Adjusting My Attitude Pt. 04

"OK, climb out of the car and stand beside the bumper." Once I did so, it took a moment for me to regain my balance after being cramped in the trunk. Next, she ordered "back hands" as if she did it every day. After cuffing my wrists again, she thrust the rolled-up end of a large paper bag—evidently the take-out food—into my bound hands and told me to hold onto it. After closing the trunk, she picked up a cardboard carrier with two large plastic drink cups and led me up her front steps by a leash. (Look, everybody, Laura's got a new slave, and she's already locked his cock up! I told myself to get used to such displays—at least she wasn't embarrassed to be seen with me.) Once she got the door open and we entered, she took the bag from my hands and ordered me to kneel and stay. She returned from the dining room in a minute, offering me a drink, burger, and fries to take into the kitchen.

"Don't expect this very often," she warned. "Tomorrow you start cooking dinner."

"Yes, Mistress," I replied, going into the kitchen and kneeling to eat the first real food (if fast food can ever be described as such) since I was enslaved. It was better than slave kibble.

Afterwards, I washed up and disposed of the cups and wrappings for both of us. My new owner summoned me to the living room, instructing me to kneel on a pillow positioned between her legs as she sat on the sofa. When I complied, I was pleased to see that she wasn't wearing any panties under her skirt.

She snapped her fingers next to her head. "Look up here—you can live up to your new name later." I focused on her face. "All right; we'll have a serious discussion of your duties tomorrow. For now, let me just tell you the basic rules. Whenever I am in my bedroom, you do not enter unless specifically told to do so. If you need me, knock and wait. You will clean my room and do the laundry when I'm not in that room. You know where my spare bedroom is; you'll find that I've equipped it for you. If I tell you to go to your room, you do so immediately and stay there until the next morning or I release you, whichever comes first. I may also instruct you to go to your room and assume specific positions on the equipment there. If I say 'corner time,' you go over to that corner [she designated one in the living room] and kneel there, facing the wall, until I release you; got it?"

"Yes, Mistress—'Go to your room' and 'corner time.'"

"There's an alarm clock in your room, you will set it to get up no later than 6 a.m. unless I give you a morning off. There's a bathroom connected to your room; you will use it every morning, as soon as you awaken and relieve yourself, to give yourself an enema and a shower. Once you've finished that, put on the clothing I specify. For now, that means one of the aprons hanging in the closet."

"Excuse me, Mistress—does that mean you wish me to wear an apron all the time? I thought I had to be naked."

"Sometimes, such as when I take you outside [gulp] or when your chores are done for the day, you will be naked, but I want you to wear the apron when cooking and cleaning—don't want you to get burned by the stove!"

"Whatever you wish, of course, Mistress."

"I'll give you further orders tomorrow, but for now, what your mistress wishes is that you live up to your nickname, Pussy-Boy. Start licking and don't stop until I say so."

"Yes, Mistress."

I have no objection to cunnilingus. In fact, I'd done it a number of times with Laura while we were dating. I'm not one of those guys who is rapturous about licking a woman, but it's always nice to ensure that woman enjoys herself instead of leaving her unsatisfied. In the past, Laura had usually pushed me away when she climaxed or stopped me after only a few licks so that I would mount her. With my cock locked up, mounting wasn't on the agenda anymore. As soon as I began licking, I found that she had more moisture and climaxed faster than she ever had when we dated. Clearly, she enjoyed the chance to dominate me in this way. That was only fair—a guy gets a power trip out of having a woman fellate him while on her knees; why shouldn't a woman get a similar thrill at a man's expense when she's in charge? Wasn't that what Florence had told me only that morning?

Laura stroked my hair and praised my efforts as I worked steadily at satisfying her. She pulled my head tightly into her crotch just as she reached her second big peak, then pushed me back so that I was sitting on my haunches, her fluids on my face, while she slowly regained normal breathing.

"Hmmm. This is going to be a great year!" She remarked in a low voice. "I always thought you were adequate with your tongue, but I'm going to give you a lot of practice at this, Danny."

As usual, the slave only got to say "Yes, Mistress."

I stayed between her thighs while she watched TV and petted me as my head leaned against her soft thigh. My cramped cock was unhappy, but otherwise this was the type of service I had dreamed of when I surrendered to her. Eventually, she showed me how to use her coffeemaker and told me how she liked her coffee, which I had to have ready at 7:00 on workdays. Tomorrow, though, she was staying home one more day, so I should make the coffee and knock on her door at 8. She warned me that I would find the morning much more difficult than the evening.

