Certified Penile Arousal Pt. 01

Ladies, imagine that after a lifetime of always being modest, worried about even showing an inch of thigh, you found yourself as I was then—completely bare and helpless, knowing that your role for the next five years was to provide pleasure on demand to free people of any gender. What would be condemned in a free woman as wanton behavior was now expected, even required, of me as a slave. By the time we reached the loading dock, I was once again aromatically damp between my legs. I didn't hesitate or argue for a second when Master Ray bent me over, face down, on the top of an empty poodle cage and gruffly told me to spread my feet as far as possible, wantonly exposing every inch of my butt—including my two lower openings—to view for both Ray and the Hispanic-looking guy who ran shipping. They ran their rough hands all over my body, lingering on my damp thighs and on the barely-healed circle-star brand that marked me, forever, as a convicted felon slut in the state of Texas. As they took their fun with me, they at least were kind enough to remark on what a sexy girl I was, rough compliments that were balm to the soul of this ex-wallflower accountant.

I couldn't help an involuntary "eep" when the shipping clerk first shoved two fingers past my sphincter and then replaced those digits with a well-lubricated butt plug that felt HUGE (or to quote Donald Trump, "YUUGE") stretching me down there. Yes, I'd day-dreamed about a master who would sodomize me, but up until that moment my third orifice had been virginal, and the idea of taking a large object in there was frightening. I had barely adjusted to this intrusion when the two men traded places. I heard a belt-buckle jingle and then my vulva were spread even wider by the equally-arousing (if slightly more "normal") intrusion of Master Ray's ramrod up my birth canal. In my inexperienced mind, that man had a superb baby-maker, and he immediately began to slam in and out as if he were competing for the title "fastest gun in Texas," while occasionally popping my plug in and out of my rear to trick my nerves into thinking I had two invaders at once. I had only just begun to savour the novel sensation of having both my lower holes filled when the clerk's cock appeared before my face—it was obvious what he expected me to do, and by that time I was so thrilled by the situation that I was more than happy to service him with my mouth. His penis didn't seem nearly as big as the one up my cunt, but I was so thrilled to fulfill one of my fantasies—being spit-roasted between two men—that I did my best to entertain both of them, lapping at one end while at the other my unfamiliar muscles tried to massage Ray's intruder.

No, they didn't cum simultaneously; in my (since very extensive!) experience, that happens much more frequently in fiction than in reality. But it made me feel marvelously dirty and sexy to have something warm flood my bowels (and a few moments later, when Ray pulled out), then begin to drip from my over-stressed pussy, followed a minute or two later by a salty discharge filling my mouth. I felt even dirtier when the clerk jerked his dick out of my mouth, so that his final two spurts decorated my face with warm goo (I'm glad I reflexively closed my eyes in time.) Could there be a clearer sign that I was, as Master Ray had remarked earlier, "gaggin' for it?" The medley of sensations, including sound, smell, touch, and taste, put to shame all my previous innocent fantasies of sexual service. This was reality, and I was indeed a "collared cutie" being dominated by two masters whom I had never met before and probably wouldn't see again. For the moment, all that mattered was that they had found me sufficiently erotic to get off at my expense, which meant I had met the minimum expectations for a slave . . . soft warm holes that men could invade and take their pleasure from.

All good things come to an end. Master Ray squirted a blast of water into my still-sticky mouth, after which the clerk forced a canvas gag between my teeth, hauling my lips back into a "slave smile" as he tied the ends of that gag behind my head. Next, the two men lifted me up off the cage as if I weighed nothing, pushed me to my knees, and encouraged me to crawl backwards, hands still zip-tied behind me, onto the hard tray that formed the bottom of a poodle cage. Once kneeling uncomfortably inside, I felt several tugs and realized that I had been secured to the back of that cage at three points, my two ankles to the corners and my cuffs to the back wall of wire mesh. I jerked my head backwards just in time to avoid being struck by the wire-mesh door that was swinging closed in front of me. A tiny lock soon held that door in place, and the un-person formerly called Melinda Moody, CPA, was well and truly under control, a helpless bitch who could neither move nor make a sound as she waited for her betters to dispose of her slave carcass. An electronic "beep" indicated that I had been removed from the Longhorn's inventory, pending shipping, with all the significance of a loaf of bread being purchased in a store. After maybe ten minutes of agonizing wait, a forklift moved me and another caged former woman, a blonde whose young curves made me envious because of the male attention I knew she would get, into the back of a panel van and we were off, presumably bound for the Pearson Ranch. By that time, Ray had only a vague memory of me as a "good piece of ass," the only positive accolade that a slave can expect from a free person. Left on my knees in the semi-darkness of the van, I was simultaneously terrified about my future and incredibly aroused by the reality of being a sex slave. One thing I could be certain of was that I would be well fucked and driven to sexual distraction for the next 4 years and 51 weeks!

