Certified Penile Arousal Pt. 02

Each trick began with me very apprehensive, fearing that I might be recognized or seriously abused. Once I decided what kind of sex the John wanted and checked that I did not know him, I relaxed slightly and tried to ensure that both of us had the most enjoyable time possible. After that, my memory is a blur of dicks entering my various openings and guys pounding themselves into me, fucking my face, cunt, ass, or (occasionally) cleavage. Visitors from the North, where slavery was uncommon and (free female) call girls were often less accommodating than Texas slave sluts, couldn't seem to get enough of me, especially my rectum. Thank heavens for ZeePharma, which had developed a number of medications to tighten my sphincter and repair other parts of my anatomy after excessive use!

For some reason, group sex seemed to encourage the Johns to greater dominance, as if they enjoyed not only controlling women but being seen to do so by other alpha males, the "big studs." On one occasion, for example, a guy cuffed my hands in front of me, ordered me onto "slave 4s" on a bed, and then attached wicked little clamps to my nipples and engorged clit. Needless to say, I begged him to use me as the only means of bringing this torment to an end. He enthusiastically rammed both of my openings from behind while his hands gripped my buttocks so tightly that he left bruises all around my brand (in addition to the red marks from the clamps) by the time both of us climaxed. Being naturally submissive and slightly masochistic, I could enjoy a certain amount of discomfort and pain when I as the "helpless slave slut" found myself ruthlessly invaded and controlled—that part of my existence was thrilling!

I was railed so frequently and thoroughly that in those days I had no need to masturbate, falling into a deep sleep whenever I had an hour to myself. Once I regained my freedom my experiences as a call girl could provide me with endless material for "jilling off." At the time, however, I occasionally found myself so bruised and uncomfortable after being "rode hard" that I sometimes had to beg Master Kevin—on the nights I got to see him—to let me simply blow him because my body was in too much pain to accommodate him otherwise. It was yet another proof of how much he respected me that he always acquiesced, and sometimes just held me gently without demanding any service at all.

*****

My life as a provider of Certified Penile Arousal continued like that for more than 18 months, to the point where I had relaxed and embraced my role as the wet dream come true that it was. Occasionally I had to submit to entitled clowns who were inconsiderate and/or lacking in personal hygiene, but I got through those bad times by telling myself this was just another test of my willing service to my owner—and being under his control seemed so right and thrilling that it made up for a LOT of distasteful experiences.

When I looked into a mirror, I found it difficult to recognize the uptight, introverted, self-doubting accountant I had once been. I've already told you that Pearson's had trained me to move in an assertive manner (like a runway model) than oozed sensuality, while knowing that I could provide pleasure to almost anyone, not to mention inspiring affection and desire in my owner, gave me an inner confidence and even joy that I had always lacked as a free woman. I repeat, I wasn't dumb enough to WANT to wear a collar, but I did enjoy the security, the sense of being valued and protected by my owner. In the distant future, I worried vaguely about what would become of me—and especially become of my relationship with Master Kevin—when my servitude came to an end (I often thought vaguely about somehow re-indenturing myself to him, but worried that he would have no use for a middle-aged broad whose only skills lay in her aging body). I had long since replaced my functional "librarian" glasses with first contacts and then laser eye surgery, courtesy of Master Kevin. Regular visits to beauty salons kept my skin and hair—the latter with blond highlights—looking their best. The Horny Juice I had been given when first enslaved had caused my boobs to expand, and the push-up bras and tight clothing provided by my owner, in conjunction with a restricted diet, made me appear significantly younger and more desirable than when I had worked at the accounting firm in Dallas. But I thought of all that as necessary adjuncts to my function as a call slut, and feared that my utility would go away as I aged.

I was correct, though, that no one recognized my slut persona as the fallen CPA Melinda Moody. One weekend, I along with half a dozen other girls were assigned to "work" a cattleman's convention, which was usually cause for an orgy when those horny good ol' boys got hold of us. I immediately noticed that Charles Hardison, whom I suspected was responsible for my enslavement, was among the crowd of sloshed cattlemen; I had no idea what he was doing there, but I did my best to hide my face—which meant a LOT of time sucking dick and licking slave pussy! I was working hard to bring off a guy who had drunk too much (always difficult when his senses were deadened) when I recognized Hardison's voice, apparently sitting at the same table underneath which I was working. He was trying to impress one of the well-heeled heels at the party, bragging about his ability to manipulate accounts:

"Hell, Jack," he said in a somewhat-inebriated voice. "If you do it right, you can not only make it look like your business is operating at a loss, but you can even plant a suggestion that your competitors are hiding THEIR profits. Two years ago, we created a phony set of accounts for Consolidated Cattle . . ." and then he proceeded to describe precisely the accounts that had led me to a collar and a branded butt! I was so startled by the brazen nature of his bragging that I accidentally used my teeth on the guy I was blowing—but fortunately for me he was on the edge of an orgasm, and that little nip set him off. Thank heavens he was so drunk he was "feeling no pain," as he happily coated my throat with cum and even murmured a polite "Good job, slut," as I licked off his dick and balls. Wonder what he thought about those teeth marks the next morning. . .

