Adjusting My Attitude Pt. 07

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, human beings are never property or sex objects and informed consent is always MANDATORY. This story is set in a world where legalized enslavement for crimes, for indebtedness, or by self-surrender is common.)

(Dan Martinson's experience)

I don't know exactly what Slave Psychiatrist Nikki Sheldon said to my owner, Laura Simmons, but the effects were immediate. Up to that point, I was in despair—I had self-indentured myself to Laura for a year as the only means I knew to win her love by giving up all my financial and educational advantages, allowing her to train me to serve others instead of focusing on myself. And it worked, up to a point—I had become Laura's house slave, doing everything to make her life easier. But then she decided to go farther, feminizing me so that I would "get in touch with my feminine side" and also "pass" as a cis- or trans-woman slave. Supposedly, this would prepare me to work in traditionally-female service roles such as secretary or childcare worker. In practice, however, Laura only let me out of her house once a week to clean house (and labia) for Terri, the wife of my best friend. I had overcome my embarrassment about appearing before these friends while dressed as a French maid, but they were almost my only social contacts. Meanwhile, my owner kept inventing new, demeaning tasks she wanted me to perform, such as kneeling to suck on a lifelike dildo positioned where Laura's surveillance camera—and possibly the neighbors—could see me. This, I was sure, had made my owner so contemptuous of me that she had stopped even using me as a sex toy, instead bringing home some random guy from her law firm who wasn't worth one-tenth of what she was. She no longer spoke to me except to give curt orders.

In retrospect, however, Laura really did care, to the point of calling in a slave psychiatrist. The day after that psychiatrist interviewed me, my owner came home from her work with a slightly more approachable attitude—not loving, but at least not freezing me out. She told me that on the following day (a Friday), I should be dressed in a skirt and blouse by 4 p.m., waiting for her to take me back to the beauty salon for a hair trim and makeover. I ventured to ask what she wanted for supper after that, and she replied that we would eat out—something that hadn't happened in the two months-plus of my indenture.

I guess she had succeeded in giving me a feminine personality, because having my hair cut and styled, my eyebrows shaped, a new color on my nails, and other minor fixes gave me a positive feeling about the entire day. Then, Laura took me to a nearby restaurant—nothing fancy, but more public appearance than I had had before. She quietly advised me on how to eat and sit in the restaurant. Over salads and iced tea, Laura told me that she had arranged for me to work two days a week at the nursery and childcare center that supported her law firm. She explained that most of the children there belonged to the paralegals and other support staff of the firm, because only a few female attorneys tried to combine their demanding jobs with motherhood. (Just as a throwaway line, she commented "I don't know HOW I'm going to manage work when I have children." Since I hoped one day to marry her, I had to resist the temptation to jump to conclusions.) In preparation for my new position, we would go shopping the next day—Saturday—looking for work-appropriate skirts, tops, and perhaps stylish trousers. That evening, for the first time in several weeks, my Mistress had me kneel between her legs as she sat on the sofa so that I could lick her to a climax. Throughout this service, she petted and complimented me—again, it was almost as if she were praising a pet rather than a person, but still a lift to my spirits. Despite the discomfort my aroused prick felt while locked in a chastity cage, just leaning on her thigh while she stroked my hair and talked to me was marvelous after our estrangement.

The Saturday shopping trip felt more like two girlfriends than mistress and slave. In each store, we both chose items we liked (in several sizes because sizing is so unpredictable) and then shared a changing room to try them on. She taught me something about ladies' fashions as she complimented my appearance in the various blouses and skirts. (I don't think I was much help to her, because I thought she looked magnificent in everything she tried on.) We also got a variety of tights and pantyhose for me to wear, because the thigh-highs she had previously prescribed would be impractical in a nursery. After three stores and multiple purchases for each of us, we dumped the bags in her trunk and again went out for a meal. I tried to thank her for her time and attention, but she insisted that she was having fun with her "girlfriend"—or should that be "gurlfriend?"

