Circle Star Slave Pt. 01

*****

The next several days were a sort of kinky honeymoon. He went to work every day and left me home with instructions to clean, cook, and work out on his treadmill. For the first time in years, I didn't have to worry about my career or customers or money or anything like that--just pleasing my owner. The second night, he presented me with a tan-colored bra that matched my own skin, saying he didn't want my tits to sag from eight years without support (just the thought of eight years as a naked slave was bone-chilling). Then he sat me down next to his computer and proceeded to order a bunch of clothes, occasionally consulting me about sizes. I was privately somewhat embarrassed at what he chose for me to wear, most of which was stereotypical revealing clothing for bimbos and whores--a French maid outfit with plunging cleavage line and no panties, a schoolgirl uniform with very short skirt, a street-walker image that included high heels and fishnet stockings--you get the idea. Still, I told myself that ANY clothing was better than being slave naked, so I tried to be enthusiastic and grateful. Besides, it was a small price to pay to make my protector happy. As each package arrived over the next several days, he had me do a "fashion show" of slut-wear.

I assumed that I was just fulfilling his fantasies, and that it didn't matter because he was the only one to see me like that. Wrong. One weekday night he took me out, dressed in hooker couture, to visit Victoria's Secret and similar places to try on and acquire yet more slut-wear--pushup bras, G-strings, a bustier, and so on. A trip to a slave beauty parlor restored my hairstyle and finger polish. And THEN he told me that I would be wearing some of my new clothing when I worked to "pay off the loan" which had bought me.

Master James' methods of renting my body to raise the money varied. Most of the time, he rented me out to the local office of SlutsRUs, which put me to work as a pleasure slave--in a glory hole, as a lap dancer at a strip club, sometimes even as an actual street walker, which I found the most degrading as well as nerve wracking. All those years of education and banking experience reduced to being rented out as a slave whore--and sometimes I wondered what I would do for a job when I regained my freedom in middle age. Better not to think about that now--I guess I could always earn my keep in a glory hole--with all the protein shakes I wanted!

The SlutsRUs employee who usually "handled" me--although to be honest he rarely touched me--was named Master Hugh; I had to say he looked out for my safety, especially when I was standing on a street corner with three other whores, but he showed very little concern for how I felt. I was just one of a dozen or so collared women whom he moved around like commodities, and he only praised me when I brought a particularly large haul of money back from turning a trick. In between, I spent a lot of time inside cars and sometimes cheap hotel rooms, giving blowjobs if I was lucky but often more "intimate services" to really repulsive guys. I learned to give myself a douche and enema every afternoon before lubricating my openings for "work" and again late every night when I staggered home, often with nylons laddered, makeup smeared, fluids dripping out of me, and very sore labia and anus. I tried not to complain, but a few times my owner gave me 24 hours off to rest and recover from the mauling I experienced.

Except for a few tips (money tips not dickheads!), I didn't get to keep any of the money I made, nor was I able to pass it to Master James. He apparently got a flat fee from the agency, varying only slightly depending on where Master Hugh hired me out. To be honest, though, James was so much more concerned and considerate about my feelings that, once again, slave mind slipped in and I began to feel happy just because he paid attention to me. Having reached rock bottom as a pleasure slave who had to put out for dozens of strangers every week, I had to find SOME basis (other than as a fucktoy) for a feeling of self-worth, and I guess it was natural that my ego craved validation from the man who owned me--even though he was the one selling my ass (and sometimes it was literally MY ASS that was sold, ouch!) to strangers! Sounds odd, I know, but James was the only one who talked to me as if I were a normal person whom he valued for something more than just my body. A night (or at least an early morning) in his arms went a long way to give me the courage for another evening renting my three openings to smelly, self-important bastards. The concept of being a street-walking slave may sound erotic, but the reality was often disgusting!

It was bad enough to be a slave whore for hire, but in the back of my mind I worried even more about encountering someone who recognized me. I had a close call, once--Master Hugh delivered me to a hotel room on consignment, only to find that I had known and even dated the John in college. Mark Ansel had been a pain in the butt ten years earlier, and now he was a REAL pain in my ass! I denied knowing him and put on a fake Boston accent, but that didn't prevent him from taking out his frustrations on me. Apparently, he had both hated and lusted after me in school, so now he was REALLY rough with my supposed twin, climaxing (in both senses of the word) by thoroughly reaming my behind. That was one of the times I was thankful to have lubricated myself back there, so I could PRETEND to be in pain while only suffering slightly. To be honest, I think that my moaning and complaining got him off more than actually using a woman. I must have convinced him that I really wasn't his long-lost lust, because he gave me a huge tip for putting up and putting out.

I barely made it out of his hotel room before I broke down crying and had to take refuge in the hotel bathroom to put myself back together. When I finally got "home," Master James immediately recognized that something was bothering me. Again, being cradled in his arms helped me put myself back together mentally. By now, slave mind was inexorably mixed with affection if not love--who would ever have thought I would fall for the wimpy accountant who was pimping me out on a daily basis?

(To be continued)