Three hours later, being driven back to the kennels, I was still stewing about the son of a female dog who had admitted rigging the accounting and cost me everything, including my ass! Then I remembered the wireless microphone in my purse, and wondered whether it had picked up Chuck's incredible confession. It took a lot of sweet-talking and a super blowjob, but I persuaded my wrangler, Master Hugh, that my owner would want to hear that conversation out of concern for my safety (I didn't tell him what it was really about, natch—nobody wanted to disclose that they were bugging the Johns even for safety reasons.)

*****

"My attorney confirmed what I already thought," Master Kevin told me as I knelt before him in Present position, thighs apart and hands interlocked behind my head, presenting my breasts for his inspection and use. "The recording is inadmissible in court, because it was made without the consent of everyone present, so we can't prove that you were framed." My heart sank.

"However," he continued, "the attorney did think that the District Attorney would be interested in the facts of the case. The DA has initiated an investigation into Hardison's activities. If I had to guess, I would suspect that someone will try to entice Hardison into repeating his trick."

"Meanwhile, I'm still a slave slut for you," I said, smiling up at him.

"I'm glad you reminded me," He smirked, unbuckling his belt, "suck cock, slave." One of my favorite commands!

"I live to serve you, Master," I announced with a smile before inhaling his half-erect dick and reaching to fondle his balls. I love my job!

Who was it who said, "Time sure flies when you're having fun?" In my case, it should have been "when you're giving head," although, as I've already told you, being a slave slut was often a wet dream come true for me. Three and a half years into my five year enslavement, I had almost-but-not-quite forgotten about Hardison when my Master told me that I had earned enough money to pay off the loan he had taken out to buy me as well as the cost of training and dressing me.

"Jeez, Master," I teased, "renting sex slaves out to SlutsRUs is such a good investment that you should advise your clients to sink their cocks—I mean, their money—into similar deals."

"Yeah, but where am I going to find more twats as talented as yours, babe?" He replied, grinning. "As I was saying before the lewd interruption: I'll still have to rent you out to the agency a few times a year—holidays, football playoffs, and similar peak demand times—so that I can list you as an asset [he wiggled his eyebrows] for MM Enterprises and make the minimum social security contributions on your behalf, but the rest of the time I get to keep you for myself." The way he said that gave me a warm feeling that he cared about me, but I felt compelled to protest that I would be lonely, not to mention terminally horny, waiting around his apartment all day.

"There is an alternative," he remarked, and waited for me to ask what he had in mind. "What I'd like to do is make you my personal assistant at work—when you're not servicing me quote personally unquote, you can quality review the work of our junior accountants for me. I doubt that anyone in my firm would remember or recognize you, but if it makes you feel safer, I'll hide you when someone from your old firm comes to visit."

It sounded risky, but I really missed my former profession. "Don't tell me," I grinned. "I can hide under your desk to blow you whenever someone visits, right?"

"My thoughts exactly, slut. Not to mention bending you OVER my desk when we work late!"

Despite my bravado, I was quite nervous about going to work in my Master's agency. We made no secret of my collar, but he insisted that no one could use me without his permission; I was in effect an Extraordinary Talent, enslaved but wearing clothing and reporting only to one man. Even when I went to work checking the accounts of others, my Master presented the results of my research so that no one would connect me with being an accountant in a collar.

If I had to be a slave, this seemed like the best of all possible outcomes. I got to work for someone who respected and liked me while still giving me the dominant sexual use I had come to crave. No matter how many times I woke him up with a blow-job [now there's a new meaning for "woke"!] or gave him a nooner (he usually chose to ram both of my openings while I was bent over his desk), my master always found the energy to rail me at night and then cuddle while we slept. Otherwise, his admin assistants became friendly once they had adjusted to my strange situation—in face, the most senior of these people told me that I was the first and only woman, slave or free, that had aroused any interest in Kevin since his wife died of cancer eight years previously (I'm afraid I was too noisy while servicing him for our relationship to remain a secret). The rest of the time, I was happy to use my brain as well as my body, immersed in reviewing accounts and finding more than one glaring error—which I referred to my owner.

One day a news story broke that made the "Mister-Corcoran-keeps-that-thin-older-slave-around-to-fuck-her-twice-a-day" seem like small change: Charles Hardison was arrested after a sting operation that encouraged him to rig the books in a manner that closely mirrored what had gotten me enslaved! My loving master asked whether I wanted MM Enterprises to purchase the clown when he was in turn collared, but I really didn't see the point—I never wanted to see him again, and besides, I wouldn't wish slavery on my worst enemy even though he might deserve it.