I cleaned myself up, brushed my teeth, set the alarm clock for 6:00, and went to bed, emotionally exhausted.

*****

The next morning, I struggled through the preparation she had prescribed. Giving myself an enema brought flashbacks of Mo' and Allie "fucking" me in the slave showers. Next, I certainly felt odd putting on a full-length, floral-patterned apron with ties at the neck and waist, but after I looked at the French maid dresses hanging nearby, the apron seemed normal by comparison, even with my butt hanging out of the back.

Promptly at 8:00, I knocked on my owner's door. She answered the door, took the coffee I offered, and smiled—not sure whether she was smiling at the coffee or my costume, but at least she was satisfied. I told her that I would await her in the kitchen and then, unsure what gesture of respect she expected, I tried to do a bobbing curtsey with a hand on the apron. Her grin told me I would have to repeat that gesture a few thousand times over the next 363 days.

After a light breakfast, I saw her visibly square her shoulders and put a hard expression on her face.

"Slave, go to your room, bend over the horse, and wait for me." I knew she was in no mood for resistance or questions. I bent over the horse, and after about three minutes she entered briskly and immediately used the shackles to restrain my ankles and wrists, head and feet down and ass sticking up, very vulnerably.

"OK, Danny, this is your first discipline session. I will decide how often they will occur, based on your behavior. For routine maintenance discipline, you may get paddled like this."

I felt a paddle hitting me on alternate cheeks—sharp enough to get my attention but not intolerable.

"If you are a very good boy, I may discipline you like this." I felt her warm, soft hand fondling my rear and thighs very gently, then descending down my butt crack to stroke my taint and the back end of my scrotum, the only part not covered by the chastity cage. Such an intimate sensation was mildly enjoyable.

"Of course," she continued, "If you piss me off, you will get disciplined like this." Suddenly, a hard, thin object descended three times in rapid succession across my ass. She didn't hit me quite as hard as Florence had when I screwed up at the slave market—although Laura was very fit, she only weighed about two-thirds of what Florence did. On the other hand, my skin had not yet recovered from that beating and was stretched taut because I was bent over. She certainly got my attention; I was barely able to avoid crying out.

"Danny, why do you think I hit you?"

"You don't need a reason to discipline your slave, Mistress, but I can offer two possible reasons."

Laura walked around in front of me, so that I saw she was holding a riding crop. "All right, what are your two guesses?"

"First, you proved to me that you CAN hit me, that you have the power to do so, and second, you demonstrated that you were WILLING to hit me if you wanted to."

Laura: "Amazing—pain seems to have sharpened your wits. That's exactly right. I CAN punish you and I WILL punish you if I choose to do so. For the next year, I'm not your girlfriend, I'm not your lover, I'm your OWNER, and I own that red ass along with the rest of you. No matter what my feelings may be for Dan Martinson, I will punish Slut 4242 when I need to, so he'd better cooperate. Since I've got your attention and you're thinking so clearly, let me ask you another question: Who put you here?"

"Excuse me, Mistress?" I didn't want to risk another whack by irritating her.

"Who is responsible for you lying there with your limbs cuffed and your cock locked up while a woman beats your slave ass for the second time in three days?"

I thought quickly. "I'm responsible, Mistress—I insisted on becoming your slave."

Laura: "Dingdingding! We have a winner! I bring this up not so I can say 'I told you so'—although I did. No, I wanted you to recognize your responsibility because sometime soon, or perhaps already, you're going to get angry about your slavery, and you'll be tempted to escape or get revenge. And you're smart enough and strong enough that you could do either one or both. I'm sure you could program your computer to overcome any protections I might design or rig my cameras not to show what you're doing; maybe you can even figure out how to remove your collar or your cock cage. Or you can overpower me and tie me up.

So, suppose you escape or get your revenge on me. Then what? Either action would be truly stupid, first because you would have made this grand gesture, this sacrifice of self-enslaving yourself and surviving the slave market, only to throw away any chance for a happy ending. And then there are the legal problems. You've got an electronic chip in your ass, so if you escape . . . Well, did your lawyer tell you the penalty for a slave attempting to escape custody?"

"A minimum of five additional years of slavery, probably on a chain gang."