*****

I fell asleep in that damn cage despite the discomfort of my middle-aged knees; the shocks and emotions of the previous week had left me exhausted. When I awoke, the van had clearly left the highway and was travelling at a lower rate of speed, apparently approaching my destination. About ten minutes after I awoke, the van braked to a halt and reversed, beeping repeatedly before halting at a loading dock where a forklift deposited the two cages. A few moments later, the zip-ties were cut, the cage doors unlocked, and a loud voice directed the two of us to crawl forward on our knees, wrists still bound behind our backs, to a designated line. While our collars were replaced and our wrists were cuffed rather than tied, the same voice told us what I already expected to hear—that we were at the Pearson Pussy Ranch for training as sex slaves, that we must obey all instructions, yadda, yadda. How blasé I had become about slavery in only 8 days. I was sleepy, and could only summon minor interest in getting on with the lascivious activity!

After the warning speech was over, the blonde and I were marched first to sit on commodes that, as usual in slave facilities, had no stalls or other concessions to modesty. My mind had made the leap from professional woman to naked sex slave, so why was it still difficult for me to micturate or defecate (OK, no ladylike euphemisms; for slaves that translates as piss and take a crap—are you happy now?) while two clothed men watched me? I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that problem and trace it back to potty training, but at the time my difficulty in relieving myself was just an embarrassing relict of my lost modesty. At least the wrangler removed my cuffs so I could wipe myself—guess HE didn't want to do it! Then the blonde babe and I got the usual slave supper—kneeling on a thin rubber pad (my poor knees really got the worst of this enslavement), hands again cuffed, shoving our faces alternately into two metal dog bowls, one filled with water and the other with slave chow to which some gravy and a few carrots had been added. Amazing how tasty such a simple vegetable now was! I hoped the water would wash some of the food off my face.) The wranglers released our wrists while depositing us into adjacent cages, telling us that when the alarm went off the next morning, we must arise immediately, refold our (scratchy woollen) blankets, and then kneel in "slave spread" position (thighs wide apart and fingers interlocked behind our necks), waiting to be taken from our cages. (I understood and even enjoyed the submissiveness of exposing everything I had, looking upwards towards the free people, but this was getting old on my knees.) Blondie and I scrambled under our blankets, barely remembering to exchange names—Alice and Melinda—before we fell asleep.

And woke up to a raucous buzzer at what seemed without a clock to be an ungodly early hour. Fold the blanket, kneel shivering on the floor. This time two different wranglers—mine a woman whose nametag read "Sylvia"—came to cuff and walk us to the toilets.

The handler let me wipe myself, then she recuffed my hands behind me before pulling them upwards by a rope. This forced me to bend over to reduce the strain on my shoulders. She gently nudged my ankles apart and thrust a lubricated tube up my rectum. What seemed like gallons of warm soapy water flooded my intestines, and I tried desperately to hold it in, knowing I would be punished if any escaped. After an eternity of gurgling that was probably only 5 minutes, she released me and allowed me to discharge into the toilet. She repeated the process, telling me that tomorrow she would show me how to give an enema to myself, and I was required to do so twice each morning, plus douching three times a week.

(The next morning, the handler introduced me to a series of nozzles, protruding horizontally about 30 inches off the floor. Each trainee slave was required to sodomize her or himself every morning, posing on hands and knees while backing up until the nozzle penetrated the slave's anus, after which the slave had to clamp down to trigger the warm, soapy water that flowed out of the nozzle and filled his/her colon. A separate set of nozzles were for douching. On a rotating schedule, slaves took turns disinfecting the nozzles.)

