Certified Penile Arousal Pt. 02

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or to have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Belinda for her suggestions about this character; any resemblance between Melinda and Belinda exists only in our twisted minds.)

(Melinda Moody's perspective)

In case you didn't read the first portion of my confession: I had been a successful if lonely, 38-year-old female certified public accountant, or CPA, when some unknown person framed me for felonious manipulation of business records (which, come to think of it, is the same crime that Mr. Trump's former attorney went to jail for in New York.) In law-'n-order Texas under the 35th Amendment, however, that crime meant not two years wearing clothes in prison plus probation but five years "butt nekkid" in a slave collar plus—speaking of butts—a circle star branded onto my rear end. Talk about putting something "on your permanent record!" No one in his or her right mind wants to be a slave, but this outcome was ironic because I had often fantasized about being a sex slave who would be ravished and dominated by some alpha male owner—and now through no fault of my own I got to live out my fantasy. It was as if I were REQUIRED to eat steak (OK, "tube steak" connected to a guy's groin), ice cream, and candy all day with no fear of gaining weight; my reputation was already destroyed so I no longer needed to act like a virtuous woman with a brain. Just the sensation of being sold at auction caused me to climax! Trouble was, I had no idea who owned my ass (slave anatomy and services are described in blunt terms—don't be surprised), still less who had framed me for the crime.

The wrangler who walked me (with his hand cupping my butt and fingers firmly up my rear crack) through the slave market had taken the opportunity to sample both my mouth and my slave cunt, but then I was shipped to a two-month course at the Pearson Pussy Ranch. Pearson's is well known throughout Texas for training courtesans, teaching sex slaves how to entertain free people using every inch of the slave's body, from the mouth to the anus plus friction between tits, thighs, feet (euh!) and so on. Learning to take a swollen shaft down my throat or up my back passage was challenging, to say the least, but once I had the mechanics down (including "going down" on dicks and for female users, vulva), it was actually FUN to be "forced" to have sex every day, any way my trainers demanded, without having to feel guilty about "un-ladylike" behavior. My only disappointments came when I did not get to climax from such use; the trainers wanted to keep me aroused and compliant. Any hesitation I might have felt was eliminated by weekly injections of "Horny Juice," a mixture of female hormones that made me incredibly randy and incidentally increased my bust size from 36C to almost 36D, which (pardon my arrogance) just made me more attractive.

Now, after all this training in how to attract and satisfy a free person's lust, the Pearson's staff had given me a makeover in a scanty outfit and set me to perform what was in effect my graduation exam: impressing and pleasing a roomful of high rollers who had been invited to one of the ranch's periodic "cock"tail parties, where any guest could take any of the sluts aside to test their sexual performance, free of charge. More nerve-wracking was the knowledge that among these guests might well be the unidentified person who had purchased me and sent me here for whore training.

I had already been felt up and had cheerfully given one guy a sloppy blow-job on my knees (truth time: slavery had made me addicted to cock and cum.) After a hasty trip to the restroom to rinse out my mouth and restore my makeup, I returned to circulate among the guests. My heart almost stopped when I recognized one of those guests: Kevin Corcoran, managing partner in Jameson, Corcoran, & Riggs, a well-known accounting firm in Dallas that was to some extent a competitor of my old firm. Over the years we had met and talked casually, sharing interests and a sense of humor at a number of professional conferences—in fact, two years ago, Kevin had tried to hire me away from my current employer, but I had (in retrospect foolishly) too much loyalty to accept. Up until that moment at the party, I had convinced myself that I looked and carried myself so differently as a sex slave that no one was likely to recognize the slut-formerly-known-as-Melinda-the-CPA. Yet, from the moment I re-entered the large living room, I was conscious that this funny, handsome guy (who had once been a peer but was now infinitely superior to me) was watching me. And there was little question that, if he recognized me, he would also know about the alleged crime that had put a five-year collar around my neck and a lifelong burn on my tender tush. I had believed I had outgrown any sense of embarrassment about being a slave, but the thought of how this guy must view me, a disgraced and dishonored member of his profession reduced to a collared sex toy, caused my skin to flush bright pink.

Yet I couldn't hide. The instructions to all "students" at Pearson's had been explicit: if any guest at the party—"even one who may have known you previously"—displayed any interest in one of us, we were to respectfully approach that guest and offer our services—which meant any sexual or submissive act, however lewd or humiliating, that guest wanted. I took a deep breath (and even that action caused my inflated tits to rise enticingly in my low-cut clothing) and went over to where Kevin was sitting with a glass of red wine in his hand.

