't end up hating me."

"Not a chance, sweetheart. This is the only option I have to meet your expectations so that MAYBE we can be together after this year."

We had a light lunch together, talking about everything except the elephant In the room. Afterwards, she drove me to the Agriculture Department in almost total silence. When she parked outside, Laura put a hand on my arm to stop me from exiting the car:

"You might as well empty your pockets now—give me your watch, cell phone, wallet, and so on. I'll keep them for you."

Stepping out of the car with empty pockets gave me a real sense of my impending fate. I left behind my tie and suitcoat, wearing just a dress shirt and slacks. When we entered the building, she urged me to visit the men's room before we went upstairs to the office of the Livestock and Slave Division.

"Good advice, thank you, Mistress."

"Yeah, time for you to start calling me that, isn't it?" She replied with a touch of sadness.

You've probably read a number of accounts about people undergoing civil indenture, so you won't be surprised by most of the details of my experience. It's still a painful subject to me, so forgive me if I'm very brief. Trust me, every second of that afternoon is seared into my memory.

When we reached the office of the local division chief, whose nameplate said Robert Hernandez, I got my first experience of my new status as an un-person—once his secretary realized that I was the person who had an appointment to surrender himself as a slave, she looked right through me and talked exclusively to Laura. Mr. Hernandez HAD to talk to me, but he was visibly uncomfortable at the sight of this mature, healthy guy wearing an expensive shirt and trousers who was surrendering himself to the power-suited woman next to him. I wondered what extreme circumstances drove other people to see him.

He reviewed the paperwork, then remarked: "The Judge approved your request for self-indenture, although he first required the prospective owner, Ms. Simmons, to write a letter agreeing to accept responsibility for you. At Ms. Simmons' request, the judge classified you as a Pleasure Slut."

Laura's impish sense of humor was at work again. Well, since I was trying to please her, I guess I really was a pleasure slave, although it was embarrassing to think of myself in the same category as submissive bimbos on their way to strip joints and brothels. That Pleasure Slut designation would undoubtedly cause much humor at my expense when I got to the slave market. I nodded acceptance to his statement, then carefully read the document to ensure that it was for the specified time and to the specified owner. Hernandez called in two witnesses before turning on a video camera and having me read the document aloud:

"I acknowledge that I am indenturing myself of my own free will, under Texas Civil Code, Chapter 5 Conveyance, 5.309.2, indenture, for a period of 365 days. During this period, I convey ownership of my title and surrender all civil rights to Laura M. Simmons, her heirs and assignees. This indenture is irrevocable."

After I and the witnesses signed the document, Mr. Hernandez turned off the camera, then ran the document through a machine to emboss the circled star of Texas on it. "You are a slave," he announced, handing the certificate to my new owner.

Laura spoke up, calmly and clearly: "Time to get naked."

Having planned for this, I had gone commando—no underclothes or socks—plus slip-on shoes. My shirt had snaps that looked like buttons, so that as I ran my hand down my front they all opened in a flash. I shrugged off the shirt and offered it to her, un-buckled my belt and allowed the pants to fall to the floor. I bent over, very conscious of showing Laura my bare butt (she took the opportunity to pat it possessively) and retrieved my pants and shoes. I offered them to her without holding them in front of my groin, because slaves are not permitted to conceal their "private parts" without permission. As she stuffed my clothes into a carryall bag, she suddenly noticed that I had no hair below my eyebrows, and smiled:

"Oooh—you shaved. For me, stud?"

"Of course, Mistress. I thought you wished it." At the same time I turned to face her directly. The two of us naked to make love was one thing, but I felt very different now that I was in what erotica authors sometimes called Clothed Female, Naked Male. It was a struggle not to cover myself, but I knew that was no longer permitted. Having studied slave positions, I assumed "Present:" feet slightly more than shoulder-length apart, fingers interlocked behind my neck, eyes downcast. The whole act was so sexually charged that my prick began to stiffen.

Laura's voice, this time with a hint of amusement, said "very nice." I don't know whether she was still talking about my wax job or just commenting on the naked guy with a growing "chubby" awaiting her orders. Probably both. I'm afraid the thought of her possessing me only increased my erection. Apparently, my shaft still hadn't figured out that interacting with her was no longer about MY sexual pleasure, only hers. Yet another case where, as women often remark, guys can't think with their big head and their little one at the same time.

She put me out of my misery with the predictable command "Collar." This required me to drop to my knees and offer my neck for collaring. In the split second before she wrapped a collar around my neck, I saw that this was a conventional, thin collar issued by the Agriculture Department for new slaves. She next ordered me to stand and "Back Hands," placing my wrists behind my back for binding. I felt her pull a zip-tie snug around my wrists, and then she ordered me to turn back and face her.

If you're familiar with the enslavement process in Texas, you're expecting that the next step was Laura clipping a leash to the collar, the new emblem of my servitude. That's what she had told me happened during her own voluntary slave grading, and that's what I anticipated now. It's difficult to think of anything better designed to illustrate a new slave's subjugation, but Laura came up with a new one.

Reaching into her huge carry-all, she brought out a very tiny buckled collar, no more than three inches long and one inch wide, which she proceeded to buckle snugly around the base of my ball sack and prick. Fortunately for my tender flesh, there were no sharp teeth inside this cock collar, but its tightness brought me yet further towards full erection. Again, her experience as a dominatrix was evident, as was her sense of humor. When she connected a dog leash to it, it was obvious that I had to follow anywhere she led to avoid severe discomfort if she yanked on the leash.

After thanking Mr. Hernandez for his help, Mistress Laura (in my current helplessness, I had no trouble thinking of my love in those terms) ordered me to "Heel" like a dog, and slowly began walking back to the elevator. Laura had warned me that she would try to ensure that I had the full humiliating experience of the walk of shame. I was indeed humiliated, but not surprised, when she tried to attract as many people as possible to witness my subjugation. She announced, quite loudly and unnecessarily, "Coming through! Slave cock on a leash. Another male slut under control." My face was flushed and my eyes were downcast and focused on the exaggerated sway of her hips as she walked down the corridor in front of me. I'll be honest. I don't know whether it was the sexualized situation or just the constriction of the tiny collar, but by this time my dong was fully erect, proudly leading the way as I followed. Any observer would have to conclude that I enjoyed being her naked toy, her cock on a leash. At least I'm spending time with her, I silently and somewhat mockingly repeated to myself.

Quite apart from the cock collar, the next few minutes of my existence differed from the experience of new female slaves. The males in government offices where those unfortunate women enter bondage usually act as predators, grabbing, finger-fucking, and generally exploiting the passing defenseless females. In my case, however, none of the male workers said a thing—some averted their eyes from me while a few faces actually showed some sympathy for my plight. None of them touched me, whether to avoid appearing gay or as a subconscious fear that my submissiveness might be contagious.