With minor variations, the next three weeks followed the same pattern: wake up, toilet, enemas, slave chow breakfast, and then an hour of strenuous aerobics based on block positions (the raunchy, slave market version of slave yoga.) A quick shower followed by various classes on the anatomy and techniques of arousal and copulation. The afternoons were then devoted to PRACTICING such techniques—which meant, in reality, that I had to accept strap-ons (or on occasion the actual dicks of slave wranglers) in every orifice and combination conceivable. The easiest were prolonged practice in fellatio or in stimulating a cock, real or practice, between my boobs, thighs, or buttocks. The most challenging, of course, involved bruising pounding of my vagina or anus, sometimes by a machine. Over time, the combinations escalated until I experienced several spit-roasts and three-ways, with me being the "fuck meat" in the middle of all these sandwich-penetrations (even the biggest stud can only climax a few times every day, so Pearson's had to schedule each of its male wranglers and use females wearing strap-on dildoes the rest of the time. Yet, at least one of the members for each such two- and three-way had to be an actual male dick.) I had fantasized about experiencing such sexual use once; the daily experience of being reamed and screwed was far more engrossing than I had ever imagined. In addition to the physical sensations, the consciousness that MULTIPLE dominant males (or sometimes male surrogates, women playing the "bull dyke" role) were inside me, casually occupying and mastering me, was overwhelming. After just ONE three-way, I acknowledged to myself that there was absolutely no doubt—I was a cock-hungry submissive slut for life!

The instructors also introduced us to common methods and poses of sexual bondage, ranging from being spread-eagled on a bed to the elaborate rope restraints of shibari. Being rendered helpless in these ways only intensified my feelings of sexual domination—the first time that a wrangler hog-tied my body, wrists to ankles, and then rammed his dick into my "slave cunt," I came in an explosion of multiple orgasms that left me almost unconscious afterwards.

If I were wealthy and had complete secrecy, I would have happily cashed in all my 401Ks and IRAs for such a fulfilling (in both senses) experience of submission with daily, often hourly orgasms. Instead, all it cost me was my freedom, my reputation, my modesty, and my anal virginity—I'd never dared to consider self-indenture before, but had I known how much fun it was I might have willingly surrendered years ago. Besides, Mistress Sylvia and the other wranglers insisted that, if I wanted an orgasm on any given day, I had to arouse myself and try to seduce my "partners" every time I had sex. As you might imagine, I spent every afternoon dripping below while my face practised various expressions of adoration and enticement. From being the bashful broad who never dared to ask a guy out, I became a bimbo hunting for (dominant) partners to use me.

I can't pretend it was all fun and games, of course, particularly when it came to anal sex. Being penetrated and controlled in such a private area not only went against my upbringing but required physical adjustments on my part. Mistress Sylvia was patient, using a lot of lube and stretching my colon with progressively bigger strap-ons until I could accommodate an actual penis, then having me practice part of every day with a plug-tail between my nether cheeks. There's still nothing like the sensation of a warm, smooth dick pumping in and out down there, driven by the powerful thighs of a dominant male—I think I orgasmed within 30 seconds the first time I felt this ultimate experience of surrender and submission. Fuck Freud if he wants to make something of that.

Once I had adjusted to penetration in all my orifices, the wranglers stopped requiring me to crawl around on hands & knees. Instead, the focus shifted to teaching me (and the other females) how to walk like lingerie models, flowing smoothly across the floor with backs straight, tits out-thrust, hips swinging just slightly, even while wearing heels. After a lifetime of stomping around with my mind focused on maintaining my balance while covering ground, this was another revelation. I even noticed that the male wranglers, who sometimes had difficulty "getting it up" because they got all the slave cunt they wanted every day, began to get erections just from watching me. For the first time in my life I actually felt sexy and desirable, and began to believe that I could indeed attract and seduce almost any male; it was a heady boost to my fragile self-esteem.

In preparation for one of Pearson's famous cocktail (emphasis on the first syllable) parties for owners, successful trainees like me got the slave equivalent of a make-over or "the works" at a beauty salon—trim and coloring of my now-shoulder length hair, wax removal of all body hair (ouch!), shaped and polished nails. We were only permitted to wear VERY short chemises or baby-dolls (the kind that reached down barely three inches below my labia, so walking displayed everything my mother taught me to conceal). Nonetheless, after almost two months of being "slave naked," even this simulacrum of modesty was exciting, and when my trainers videotaped me walking, with makeup, chemise, and heels, I didn't recognize the sex-on-stilts on the video as being any version of the Melinda I had been for almost four decades.

The Pearson "cock"tail parties were always big productions, a combination of graduation exam and sales event to demonstrate the value of the ranch's training to owners, customers, and other high rollers. What made me even more nervous was the rumor among my fellow slaves that our actual owners would be present, and might well take some of us off to an available bedroom to sample our sexual skills. I had no idea who had bought me at auction, so I was concerned that I would have to please this unknown Master.

(to be continued)