"Right. As an officer of the court, I am obligated to report felonies—I HAVE to turn you in. If your friends and employees tried to hide you, they would be accessories to your crime. And what's the penalty for a male slave attacking his mistress?"

"Chemical castration, Mistress."

Her voice was calmer but still firm. "OK. Enough truth for one day. Danny, I'm trying to convince you that you put YOURSELF in a situation with no escape—you have to stick it out, obey me, and hope for the best. I care about you, sweetie, but that's where you are now. You've been a good boy so far; just don't fight me and don't piss me off. I'm going to leave you there for a few minutes to think about your situation." I heard the bedroom door click as she left, leaving me bent over and shackled with a stinging butt I would dearly like to rub.

I recognized that she was right, even though that admission was almost as painful as my rear end. The reader has probably already decided that I'm a total wimp, but legal slavery was designed so that, to use the phrase from the Borg, resistance is futile.

When she returned, Laura spread more cream on my new wounds, released me, and told me to wash my face (she could see signs of a few tears). After that, she resumed her instructions to me, showing me the schedule of daily and weekly cleaning, the suppers she wanted me to cook for her, the food she expected me to cook and eat myself, and so on. She had put an older but serviceable computer into my room and set up an e-mail account (Laurasslave4242) so she could communicate with me when she was out of the house. I would also have periodic assignments to research information about what she wanted from her slave. Meanwhile, her schedule included a requirement that, in addition to the mild exercise of housework, I spend four sessions per week on her treadmill followed by various crunches. With her typical thoroughness, she had thought through everything I needed to serve her—which is exactly what I had signed up to do.

She finished by saying that this was just the first step—she would see how quickly I mastered all of this before deciding when to move on to other adjustments to my attitude.

"Any questions? You haven't asked me about your chastity cage."

I replied, "Mistress, I don't like the cage, but like everything else, you are in control. I assume you don't want me to complain about it."

"Damn, you're smart today, Danny—that's the type of cooperation I want. However, I'm going to give you my 5-cent explanation because I hope it will help you adjust."

After a pause, Laura launched into a speech, almost as if she were making an argument in court. "The fantasy of being a love slave may be attractive to some people, but you've already found out that the reality of slavery sucks, right? And you've noticed that the whole process of enslaving and grading you was highly sexualized, because people of both genders find it difficult to think clearly once sex rears its pretty head. For pleasure slaves in particular, the system tries to make you think of yourself as a sex object, a toy to be used by free people. Owners use or withhold sex as one of the methods of motivating slaves—sex can be a lot more precise, not to mention more pleasant, than whipping."

"You've certainly got that one right, Mistress."

"As far as you're concerned, I'm ALWAYS right, and please don't forget it. But I was talking about using sex to control slaves. Let me make a wild generalization that would make feminists scream if they heard me: for most women, sex is something that happens TO them, and they're brought up not to admit they want it. Typical forms of sex involve someone—usually a man but maybe a woman using a toy, a tongue, or a hand—invading a woman's body, which makes the female recipient of that invasion the direct object, the passive partner. In reality, of course, most women DO like to have voluntary sex with appropriate partners, and most or all women DO masturbate, but talking about that makes women, and especially the young women who are usually enslaved, uncomfortable."

"Men, on the other hand, are used to initiating sex, either penetrating their partners or, if no partner is available, jerking off by themselves. Not many guys would consider it punishment if they were "forced" to penetrate a woman, so sometimes a male is coerced by DENYING the chance for sex. Again, these are gross over-simplifications, but I think I'm correct in essence. The Long Horn Slave Market sent me an e-mail, by the way, describing how their shower crew used an enema nozzle to milk your sperm and the night crew made you swallow a strap-on as a sign of submission. How did that make you feel?"

"Weird, Mistress."

"Of course it seemed weird—you're not used to being violated, to being the direct object rather than the subject of the verb 'to fuck.' I hope both of us can have some fun this year exploring you as the direct object. [Before you complain about this dialog, Laura and I DID actually talk in such abstract grammatical terms. We were both over-educated people who made their living with words, as I've said before.] Anyway, enough pontificating: my point is that the least painful way to control and motivate a male slave is to put him in chastity so he can't jerk off. Think of this as another of my efforts to make you orient on serving others rather than yourself. If you are a VERY good boy I may remove the cage once in a while, but don't count on it anytime soon."

The only possible answer was the usual "Yes, Mistress."

(To be continued)