Bowing deeply, with my eyes focused on his feet rather than his face, I mustered the courage to ask, in my newly-trained sex kitten voice, "how may this slave serve you, Master?" I remained frozen in that position for what seemed like an eternity, conscious that my bow gave him a clear view down my cleavage, and then saw him stand up and say in his calm voice, "Come with me." With his warm hand pressed possessively against the small of my back, Master Kevin walked me down a corridor to the nearest unoccupied room (as denoted by an open door.) A bed was waiting, but he waved me into a chair and sat down opposite me. Incongruously for a slave who had been bare-assed for the past two months, I couldn't help but worry that he could see my bare crotch when my VERY short hem rode up to mid-thigh.

When I mustered the courage to glance at his face, he was looking intently not at my twat but at my face, and had a slight smile on his face. His first question reflected what we were both thinking: "Did you do it?"

"No, Master," staring firmly into his eyes. No sense protesting because I still had no idea who had framed me. I felt a rush of pleasure at Kevin's—I mean, Master Kevin's—response. He nodded.

"I didn't think so—that whole story stunk. Even if I believed you were capable of dishonesty—which I don't, or I would never have tried to hire you—you're too smart to leave the double accounts where anyone could find them."

I had thought I was resigned to my fate, but the idea that someone like Kevin believed in my innocence caused my heart to rise. I almost missed what he was saying:

"Which is why I hired a merchant to buy you at auction—and that was before that merchant told me that Charles Hardison was bidding on you as well, and he seemed to be lusting after your body." Hardison had been a fellow-partner in my former accounting firm, an obnoxious guy with whom I had often butted heads; the thought of being a slave at his mercy was simultaneously terrifying and loathsome.

"No offense, Melinda—do you mind if I call you that?" I tried hard not to laugh, managing to stutter, "if you own me, Master, you get to c-call me anything you want. I'm u-usually just 'cunt' or 's-slut.'"

"Yeah," Kevin nodded, "but I respect you, even though I have to tell you to do something you probably won't like—I'll get to that in a moment—so the least I can do is be polite." The idea of a free, powerful owner being polite to his slave made both of us chuckle and shake our heads.

"As I was trying to say," he finally got control over himself. "Anyway, I've always thought you were pretty, but it wouldn't do to say that about a colleague or ANY woman in a business situation. Then I saw the video of your auction, and realized that you were a total babe, sex on steroids, which made me believe that Chuck wanted you." Any 38-year-old woman would have to be secretly pleased about being described like that, even if it were politically incorrect to have colleagues think of her in sexual terms. Kevin in particular had been careful never to express his attraction—which made my heart sad at the thought of lost opportunities, compounded by my gratitude for his believing in me and rescuing me from Hardison.

"And that was before I sent you to Pearson's—I watched you this evening, and just gliding across the room you gave every guy in there a hard-on. This place really has changed you, hasn't it?" He inquired.

"Yes, Master, although I think maybe it just FREED me. Free women aren't supposed to admit they want sex, but now I'm addicted to it." I confessed, worried that he might think less of me.

"Just so long as you enjoy yourself." The question in his voice was clear, and I nodded agreement; To be honest, I had always longed to have men use me for frequent, dominant-submissive sex, but no woman should admit that and only a slave was supposed to enjoy it. My new owner seemed relieved at my response.

"Well, that's good, because I'm afraid you're going to get plenty of use." You see," he explained, looking very apologetic, "I couldn't purchase you outright either in my own name or for the firm. If I did that, someone like Hardison would try to make me look guilty—or at least negligent—by association, and Jameson, Corcoran, & Riggs would get buried in investigations and innuendoes. Instead, I formed a blind trust in Delaware, named MM Enterprises, to market you and several other slaves I bought to obscure what I was doing. But to maintain the cover so that nobody finds you, MM Enterprises has to make a profit. . ."

I tried to help him out. "And because of my conviction, I can no longer function as a CPA, so I guess I will be pimped out?"

A strangled chuckle caused me to look sharply at his face. "I'm sorry, Melinda, I just had an amusing thought that you may find insulting."

"It's pretty hard to insult a convicted criminal slave who spends most of her time on her knees or her back as a naked sex toy, Master. Can you let me in on the joke?"

