Circle Star Slave Pt. 01

Circle Star Slave 01

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

*

(Erin Hutchinson's viewpoint)

"The jury having found the defendant, Erin Hutchinson, guilty of three counts of embezzlement, I sentence the defendant to twelve lashes followed by eight years of criminal enslavement. Sentence to be carried out immediately." The gavel banged down. Then, without pausing, the judge looked at the bailiffs and ordered. "Strip the slut."

I was in shock. OK, so I had "borrowed" some of my bank's funds for a speculative investment, but I fully intended to restore those funds, with interest--until the market crashed. That meant I owed a lot of money, but not, in my entitled mind, costing me my freedom.

My high priced lawyers had appealed the first conviction, gaining me this new trial. Up until 30 seconds ago, when the jury foreman read out the guilty verdict, I had been certain I'd win. How had this happened, I wondered frantically?

With the bailiffs and judge staring hard at me, I reluctantly began removing the plain business suit that I had worn for my trial to convince the jury I wasn't rich. I flushed even more as I unhooked a black lacy bra, allowing my C-cup breasts to spill forward, unrestrained and bouncing slightly, and then I slipped off my matching black panties. For some reason, my damned nipples were erect as if I ENJOYED this humiliation. Before I could even cover myself, the head bailiff ordered "collar," and I realized that he expected me to kneel like a slave--which I suddenly was!--with one hand holding my hair away from my neck. The tight leather collar he installed felt like a hangman's noose. Turns out, "white collar crime" in the South now means you end up in a brown (slave) collar. Who knew? Then the bailiffs cuffed my hands behind my back, preventing me from covering myself.

The judge spoke again, and in my helpless condition he sounded like the voice of doom. "Tie her to the jury rail." Two burly bailiffs lifted me almost entirely off the ground and carried me forward, bending me over the rail in front of the jury box and tying my elbows to the rail. Since the jury were still in their seats, that meant that my face and naked boobs were on full display less than two feet away from the front row of people who had just found me guilty of embezzlement. Then someone thrust a rubber-coated bite stick between my teeth and secured it across the back of my neck.

"Carry out the lashes," came the dispassionate sound of the judge's voice. A second later, a line of fire burned across both of my exposed butt cheeks, eliciting an involuntary howl that was significantly muted by the bite stick. Like clockwork, about ten seconds apart, eleven more lashes from that rubber strap seared into my bottom--each one was exactly the same in force, but where one stroke cut across the path of a previous blow it inflicted much greater torment. I felt as if every inch of my once-beautiful (I'd been told so often enough) rump was reduced to hamburger. I'm sure my face was equally red as I sobbed and moaned and squirmed in helpless agony. Finally, that unseen strap ceased falling, and I felt someone spray my rear end with a cooling mist of painkiller. Thank heavens that was over, I thought.

Only that turned out to be just the opening act. The bailiffs untied my elbows and pulled me upright, paused for ten seconds to give the jury a full frontal look at my nude body and tear-stained face, then walked me out of the courtroom, past the gawking spectators and reporters and down the hall to a room with the ominous label "Branding." Up to this point, my mind had refused to contemplate the full horror of my enslavement, but now I recalled that the State of Texas always branded enslaved criminals on their ass cheeks! As soon as I was strapped down and immobilized, a guy wearing asbestos gloves and a leather apron showed me the iron he was about to use on me. Glowing white hot, the branding head consisted of a five-pointed star, similar to that on the state flag, but in this case the star was surrounded by a circle that made it look like a Western lawman's badge--the "Circle Star" brand that marked a convicted criminal slave. Cringing at the impending trauma suggested by this branding iron, my mind sought refuge in an irrelevancy--"Good thing I don't wear bathing suits very often," I thought, reflecting that my butt would be marred by that brand for the rest of my miserable existence.

The bailiffs hadn't even bothered to remove the bite stick from my mouth, since they knew that this brand, superimposed on the raw meat that had once been my tushie, would evoke an ever greater outcry than the strapping. I must have cried out, but I don't remember because I fainted from the intense pain, layered on top of my helplessness and hopelessness; fainting was the only way to escape, even temporarily, from a waking nightmare of pain and humiliation.