That night, for the first time in over a month, my Mistress restrained me on my bed, removed the chastity cage, and made love with me, riding my cock for a long time. Even after we finished and she had cleaned me up, she didn't immediate re-install the cage. Instead, she cuddled with me and told me again how pleased she was with my attitude and performance. Eventually, of course, she had to relock my cock and unlock my wrists and ankles, but even after I stood up, she kissed me lovingly before going to her bedroom. I went to sleep with renewed hope, but again I had to remind myself not to read too much into small gestures.

All of which only increased my nervousness Monday morning when, for the first time, I rode with Laura to work at the childcare center in the same building with her firm. I'd changed a few diapers in my time, but I never felt comfortable with kids nor they with me. I just didn't know how to deal with them, and I think they sensed my nervousness. That day, I wore some of my new, business-style clothing with practical flats on my feet and only minimal makeup on my face. At her suggestion, we had glued on my false breasts Sunday night so that they didn't fall out if I bent over at work.

Laura introduced me to Mistress Helen, the childcare manager, and then hurried off to her office for a meeting.

Helen looked me over critically, then said in a very reasonable tone, "Danielle, slaves have a mixed track record working here. Some of them have been outstanding—you'll meet Ginny in a minute, and she is a wonder of both care and love to the infants. Other slaves, well . . . let's just say they lacked the motivation to really take care of the kids, so I got rid of them. I don't think we've had a transgender girl work here before, but I hope I'm not prejudiced against them. I promised Ms. Simmons that I'd give you a fair trial—two days a week for four weeks—but you need to really perform; I can't put these children at risk with someone who doesn't care. Got it?"

"Yes, Mistress."

As I said, I was very nervous, and certainly didn't want to disappoint Laura by getting fired. Strangely enough, it worked out almost from the start. I tried to maintain my female persona, and the other workers, as well as the toddlers, seemed to respond to that facade. In a way, it was kind of fun, perhaps because I had nothing else to worry about and nowhere else to be, yet was surrounded by other people instead of isolated in Laura's home. Once I figured out the tricks to burping, rocking, hugging, and the like, I was fairly successful, sometimes even getting a smile where the other workers had failed. After a mother came to pick up her child and saw me smiling down at a quiet baby or toddler in my arms, that mother came to trust me.

Although we were very busy, I also found myself interacting with the other staff, both slave and free. As Helen had suggested, Ginny was the model of a slave childcare worker—always concerned about the children, very efficient, deferential to the mothers and other free people, yet friendly and exuding a positive attitude. (I wondered how such a responsible person had become enslaved, but I wasn't going to ask, any more than I wanted to tell her my own pathetic tale.) Instead, I tried to imitate Ginny and to follow the conventions of female-to-female interaction, such as complimenting a woman on her outfit or her hair. The first time someone remarked how nice MY skirt looked, I replied, predictably,

"Thanks! Do you really think so?" (You're such a girl, I thought to myself. When I was alone I was still Dan, but as my owner had hoped, the Danielle persona became almost automatic in public. I wondered how long it will take me to ditch these mannerisms once I became free again.)

After only two weeks (four days of work), Helen decided that I was acceptable and told Laura she'd be glad to have me any time. Apparently, Laura's own paralegal, Jenny, told her that her two-year-old, Kenny, had a crush on a new caregiver named "Dan-elle" who was so kind to him. Laura knew how to reinforce that kind of behavior—that night was another round of Mistress riding her bound love slave to mutual release, followed by cuddling.

In our new, more friendly relationship, it was almost as if I became Laura's submissive wife more than her slave. By this time, I was so eager to please and needy for intimacy that I began to ask her, on many evenings, if I could lick her. She acted like a husband whose new wife had just offered a blow job—she would immediately drop her panties and position my head between her thighs, then make complimentary and loving comments while petting that head. Some of these compliments included telling me what a good (choose your own noun-whore, slut, little bitch, sucker) I was. Strange, I know, but let's face it, men often say the same things to women during intimacy. At least for those moments we were together again.

She even found a way to make pegging more friendly and enjoyable. She began to joke about how Danielle liked kids so much that her Mistress needed to "knock her up," giving "her" a baby of her own (No thanks! The male Dan screamed in my head.) Looking back that sounds weird, but she said it in such a loving way, and I'd gotten so used to the prostrate massage and body contact, that I played along with her.