"I was just thinking that, although you're no longer a Certified Public Accountant, your Pearson's training has turned you into a different form of CPA—Certified Penal Arousal." I couldn't help giggling along with him. Yeah, it was insulting for an educated woman to be rated purely in terms of sex appeal, but at the same time the new me, proud of my appearance and eager for sex, couldn't disagree with him.

He kept talking beyond the punch line, making my blush at his compliments. "You were always attractive in a shy kinda way, but now you'd put an erection on a ten-day old corpse. I hate to say it, but what you said earlier is correct—to make a profit, even to pay for the purchase and training of you as a slave, MM Enterprises is renting you out to SlutsRUs." My heart sank—I had expected to be pimped out or otherwise used for sex (why else would an owner sent a new slave to Pearson's?), but SlutsRUs was notorious for providing slaves for every possible sex role, ranging from sucking dick in a glory hole to being publicly used while hanging in a pillory to street walking in urban downtown areas. (Because slaves had no free will about agreeing to sex, they were exempted from most laws against prostitution.)

Master Kevin saw my expression. "Don't worry. You and the rest of MM's stable are all trained sluts, so SlutsRUs has agreed to pay a daily rate that can only be justified if they rent you out as high-class call girls, either individually or in groups to provide 'entertainment' for high rollers at corporate parties. In fact, when you get shipped to me after this, the first thing we're going to do is buy you some elegant clothes to package and conceal what you are."

I thought a moment, and then decided to go for broke. "I hope that will be the second thing we do together, not the first." In response to his unspoken question, I replied, "The first thing we need to do, Master, is make love together—you should test the quality of my training, and I want to show gratitude to my owner for all his efforts to protect me. For starters, may I please worship that bulge in your pants?" I slid down onto my knees in front of him, looking worshipfully into his eyes—and this time it was no act. I had always found him handsome, and now I was really grateful and wanted to show him what he had paid so much to buy and train. Being enslaved really HAD dissolved a lot of my inhibitions!

*****

If you had asked me a year ago, I would have told you, under much pressure, that the ensuing scene was appropriate for my fantasies but would never happen in reality. There I was on my knees, boldly unbuckling his belt and fishing out his (impressive) cock, which I gently kissed, licked, and finally swallowed while one hand continuously fondled his warm scrotum and balls. He looked startled and bemused, obviously trying to reconcile his experience of Melinda Moody, the uptight, middle-aged and shy professional woman, with the horny slave eagerly sucking on his dick. That dick, however, gave no doubt about his interest and enjoyment in what I offered. Eventually, he reached forward with both hands to cradle my head gently as it bobbed forwards and backwards on his shaft. I tried to prolong the experience for his increased pleasure, but after only about five minutes of fellatio he pulled forward on my head, burying his prick in my mouth and my nose in his public hair just as he let loose several blasts of hot, sticky goo down my throat. Having been well trained, I preserved some of that jism to display on my outstretched tongue. Once he nodded permission, praising my performance, I swallowed the load and then gently, thoroughly licked every inch of his shaft to ensure I got all of his seed off it and into my greedy mouth.

Let me be clear: I felt no hesitation or embarrassment about submitting to him like that, and in fact I enjoyed it. Yes, I was a little worried about the prospect of being a call girl for large numbers of strangers, but this was no stranger: he knew and respected me (at least a little), he had saved me from five years of misery serving a vengeful rival, and he was sufficiently attractive on his own to allow me to act out, yet again, my fantasy of submitting to a dominant male. A free woman was expected to be humiliated by kneeling to suck a man off, but as a slave this was not only my duty but my pleasure. You can say that Pearson's had brain-washed me, but the truth was that fellating Master Kevin was yet another opportunity to fulfill my submissive fantasies.

I had several such opportunities a week later, after I completed Pearson's (graduating sum-one cums loudly) and was shipped, Poodle Express, to "MM Enterprises" at a nondescript garage my owner had rented. He had even hired a slave wrangler to accept custody for me, but five minutes after I crawled naked, gagged, and bound out of my cage that wrangler turned me over to Master Kevin, who gave me some stretchy gym clothes to wear as he took me on a whirlwind tour of local shops, sort of like the movie "Pretty Woman." When I protested all the money he was spending, Kevin tried to insist that the clothes were a business expense to equip me as a call girl. They were certainly more revealing and sexy than any I had dared wear while free, but still stylish and presentable. Of course, in between shopping I did my best to thank my owner for his kindness, offering him access to all my openings and waking him up every morning with my best blow-job technique. Even taking it up my rectum—which he definitely stretched!—was enjoyable when I was being dominated by my caring, muscular rescuer—talk about living out my dreams!