*****

I awoke some undetermined time later, face-down on a paper-covered medical bench. My entire rear end was screaming in pain, but the sensation of someone gently touching me back there caused me to twist my head until I saw a guy in a lab coat gingerly wrapping my lacerated buttocks in gauze.

I couldn't resist. "Usually, I get dinner before I allow a guy to handle my ass," I murmured. The guy working on me had the grace to laugh, but then another voice--which I recognized as that of the head bailiff--replied, without any emotion, "Don't worry, slut--from now on EVERYBODY gets to feel your ass and the only dinner you get will be slave kibble." That brought me back to the full reality of my plight. He was right--I was now nothing but a piece of (tenderized) slave ass at the mercy of any free person who controlled me. No more elegant dinners in business suits--hell, probably no more clothes--for the next eight years. I had to struggle not to cry again.

The slave vet, or whatever he was, finished quickly, but the head bailiff had more to say. "While we're on the subject of using your body, you need to thank the Doc by giving him a nice blow-job." He could see the shock on my face. "Look, slut, for the next eight years, most of your interactions with free men will involve you giving them pleasure on demand. You can do it freely on your knees, as a sort of thank-you that MIGHT earn you a little consideration when he treats you again, or you can do it with your body tied down and your mouth stretched around a ring-gag, which will make it more fun for me but not for you. This first time, I'll give you a choice--I suggest you learn from this opportunity."

Well, I guess my slavery was starting early, and the bailiff was right--I might as well be generous or they'd just force me anyway. I clumsily crawled off the bench and knelt in front of the vet, my butt still stinging. I knew the pose I was expected to assume--thighs wide, fingers interlocked behind my neck so that my arms pulled my nude breasts up, offering them (and the rest of me) to the guy. And smiling broadly.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Master. May I please suck your huge cock?" I know it will sound like bragging, but my whole life I've been considered pretty, sexy, you name it--blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, prominent chest and tush. I doubted that any heterosexual man and only a few women would resist the sight of a naked blond slut offering her mouth and indeed herself to them like that. No surprise except the scope of my new meal--the vet unzipped his trousers to reveal a rather large dick, and I quickly impaled my mouth on it.

I'd never really liked giving head to guys, and usually did it only when I wanted to be especially nice to a boyfriend, such as when he gave me an expensive present. Some women will tell you that they enjoy being in control because it's their mouth and tongue that causes the guy to stiffen and come, but I still hated having to literally kneel down in submission before the guy, giving him a power trip that humiliated me. And let's not even discuss the lack of hygiene most guys display. But the SOB bailiff was correct--I no longer had a choice about whether I did it, and I'd much rather climb down there voluntarily instead of being forced to do it. I used my best technique to get it over with quickly, including smiling happily up into the vet's eyes as if he had offered me a tasty ice cream cone. He came in less than three minutes, and I had the presence of mind to remember that, as a slave, I could only swallow his jism after I stuck out my tongue and exhibited it for his approval. Like most average guys I had ever encountered, he seemed so thankful for my smiling services that the episode was all over in five minutes--although it occurred to me that I'd probably get a similar oral usage every time somebody examined and wrapped my new wound--which was starting to really throb, by the way. You ever hear the expression, "it left a bad taste in my mouth?" Whoever came up with that line must have been thinking about giving a blow-job as a slave.

The bailiffs told me that I would stay in their jail until my brand began to heal, then I'd be sold at a public market--the courts found they got more money that way than from hasty sales off the loading dock, even though a slave market took ten percent of the sale price. So I DID see the same veterinarian every day for the next eight, and as I expected that meant eight more blow-jobs. In return, I got very considerate, gentle care, so it wasn't a bad trade, not to mention slurping on a meat-sicle that distracted me from my other discomforts. Damn, that thing hurt.