Can't say I felt much remorse when I heard that Chuck had been assigned to work on a highway crew (aka chain gang), a job that had the reputation of daily hard labor in the Texas sun followed by nightly "hard" work on his knees, getting sodomized by the lonely corrections guards who watched over the convicts . . . (There was a sequel: a year later, Master Kevin drove to El Paso for a meeting, and took me with him, partly so I could "entertain" one of his customers, but mostly so that we could have time together. The whole trip was a LOT of fun; construction on I-20 slowed traffic to a crawl, but that just gave me more time to play: behind the heavily-tinted windows of his car, I stripped naked in the right-hand passenger seat, flashing and teasing him. He retaliated by pulling over and hog-tying me with my head in his lap, so I could blow him for a long and excruciating (for him!) time. At one point, however, he pushed me upright and demanded that I look at the flagman we were passing. You guessed it—there stood the louse-formerly-known-as-Chuck. He was heavily tanned, in part because all he had on was a collar, orange vest, work boots, and a very tiny, transparent plastic chastity jock strap. His face was a mask of misery. Fascinated, I looked at his back after we passed him at five miles an hour; I swear his tanned butt was covered by red marks.)

The clock on my own five-year sentence continued to tick down inexorably, while I worried what I would do to support myself as a free woman—not to mention how I would live without the submissive sex I had come to regard as "normal!"

*****

Then one day about six months before my release date, I showed Master Kevin's personal attorney, Bill Bailey, into his office, only to be called, five or six minutes later, back to that office myself. I tried to follow the normal protocol when other people were present, standing respectfully rather than kneeling next to my owner's chair, but he insisted that I take a seat next to the lawyer.

"I've got some good news and some better news, Melinda." Kevin began—he always addressed me respectfully when others were present, even though (when we were alone together) I was thrilled to be addressed in a loving voice as "slut," "whore," "sweet cheeks," "cocksucker," and the like!

For the same reasons of courtesy, I had to remind myself not to call him "Master" when I replied. "You know me, sir—what's the worse news?"

"I'm sorry to tell you that the state Court of Criminal Appeals has rejected a petition to give you a new trial—Hardison never admitted framing you, and the circumstances aren't close enough to convince the judges that you were a victim. However, the Agriculture Department has petitioned the governor to release you early because of the questionable circumstances—tomorrow, I'm taking you to the Agriculture Department to formally free you."

"Thank you for everythin, Mister Bailey," I said to the attorney, although I couldn't help thinking that I'd just as soon remain in my master's collar as long as I could. But then he responded:

"The even better news is that the state Board of Public Accountancy applied civil rather than criminal standards to the matter, and decided that the circumstances are ambiguous. Which means that it will permit you to work under the close supervision of a CPA for five years, and if all goes well the Board will restore your license."

I hadn't realized how much the loss of my profession, even more than the loss of my freedom, bothered me, but now I barely restrained myself from hugging him, instead pumping his hand. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Turning back to look at my Master, I asked, hopefully, "Do you know any CPAs who might be willing to let me work under them?" I accompanied the question with my tongue licking a circle around my smirking lips, a gesture that my former self would never have dared even think about.

He almost choked about the double entendre, but allowed as how he MIGHT be willing to do that. And as soon as the attorney departed, I found myself on my knees, blouse pulled apart so he could fondle my tits while my mouth eagerly serviced him. After several minutes of mutual pleasure, I asked his pardon and sat back for a moment.

"Trouble is, Master, I'm gonna miss being your cock-sucking slave—once I'm free, the equal opportunity police will go crazy if you continue to use me like this."

"Got you covered, slut." He replied with a grin, and then handed me a check and an inch-thick legal document. "This is a cashier's check for a thousand bucks, with the 'Pay to the order of' line left blank. I want you to use it to hire the best divorce lawyer you can find to review this document, which Bill drew up for us."

"What is it, Master?" I asked.

"Jeeze, I knew that slave mind had set into your brain, but I would think that even you can read this," pointing to the heading that read "Pre-Nuptual Agreement between" and our two names. I froze, not daring to hope.

"It's really simple, sweetheart. You promise that, two days after our marriage, you will self-indenture yourself to me for a five-year period, renewable by mutual agreement. During that time, you continue to be my slave except that you'll wear a wedding ring and have a license with my last name. If I die while you're in my collar, you're automatically freed and inherit my estate; if you want to quit at the end of a five-year indenture, I'll pay you $100,000 for each time period you served. Or, we can be divorced or continue being married—your choice."

The entire time he was talking, I had been in a daze, probably because his hands were rhythmically mashing my boobs and teasing my nipples. But I managed to wake up sufficiently to lunge upward, kissing him wetly.

"Thank you, Master."

"OK, but will you marry me, slut?"

"Yes, of course," I replied, kissing him again.

When we finally broke for air, he replied, in a teasing tone, "Glad that's settled. Now, back to work, cocksucker; you need to practice 'working under' me if you're going to recover your license."

My response was garbled because of the dick in mouth, "Yeeth, Masser."

(The End)