Circle Star Slave Pt. 02

Once a month I sent an e-mail to my former owner, timidly telling him what I was doing and asking how his life progressed. He always answered promptly and fully but reading between the lines I got the impression that he was suffering from the same kind of stress that had driven me to make my STUPID mistake and literally lose my ass over it. Ouch.

I did write a fictionalized version of that mistake, carefully phrased to conceal my identity, to publish in a journal of business ethics (Before my enslavement, I would have described such a journal as an oxymoron.) It did spark a serious discussion of such ethical challenges, but also attracted another set of anal orifices more interested in my sexual experiences as a slave than my legal or ethical problems.

Otherwise, my life outside of work was lonely, empty. I didn't have much of a social life; once some otherwise-nice guy found out my sordid past, he either dropped me like a hot potato or assumed that I was a cock-hungry slut who loved to entertain men, if you know what I mean. That was almost the only opportunities I saw for intimacy, and I didn't want to become anyone's booty call. So instead, I remained alone and almost celibate. Once I realized that, I practically died laughing before I dissolved into tears--talk about feast or famine: I could either be a slave hooker getting used in all my openings by obnoxious men, or a cheap fuck getting the same treatment (with no more respect) of my own free will, or a self-declared nun with no social life, let alone finding a decent guy. Hell, I thought, I might as well sell myself back into sexual slavery.

Which was stupid, wasn't it? The most horrible experience of my life, a torment that lasted eight years and left me debauched, friendless, and almost unemployable, and I actually thought about going BACK to it? How masochistic could I get?

But, I thought about it frequently. Mrs. Sheffield had told me that me--the penniless, humiliated slave whore--looked happier than the successful bank vice president. Why?

OK, having a lot of sex, performing lascivious acts without any guilt or responsibility HAD been kinda fun, at least when I wasn't servicing physically disgusting men or worse, especially when I had to humble myself to please former colleagues who enjoyed humiliating me, reminding me of how arrogant I had once been and how far I had fallen.

No, the REAL fun had come from being Master James' collared sex toy. Humiliating myself as a slave whore always seemed justified because it enabled him to own me, pimp me out, and use me any way he liked. And even though I had refused to date him when I was free, he never seemed to rub it in or gloat over my loss of status. Oh, sure, when he first bought me he'd showed me off in public and made me kneel and suck off a former co-worker, but I think he did that just to convince me that I was powerless and had to keep him happy. After those first few days, though, he'd never tried to insult or humiliate me except when necessary for him to keep me. In fact, I'D been the one who abased herself, who eagerly dressed any way he wanted, the one who eagerly offered him all of my openings to entertain him in all the ways I found so disgusting when I acted as a prostitute. But I willingly did all that at home in an effort to make him happy, because he was so kind and protective, because being held in his arms made it all bearable. Clichéd? Corny? Yup, but true.

It took me months, but I finally figured out what had made me happy--HIM, or more correctly being his beloved property. Well, DUH, I hear you say? Maybe, but you have to admit that it was counter-intuitive to think that I was actually happier being a slave slut serving this younger guy (who used to work for me) than I had been as a free, clothed, sophisticated, and (for a time) powerful business woman. After counting years, months, and then days until freedom, I was very reluctant to give up that freedom, but I saw no other choice. I'm not trying to make any generalizations here--I don't want to sound like an anti-feminist who believes women belong on their knees servicing almighty males. No, I can't speak for anyone else, but I just needed to make Master James happy so that I could be happy as well, and if being a slave slut again would do that, so be it.

So, I quietly set to work to arrange that. It took a lot of talking, but I found a pro bono attorney who would draw up a simple power of attorney, notarized by his clerk, that (for the sum of one dollar, which I paper-clipped to the document) sold me to Master James as his slave for another ten years with an option for renewal at the same price, payable to the non-profit that I had worked for.

It hurt me to disassemble the new life that Master James had built for me, but it had to be done. I explained my dilemma to my new boss, who allowed me to work out my two-week notice and gave me a final paycheck on the last day. I also cancelled my furnished apartment. I'm not proud of the fact that I gave Master James's building supervisor several blowjobs to gain entrance (for me and my clothes) into his place, where I ended up on my knees, naked with my hands cuffed, waiting in front of the apartment door with the power of attorney on a little table beside me.

"Welcome home, Master. How may I serve you?" I asked, terrified that it would all go wrong.

"What did you fuck up this time, my darling slut?" He replied, but at least I saw some affection in his eye. Maybe this will work out, I thought or at least I hoped.

Spoiler Alert: So far, at least, it has worked out. As my once and future master, James occasionally exercises his right to pimp me out to SlutsRUs or spank my butt. I have to admit that I still get a naughty thrill when I have to offer some total stranger (usually a total loser as well) my mouth for $10 or my ass for $20--and then I go home and provides the same services for free to my loving master. I've gotten over myself about being a slave whore, and as for servicing Master James, what could be more fun?

(The End)