Eight days in jail meant a LOT more than eight loads of cum down my throat or onto my face, however. Almost every interaction between me as a new slave and one of the bailiffs--male or female--involved oral service on my knees. I think a lot of these guys would have been happy to ram either or both of my lower openings, but there was a tag on my neck that, I gathered, warned people not to fuck anything below my cleavage while I was still healing. To add insult to injury, a little coin bank was clipped to my collar, and each person who used my mouth was expected to put two quarters into that bank. This tiny fee was supposedly to defray the costs of feeding a slut on the taxpayer's dime, but it really meant that a new female slave like me was also a VERY cheap whore, giving blow jobs and pussy lickings (for 50 cents per set of genitals) to absolute strangers who were NOT her owners. I mean, at least they could have charged $5 for each service to help repay the funds I'd embezzled, right?

I'd never had lesbian sex before, but at least the females in that courthouse tended to have better hygiene than the males. Two of those lesbian encounters were with the judge's admin assistant when I was summoned to his chambers. Each time after I licked her pussy to climax I got the added "honor" of sucking His Honor's legal shaft--so you could say that he shafted me every time I saw him. As I dutifully licked and swallowed, he casually inquired how I was doing physically and mentally, and I'm sure that somewhere my time kneeling between his legs was listed as a health and welfare inspection! It might have improved HIS mental health, but not mine. I still say it's corrupt for a male judge to sentence a female to slavery and then use her body whenever he feels like it. Plus, he insisted that, to maintain his objectivity, he couldn't possibly put coins into my bank, which just meant he got his "kicks for free," the cheap bastard. Oh, well, turns out I was right the first time--even as a slave, I DID get "dinner" in return for sex. I suppose a mouthful of sperm has a considerable value in protein, but it sure doesn't taste as good as filet mignon. Neither does slave kibble.

Every day in that jail meant more blowjobs and titty-fucks, and every day I stewed, both angry and terrified by my new helplessness and exposure. I've never had any desire to be incarcerated, but I would willingly trade six months in prison for that week in a collar, on my knees, where everyone I saw had more power and status than did I.

*****

On the seventh day the Lord rested, but on the eighth the slave whore got auctioned off. Barefoot, collared, cuffed but otherwise naked, I was chained into a coffle with three other judicial slaves and forced to walk the five blocks from the courthouse/jail to the Longhorn Slave Market. It was a warm spring day, but this free floor show brought downtown traffic to a standstill (with lots of horn honking) while passers-by grabbed quick cell-phone photos, squeezes, and finger-fucks on our defenseless bodies. It was a rough introduction to the reality of slave helplessness and exposure in free society; I was disgusted but (I have to admit) felt my nipples and clit become erect from the objectification I experienced. As a free woman, I had very occasionally enjoyed it when a strong man pinned me down and pounded my loins, but now I found that, by extension, being EVERYONE's naked objectified subordinate gave me a real sexual thrill.

Once we arrived at the market, slave wranglers took charge of us from the bailiffs, replacing our temporary collars with heavier ones that dug into our necks and would, we were assured, shock us witless if we tried to escape or didn't obey. The warning seemed stupid to me--how could I escape with no clothes or money? Nowhere in the U.S. would give me refuge. Besides, I was already frightened out of my mind and secretly thrilled at being everyone's potential sex toy. Sigh.

In short order, we got our tracking chips (stapled into our flesh between our breasts) and our Slave Identification Numbers--after the horror of branding, I barely felt the tattooing machine that inscribed the number on my lower lip. The wrangler took graphic photographs of my naked body to include in the data base, ostensibly for identification but really to further subjugate and objectify me. A slave veterinarian examined me briefly, then inserted a subcutaneous rod of etonogestrel for long-term birth control. I knew what it was for because the vet explained it to me; the very thought that I needed such an implant reminded me that, now that my brand was healing, I could expect to have free men discharging whenever they wanted to into any of my three openings!