"But Mistress," I protested, as she was building up her rhythm to "impregnate" my rear, "I'll get fat and sick and you won't want to make love to me anymore."

"Don't worry, Darling," she replied in a mock tone of reassurance, "I'll keep shafting you right up until your due date."

I pretended to pout, "You'll probably expect me to suck you off every night, even in the delivery room." She laughed and agreed—and starting the next time she pulled out her fake dick, she demanded that I kneel down and worship it for a few minutes before having me turn around and offer my rear entrance to her. By this time, pegging had become so "normal" that she didn't bother to restrain me first. Once I had adjusted to the initial intrusion, I began to push backwards to meet her thrusts, acting for all the world like an eager woman being taken doggie style. Sometimes, she would lightly spank the butt she was penetrating and call me a horny slut (or whatever demeaning phrase came to mind). In a way, she was right. Four months ago, I would never have imagined wanting this form of coupling, but it was pleasurable, and she always rewarded my cooperation by uncaging and fondling my own cock. I recognized that she was conditioning me to associate pleasure and intimacy with submission and invasion, but since I had no dignity left to lose, I felt I might as well take what I could get.

I didn't even object when, at the conclusion of a long bout of pegging and cuddling, she re-installed the cage. In this mood, I had become her docile sissy, happy that we both got off while our bodies and personalities were in close contact. I kept telling myself that I was still Dan inside, just not for the next nine months.

*****

I wasn't so happy about some of her other experiments to teach me service by hiring me out. I might as well talk about the worst experience first.

I'm still not quite sure why Laura thought it was so essential that I provide oral sex to men. OK, I can agree that this was a common experience, often an unhappy experience, that slave or free women have in dealing with men. And it's certainly one of the most submissive acts anyone can do, usually kneeling or at least putting your head well below the guy's face so he physically looms over you and controls you. There were reportedly women who actually enjoyed being submissive cocksuckers but, despite the above descriptions of my behavior, that did NOT describe my attitude. Maybe it's just the idea of giving pleasure to someone else without getting any in return—but I thought I had done that repeatedly when going down on Laura and Terri, not to mention Laura pegging me.

I will also admit that I am not completely innocent in this matter of guys expecting oral service from women—I don't recall ever ASKING Laura or any other woman to give me a blow job, but I was always happy to receive one; perhaps I was sending non-verbal signals that I expected my date to go down on me.

Anyway, one night while I was kneeling, having just brought her to a third orgasm, Laura began talking about it:

"There's one thing I want you to do that I know you will hate, but I don't want an argument from you. Tomorrow evening [a Friday], I'll choose the clothes for you to wear and I'm taking you downtown in Dallas. If you cooperate, it will be over with in one or two nights, but if you fight me . . ." We both knew I didn't want her disapproval.

I was still basking in the glow of renewed intimacy with her, so I wasn't going to resist again. It didn't take a genius to figure out that whatever she planned would distress and further demean me, but I just tried to brace myself for whatever it was.

I DID become alarmed when I saw what she had laid out for me to wear—a very brief halter top (that somehow concealed most of the joint between my chest and fake boobs), dangling earrings, fishnet stockings, a micro-mini leather skirt, and 3-inch heels. I dutifully dressed in what, as a man, I would have admired (on a woman) as "slut gear," but when she began to put exaggerated, "whorish" makeup on my face, I had to ask.

"Mistress, am I going to be a street-walker tonight?" The thought of such humiliation and potential danger worried me. Slave prostitution, even homosexual prostitution, was legal, but I could easily get hurt out on the street.

"No, Danielle, I can guarantee you won't be standing on a street corner, although you WILL have to service guys. Remember what I told you—just be quiet and do what you're told, no arguments."

Sigh. "Yes, Mistress."

Laura pulled up in a floodlit area behind a nondescript building in downtown Dallas. She ordered "back hands," restrained my wrists, and clipped a leash to my collar, another sign that she wanted absolute cooperation and obedience. She led me up a few steps to a rear door outfitted with a closed-circuit camera. There, she pulled out her cell phone and made a call.

"Hi! This is Laura. Is this Alice? I spoke to you yesterday about loaning my slave to you for a night or two; we're outside your door."