It was all a lot of fun, but I kept reminding myself not to even THINK of the "L-word,"—my owner was a true gentleman, but I had no reason to expect any sentiment warmer than courtesy and compassion from him. He had told me he thought I was innocent of the crime that had put a collar on me, but I was still a slave whore rather than a peer, so there was no future for "us" except (if I were lucky) for me to be his wholly-owned bed-warmer (an honor to which I aspired passionately). I told him, honestly, that slavery had unleashed my latent desire for sex, and encouraged him to take me any way, any time he wished with the knowledge that I would enjoy every taste of cock and cum he chose to give to his property. And I really did find it thrilling, treasuring every time he rammed into me. There was no faking his attraction to me when his member was that hard!

I recall in particular one day when my Master had to work, so he challenged me to assume a seductive pose for when he came back to his apartment at the end of the day. After carefully flushing out and then lubricating my lower passages, I knelt on the floor, facing away from the door, with my face to the carpet and my hands reaching back to grasp my spread ankles. Having learned that a little clothing adds mystery, I was wearing a bright red thong that split my buttocks like floss while just barely covering my lower openings, yet could easily be pushed aside . . . which he demonstrated when he returned to his apartment. I heard the door open and close, followed by a heavy "thunk" that was probably his briefcase hitting the floor. A belt buckle jangled, a zipper purred, and I became aware of him kneeling to spread my thighs even wider. One massive thrust filled my well-lubricated birth canal, but before I could even adjust to that, his dick withdrew, he squirted some lube up my butt, and then he rammed, almost as forcefully, into my winking starfish. I've never been more thankful for lubricant as his shaft took complete possession of my rear end. Lord, that man knows how to screw a defenseless girl, proving conclusively that he owned all of me including my over-stretched butt. All I had to do was kneel there and enjoy it!

All good things come to an end, and after ten days of dallying I had to go to work for SlutsRUs. At least, though, I wasn't standing on a street corner nor chained to a bed in a brothel. Instead, I dressed stylishly, usually with clothing that concealed my collar. Master Kevin, bless his heart, gave me a notarized letter authorizing me to cover it in public. Of course, I was much more exposed in the photographs that the agency posted on-line to attract customers, but even those photos largely obscured my eyes, reducing the chances that I might be recognized by former colleagues. Moreover, my owner had specified in my contract with the agency that I was not to be rented out for any functions involving accounting agencies, for obvious reasons of anonymity.

As a slave, I personally received no compensation for my services, other than all the "tips" (cock-tips, that is) and cum I could swallow. Yet, renting me wasn't cheap, beginning at $500 for a quickie and going up steeply from there. In addition to paying my owner, Master Kevin, for my use (which in turn enabled him to pay off the loan for my purchase price and show a profit), SlutsRUs had considerable "overhead" costs before I could give "head." Most nights, they kept me and the other girls locked up in a facility that resembled a small slave market, with showers, lockers, an exercise room, and wire mesh cages. Even with such a barebones (mostly MY bones were bare) approach, the agency had to supervise the sluts, feed them, dry clean their fancy outfits, and so on. The company took particular pains to ensure we had contraceptives and were regularly tested and if necessary treated for disease. Beyond that, a burly wrangler, suitably dressed as a businessman, had to drive me to the "John's" location, often in an upscale hotel, and wait while I provided my services. Which meant I had a wireless microphone in my purse that broadcast to a recording device (necessary to prove abuse) in case the client became violent. Insults, bondage, and mild slaps were par for the course, and I was amazed to discover how many of these seemingly-powerful men couldn't get it up, let alone get off, without thinking they were hurting and humiliating the girl. (Which was kinda foolish, considering how humiliated every slave had already been.) Much of this treatment was fine for me—being insulted, bound, and lightly spanked played into my own submissive tendencies and gave me so much enjoyment that the situation helped me both lubricate and act out in a manner that most customers wanted. Of course, sometimes a group of us sluts would be rented out together to act as arm charms and admiring bimbos for a business function, providing lubrication (pardon the pun) for major business negotiations or even "professional" association conferences. I actually found it a giggle to pretend to be an airhead rather than (as I had done while free) being constantly on my guard to prove my own business acumen. To be honest, some of the Johns were dumber than doornails, proud of themselves while they ran their family oil and cattle businesses into the ground! Not my problem so long as my owner and my pimps got their money. . . I almost always got off, which was my only true compensation as a slave slut.