Unlike most women my age (I was 30 at the time), I had never been interested in Slave Yoga, so in comparison to the younger slaves I had to spend a LOT of time on the wooden stage that day, practicing the suggestive poses and obscene come-ons ("Master, please ram your massive cock up my tight ass") before my slave wrangler decided I was proficient. Or maybe he just enjoyed looking at a MILF prancing around like a low-budget stripper--who knows? Spending most of an hour gyrating my unclothed body and repeating filthy come-ons in front of a dozen clothed, muscular wranglers served its purpose, making me very obedient and more than a little horny. Okay, hornIER--eight days as a naked sex object was already getting to me.

Things sped up at that time, and I soon found myself unable to speak (after a spray down my throat) and bound naked and spread eagled, face up, on a metal table. On other nearby tables were a dozen other slaves, mostly female, who were equally on display. I had dreaded having a group of young adults fondling and disparaging my "old" body. What I HADN'T anticipated was that several bank vice presidents and other executives--my former peers--would also show up to jeer at me. The lewd way they fondled and described my body would have gotten them in trouble with H.R. a few months ago, but not now. And my body lubricated and aroused in response, which they gleefully pointed out to each other as evidence that I was a "natural slut." Dumbasses--didn't they know that was a natural mechanism for some women? Unable to move or respond, I had to lie there while they made remarks such as "She used her body to fuck her way to the top [not true], and now she'll get fucked all the way back down" and "Find out which whorehouse buys her so we can finally ream that tight little ass." It was frustrating to listen, voiceless, to such comments but it sounded as if I had no future at that bank even without the embezzlement charge.

In contrast to the boisterous young adults and the obnoxious bank executives, the career slave merchants who assessed me for grading were quiet and dispassionate, almost bored while fingering me. When "my" slave wrangler finally released me and gave me the antidote to restore my voice, I was surprised (and I hate to admit pleased) to hear that I had graded as Choice, which was not bad for an over-the-hill broad who was petrified the whole time.

Then, it was on to the main event, being auctioned off, collared and slave naked, in front of dozens of (mostly male) spectators including my obnoxious former co-workers, who spent the entire time making suggestive remarks about what they wanted to do with my body. Nor did the auctioneer spare me, using his voice and whip to force me into increasingly-lewd poses. Somehow, I got through the ordeal, with a unknown "number 44" giving the winning bid of $140,000 to own me completely for the next eight years. I couldn't help thinking that price was not bad for an over-the-hill broad; could it be that was actually proud of being bought as a fucktoy? Following that, I had to wait in a cage, wondering and worrying about WHO owned me now. The wrangler had released my wrists, but that temporary freedom did me no good inside a locked cage.

*****

After what seemed like forever, but was probably less than 40 minutes, I heard footsteps (it sounded like a wrangler's boots and another free person's softer shoes) walking on the concrete floor towards my cage. The wrangler had told me what to do, so by the time these two people reached my cage I was kneeling, facing the locked entrance gate, with my soft thighs spread wide and my fingers again interlocked behind my neck, touching my collar. I had told myself not to show any emotion, but I'm sure my face betrayed my astonishment when the guy with the wrangler was "little" Jimmy Dillon, one of the junior accountants in my former office.

Quick background: I had felt sort of sorry for Jimmy because everyone in the office--including even some of his fellow-nerds--had disparaged and picked on him. I had tried to treat him like a human being, always addressing him as "Jim" with a smile and a "Thank you" when he gave me some information. About a year before my arrest, I discovered that he had read too much into my friendly courtesy, because he startled me by asking for a date! OK, he wasn't much younger than I was, but it still took enormous social guts for him to ask out a good-looking senior executive who might have blighted his career with a few words. I tried to be as gentle as possible in turning him down, but I could see the hurt in his eyes.

Well, the tables had turned, and now he was clearly in charge, even before the wrangler introduced him as "your new owner, James Dillon." As always, he was wearing a cheap, made-in-Asia suit, but that suit, which had seemed so chintzy in my office, looked like a million bucks compared to my naked submission.

"Knowing you, slut, or should I say 'Mizz Hutchinson?'" he began, using the same calm voice I had heard for several years, "You're wondering how a junior guy like me could afford to buy a high-class piece of slave pussy, right?" He paused and looked at me until I realized that he expected a response, so I murmured "Yes, Master" while blushing at his highly-accurate description of my status.