Changing Status Pt. 02

Before I reached that traumatic event, I had first to pretend extreme submission to my new owner. Harry swaggered in front of me, unzipped his pants, and casually flipped out a (surprisingly small) erect dick and dangling balls. "I just bought you, slut," he announced, "and now I get to introduce you to slavery."

No sense antagonizing the bastard when he had total control, so I smiled slightly, licked my lips, and said "Yes, Master."

"Before we get to the good stuff," Harry continued, "You get your first two chances to perform as a slave. The Smith," he nodded towards the man still holding that longhorn branding iron in his gloved hands, "Is going to walk your brand around to your rear end, place the branding iron the floor, and then rub the wooden handle across your clit and cunt. That's your chance to get off--squirm against the handle, do your best to come from the sensation of that tool teasing you, so you're climaxing just before you get branded. AND while you're doing that, you get your first chance to suck your master's cock. Consider this your introduction to being a slave whore for me, got it?"

Again, I did my best to appear meek and docile, although mentally I was promising that some day I would find a means to fuck HIM and burn HIS butt, not only for myself but in revenge for all the helpless women he had no doubt treated the same way.

A moment later, I felt the rough wooden handle pressing against my crotch, rubbing slowly back and forth against my labia and occasionally hitting my clit. Given the fact that I was still somewhat aroused from my own efforts to appear attractive on the auction block, my body was pre-disposed to enjoy the friction the smith was applying, and I began squirming sightly trying to press against that damned handle. (After the fact, I realized that this squirming indicated someone must have deliberately failed to tighten the straps on my thighs.) There was also the adrenaline rush that anybody, aroused or otherwise, would experience when rendered helpless and threatened with burning skin. In a matter of a minute or two, I felt my nipples and clit, already over-stressed from hours of masturbation, re-erect. I also felt renewed stickiness between my thighs. Like it or not (and I didn't), this teasing with the branding iron, the instrument that was about to mark me forever as a slave, really excited me.

Harry had been watching me as I began panting quietly. Then and only then he directed me to "mouth" and presented his cock to me. Having no choice, I took him in and began running my mouth and tongue around this disgusting shaft. To avoid that thought, I began to recall the much more enjoyable intimacy I had experienced, a decade too late and in the wrong body, with my BFF E.J. I was concentrating so much on getting him off, plus I was feeling the friction of that wooden handle against my newly-acquired pussy, that he and I climaxed, rather unexpectedly, almost simultaneously. In fact, the sudden rush of sticky, salty junk into my mouth probably reinforced my excitement.

Somewhere during this process, I failed to notice that the smith had stopped rubbing the handle of that damned branding iron against me, walked back over to the blowing forge, and thrust it into the most yellow-red point. I noticed this just as he passed me again, holding two other glowing irons. I was still in the throes of my orgasm at that point, and I felt someone--presumably the smith's assistant--tightening down on my thigh straps. A moment later, Harry pulled his still-gushing rod out of my mouth, spraying me with his disgusting seed and then thrusting a bite stick sideways into my gaping mouth. Just then I felt the extreme pain of the large branding iron thrust against my left buttock and held, firmly, on my skin. Whatever sins I have every committed on earth must have been expiated at that moment, as my moans of orgasm became mixed with a scream of pain. And then I felt a second branding iron--presumably the "Ch" being pressed onto my skin just above the point where it had blackened from the main iron. This time, the combination of pains caused me to howl round the bite stick.

Tears fell freely from my eyes, probably mixing with that bastard's sperm. A few interminable seconds later, I felt the horrible heated irons leaving my skin, followed immediately by a rapid cooling as the smith's assistant sprayed my new wounds with both disinfectant and a blessed painkiller. My ass still throbbed, but it was finally bearable. I heard another spray, which I knew from experience was spray-on bandage to cover the injured area. It was over.

"And THAT, Bitch, is how you know that you're a slave and I'm your master." Commented Harry. If I had a gun I would have killed him, but he seemed unphased by the hatred in my eyes. "You'll get over it, Babe--just remember that I'm the boss, and if you ever cross me I can always have the rest of your ass branded, too!"

The smith's assistant was busily unstrapping me from the bench, and when I staggered upright he offered me a handful of ibuprofen and a bottle of water. I downed both out of self-preservation, even though I wasn't sure that I wanted to survive the next few hours or days. Still, I recalled E.J.'s bravery under the same circumstances and remembered to smile and wink at my slave wrangler, Bob, as Harry the Horrible Whoreson restrained my wrists, exchanged a new collar with leash for the Longhorn collar around my neck, and led me out of the branding room.

Somewhere I had seen a cartoon where an obviously-infuriated man says words to the effect of "Every day I spend here forces me to add to the list of people I need to kill because they piss me off!" I had begun that day with just one name on my list--Matias Hernandez, the drug lord who had murdered an associate as well as three Deputy U.S. Marshals and then hounded me into changing gender and self-enslavement to hide from him. Grimly, I decided that the slimeball leading me by a leash, Harry Herring, had just joined my personal list.

(To be continued)