A tall, very well-built brunette wearing a soft sweater and slacks admitted us into a large room, which turned out to be a commercial glory hole operation. Along one wall, about a dozen naked people were kneeling under an overhang that protruded into the room. As I got closer, I realized that all the kneeling people were males and that the metallic straps that cinched their waists and split their buns were connected to chastity belts or cages similar to mine. Each man was chained in front of a large hole, and many of those holes were occupied by erect pricks! Above each kneeling male was a large digital counter, apparently recording the number of customers that man had accommodated.

While my Mistress and I were taking in this scene, Alice was looking at me with a critical eye. She spoke to Laura:

"OK, I'm confused. You told me you wanted to rent out a male slave, but this," she said, gesturing at me, "looks like a woman, either cis- or trans-. Are you sure this is a male?"

Laura smiled gently. "I think so. Tell the lady, Danielle. Are you a male?"

Using my best feminine voice, I replied, "Yes, Mistress, but some days I'm so busy pretending to be Danielle I forget who I really am."

"If you say so," Alice acquiesced. "Call me a practicing feminist. I don't believe that ANY woman—slave or free, cis- or trans- or whatever, should have to suck a dick unless she really cares about the guy at the other end of that dick, and even then he should give her equal time with his mouth." Laura and I both giggled at that, remembering my regular sessions of oral worship.

Alice continued, "In my business, I prefer to use males in chastity cages, which keeps them well motivated. Sometimes I have to compromise just to keep this place running, though—that's how I met Nikki. It offended me to have her on the line, but she was so good at cock-sucking that I had to use her a few times." (Wait a minute—was she talking about Nikki Sheldon, the psychiatrist who had interviewed me? Dr. Sheldon had told me that she had voluntarily become a slave as part of her training, but I thought she had worked in a BDSM club. Oh, well-focus on the moment, Dan! You're about to become a cocksucker, and that's more important to you than what Nikki may or may not have done in the past.)

Laura was replying to Alice. "Well, I can't promise that Danielle will be as good at that. She's pretty good at pussy licking, but I don't think she's ever swallowed a real cock before, have you?"

"No, Mistress." I was still able to blush. At this point, I might as well get this over with and hope that one night would be enough for Laura. But the probability of our being married had suddenly receded again—I might be able to get over the idea of my doing this, but would she?

Alice took over the conversation: "The rules are simple: bring the customer off as quickly as you can. This business runs on volume—by which I mean numbers of cocks. Every two hours or ten cums, whichever COMES first, you get a fifteen-minute break. This being Friday, it's so busy you'll probably get the chance to swallow ten loads in less than the two hours, but you have to work at it—some of these perverts have trouble getting off. Questions? No? OK—there's the water fountain before you start."

Laura led me over and held the button down, since my wrists were still bound. As I drank, she remarked, almost sympathetically, "Look at it this way, Danny. You and the other guys here are playing a practical joke on the customers, who probably imagine some beautiful women are serving them."

Alice let loose a crack of laughter. "Got that right! These guys all think they're real alpha males. The truth is that no free woman will have them, so they have to pay money to get sucked off. They'd have a stroke if they knew that it was MALES blowing them."

Alice led me to a vacant position and had me kneel down on a foam pad. My wrists were still cuffed behind me, and she tethered my collar to the wall by a chain that was less than a foot long. Finally, I heard her flip a switch over my head, evidently the "open" sign for that position. "OK, you're on."

As you can imagine, this was perhaps the most disgusting thing I ever had to do. In addition to my inbred reluctance to give head to a man, some of these guys were seriously lacking in cleanliness, and my gag reflex often set in when a prick bumped the back of my throat. I almost vomited several times in the first few minutes. Just as when Laura pegged me, the sensation of someone else occupying my body was unnerving—it made me feel far more helpless than just being bound on my knees or even getting my butt flagellated. I finally had to turn off my own consciousness and pretend that "Dan" had nothing to do with the situation. Instead, I tried to channel the submissive female "Danielle" who was following her Mistress' orders to provide "service." And even Danielle was freaking out about the enforced intimacy and invasion.